"Rush Hour" by Elaine Terranova (p. 644)

I am yet again drawn to another poem about children. This one is not as upbeat and sunshiny as I would like but it does show an important side that needs to be talked about. The more that child abuse is hidden and acted like we cannot talk about it the more it will happen.

This poem depicts a mother and her two small children. They look like they have been physically abused by the other passengers on the train. The mother wears dark glasses, the little boy’s face is hurt, and the little girl has a cast on her arm. I hope that the mother is escaping and not going back.

I felt sadness for the children and having a friend that was once the victim of domestic violence, I could relate to this poem. She always made excuses to everyone for her bumps and bruises yet I always knew different. My house was where she always escaped to. It is sad because the ones not in that situation always try to judge and give commands for what should be done. They do not understand what that person could possibly be feeling and going through. The ease is not there and the fear of what will happen if they leave is worse than the pain they endure. All that the outsider can do is be supportive, listen, and be there by their side to ice the pain. Calling the cops for them only makes it worse and it doesn’t make a hero, only a villain.

I felt for the woman in this poem and understand her pain. I feel this poem is the true side of an ugly fact. I think people need to make this sad fact something they talk about and not just whisper about behind backs and closed doors. Sometimes just offer a shoulder to lean on!

"Where Children Live" by Naomi Shihab Nye (p. 642)

                I really like this poem about children. I guess no matter how much I try to get away from thinking about children almost 24/7; they always draw me back in. Children are where my passion truly lies and that is what was intriguing in this writer’s view of them. The poem dictates that to be a child we would have to get rid of so much that we have become as adults. We forget the joys of being a child, exploring the world around us, and being amazed at all it has to offer. Children are always looking forward to tomorrow and have big hopes and dreams.

My favorite part of the poem is when it talks about the “ants having more hope.” (15) That is so true. When the children in my care see an ant they don’t just automatically stomp on it like we do as adults. They watch it amazed, play with it and become its friend until it runs away. Unless they are taught to be mean to God’s living creatures they will cherish them and try their best to take care of them.

                I wish I could get back the mind of a child where days are long and worries are few. You play until you cannot play anymore. What I really want to do is be bored! Might sound crazy but now my days are rushed and full of tedious task instead of pointless joys.  You are always told as a child to cherish the moments and not to rush life. If only as a child we would have listened.

"Here a Pretty Baby Lies" by Robert Herrick (p.627)

Wow! I never knew one sentence with only 20 small words could make such a shocking impact. For those of you who have not read this poem, I must repeat it so hopefully you too will feel what I mean. This poem is heart wrenching and may not be for the faint of heart.

Here a pretty baby lies

Sung asleep with lullabies:    

Pray be silent, and not stir

Th’ easy earth that covers her.

          After reading this I was shocked. Even though this is a sad poem I really liked it because of its simplicity being able to bring so much power with it. I loved the way it was able to put so much feeling and detail within its use of minimalism. When I started to read the poem I had no real feelings about what I thought was a sleeping baby so when the last line was read I was stunned. Sadness took over. I kept thinking about that poor innocent baby being buried within the earth.

My Overall Poetry Comments

Since I have worked in child care for so many years, my first thoughts about poetry are rhyming words. The best one at that in my environment is Dr. Seuss himself. His books are probably not considered “poetry” but they have aspects of poetry. 

          Last month, my younger son’s class had to write poems with made up words just like in the Dr. Seuss books. So if Dr. Seuss is would not be considered poetry he would definitely spark poetry.

          Other than that I really have not had too much to do with poetry. I remember having to write haiku when I was in elementary school. We made books of our poems and my mother still has mine burrowed away in our childhood treasures. I really had fun doing them and wouldn’t mind reading them again. (I might mind having to spend a whole day on a treasure hunt trying to find them!)

          I do not read poetry for leisure and can’t wait to experience poetry as an adult to see where I stand in my opinions now.

*** For any of you who do not know what a “Haiku” is, it is a form of Japanese poetry that consists of 3 lines. The first and last lines have 5 syllables and the middle line has 7. The lines do not have to rhyme.

*In our English class

We have to read about poetry

5 poems then we end.

This was how we did them in elementary school when I went.Nnow I think they are not so strict on the syllabus.

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe never ceases to amaze me in the craziness of his stories. His spooky, sick ways have always put a haunt in me from the first time I read one of his stories as a child for school. He seemed to live a dark dreary sadistic life.

This was proven yet again in his “The Black Cat”. When I told some of the ladies about this story and how he poked his cat’s eyes out then hung it they all cringed with disgust. So did I when I read it and my mouth dropped open. The imagines immediately popped into my head even though I wished they would not have.

It’s kind of scary to think, even if it’s just imagination that someone’s mind could think that way and come up with stories or even movies that are so gruesome and full of torture and death. I could only imagine what our society would be if laws were not put into place and people were allowed to do what they wanted to do. Thankfully they are and even though that does not stop all of the horrible acts that take place it does help lessen them.

I am also thankful that my mind does not see those things as ok and hope I never do feel that it is ok. The man in the story had once lived a normal life until he was afflicted with his alcohol problem. Then he became a demon with rage and fury. The mind can be altered at any moment from many different sources but even if you realize it you cannot stop the thoughts and actions you take.

It’s scary and you should always assume that anyone is capable of bad things and never underestimate.

"The Curse" by Andre Dubus (p. 563)

            Something in my past happened that I feel I could have helped but instead I did not. I worked with a girl that always seemed to be sick and never came to work. When she did she always moaned and groaned and always wanted everyone else to do her work for her. Everyone talked about her and no one believed she was really sick including me. I began to ignore her whines and never took anything she said seriously. Then one day she fainted in the hallway beside me and hit her head. She suffered a concussion and was in the hospital for several weeks. During her time in the hospital they found out that she had cancer and that was the cause of all of her sickness. Afterward I felt so bad and kept thinking that I could have tried to catch her and she never would have hit her head and caused the medical problems besides the cancer. I so bad and unfortunately she never returned to work so I could try to make up for the way I acted. I try my best to no longer judge

"The Horse Dealer's Daughter" by D.H. Lawrence (p. 471)

Description of the Characters:

Mabel

Short

Sullen-looking

Had a lower self esteem from her brother’s teasing her and calling her names

Fearful

Impassive

Inscrutable

Stubborn

Proud

Confident

Religious

Caretaker

Mindless

Persistent

Sad

Lonely

Depressed

Suicidal

Strange

Desperate for attention and love

Creepy

Disillusioned

Independent

Emotional

Joe

Laconical

Careless

Handsome

Relaxed

Critical

Callous

Elder brother who wanted his brothers and sisters to follow him

Did not have high goals and was content with his soon to be marriage and felt his life was over, nothing left to hope for

Critical

Witty in his remarks to the dog

Takes command

Judgmental

Blunt

Humorous

Confident

Self-assured

Fred Henry

Critical  

Callous

Alert

Unconcerned

Cold blooded

A controller

The meaner one to his sister

Boss

Foul-mouthed

Wanted to be the master of his domain

Easily irritated

Tries to pick fights and cause turmoil

Demanding

Unhelpful

Disagreeable

Upset

Ill-mannered

Malcolm

The baby of the family

Seem to be easier on his sister

Quiet

Over-looked

Worried

Drab

Mysterious

Pleasing

Jack Fergusson

Hard worker

Determined

Young man with slight Scotch accent

Love struck

Kind-hearted

Thoughtful

Grateful

Hired assistant

Spell-bound

Burnt out on his work but yet craved it

Excited by he could do at his work

Hero

Pleasant

Unselfish

Well-cultured

"A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell (p. 189) and "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin (p. 331)

Reason for the women acting the way the do:

The two women in the stories, “A Jury of Her Peers” by Susan Glaspell and “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin at the way they do in the stories because of the lives they have lived. They feel trapped and unloved. They imagine a better life if they were free, free from their husbands and the lives they have became accustomed to. Mrs. Wright shows the despair that has taken over her through the way she stays confined to her home and the way she has became withered in her appearance and personality. Mrs. Mallard shows her despair by the way she seems so upset about her husband’s death but then a realization of how she is finally going to live the life so wants. She describes that she cared for husband but not as much as she would like. Marriages are not always the dream that every woman dreams of when they say those sought after words “I do”. Sometimes women become dependent on their husbands and stay in bad marriages because they feel they cannot make it on their own. During this period in time women were expected to take their vows seriously and till death do you part was just that!

Differences in the two women:

Mrs. Mallard seems to come from a well to do family and has a lavish lifestyle. She is able to pay for medical help for her heart problems. I feel if Mrs. Wright would have become sick there would have not been much medical care for her.

Mrs. Mallard wears finer clothes and keeps up her appearance while Mrs. Wright has to wear rags and doesn’t feel the need to worry as much about her appearance.

Mrs. Mallard puts on a show to everyone and hides her true feeling about her marriage. Mrs. Wright does not hide her feelings from others because she doesn’t have anyone who visits her and doesn’t seem to get out of her house. But the neighbors and town members know of her turmoil and how her husband is.  

            The houses of both women are different. Mrs. Mallard lives in a city and has furniture that is not worn. Mrs. Wright has an old farm house and withered furniture. She had to can her own jams which, with Mrs. Mallard’s health conditions, I do not believe that she has to do too much work in her home.

            Mrs. Mallard had family and friends that come to her in her time of need. Mrs. Wright had no one except for her bird that once had life but now rest mangled in a little box.

Similarities in the two women:

Both women seem to not be affected by their husband’s deaths in a bad way. They seem happy and relieved to rid themselves of their sorrow.

Differences in the two men:

            The men in the stories are very different. Mr. Mallard seems to really love his wife and take care of her even in her declining health. Mr. Wright seems to be mean to his wife. He controls her and does not let her have the things she wants. I feel that his wife must of went behind his back and bought the bird that the traveling salesman was selling with jars of her jam. Her husband did not like this and allowed the bird to stay until his fury built up in him and he killed the bird and blamed it on her for not keeping it quiet.

            Mr. Mallard seems like a traveling business man who is always neat and clean. He has finer things and carries a “grip-sack and umbrella” which Mr. Wright would probably never carry. Mr. Wright seems like a farmer that is always dirty with work and doesn’t keep himself up.

Similarities in the two men:

Both men seem to worry about work and confine their wives to their homes. They do not allow them to have jobs outside of their homes. Both men make their wives feel distressed and wanting out of their relationships.

Differences in the two stories:

          The transportation is different in both of the stories and the communities that each of the ladies lived in.

           

          In “A Jury of Her Peers” telephones are being used but in “The Story of an Hour” the death is found out by a telegram.

           

"The Black Cat" by Edgar Allen Poe (p.513)

The “spirit of perverseness” means a feeling or sensation that takes over your mind. It is something that you know is not right but you do it anyway. Even though you may feel guilt and remorse for your actions you still continue to do what has been taught to you of being acceptable. In Christianity it is said that the “spirit of God” takes over you so the “spirit of perverseness” would be like the spirit of the devil, things which are bad.

            I feel as humans, it is only natural to feel the “spirit of perverseness.” How we are raised, the morals instilled in us, our religious beliefs, and our fear of punishment determines the actions that proceed after that spirit enters our souls.

That feeling sprouts up into my head many times but I live out my actions in my head, vent to anyone who will listen, sleep on it, and hopefully be better the next day.

            One time though, those thoughts became actions before I could stop them. I was a teenage mother living on my own. Desperately wanting someone to love me, I carelessly became intoxicated with this guy who promised me love, marriage, and a family. I quickly put my trust into him and trusted him with my son.

On one occasion I had to be at work for a long training class. His generosity shined and he offered to stay at my home with my young son while I went. I didn’t see this as a problem because they got along so well when we were all together. When I left my son was crying, which he always did when I left him, but usually calmed down not long after my departure.

After a few hours went by I returned home to a child that eagerly ran to my arms and jumped into them. I picked him up and showered him with affection only for him to grimace out in pain. When I questioned his grief he informed me his bottom hurt. Surprisingly, I was not alarmed at first because this was a normal occurrence. He was still in diapers and they easily irritated his bottom, especially if he played too much and got sweaty. So, I told him we would put powders on them and make it all better. The guy was normal and nothing seemed surprising to me.

We went up stairs to his bedroom and I laid out a towel on the bed. When I put him on the bed and undressed his bottom half, I noticed strange marks on the inside of his leg. When I turned him over to investigate further my heart fell to the floor. Devastation took over my body. There on his bottom and lower back were 5 handprints that were welted into his skin. When I touched them he cried out in pain. Furry and fire ran through my veins. I tried to calmly put his diaper on, turned on his favorite movie, told him I would bring his favorite snack up to make him feel better and we would then lay in the bed and watch his movie together. I shut the door behind me.

As the door latched and I started down the steps my body trembled and tears starting streaming down my face. Murder was all that was on my mind and the rage was over powering my logic. I began to run down the steps, into the kitchen, and grabbed a knife. Behind me I heard footsteps approaching me so I quickly turned and stabbed at his surprised being. He yelled at me and asked me what I was doing and what was wrong. My tears and anger had taken my voice and I continued to try to accomplish the death that I wanted to bestow upon him. He darted and ducked and tried to calm me down. He knew the reasoning for my anger and then tried to justify his actions.

            I could not hear his words neither did I care to hear them. Finally, a blow made contact as he raised his hand in my direction. The knife penetrated his hand. Blood began to pour and puddle in my floor. It was as if someone had splashed cold water into my face to wake me up. Reality began to sink in and I begin to hear all the rights and wrongs as they started rushing into my mind. I released the blade and froze with a blank stare upon my face. He said a mere “sorry” and “I will love you forever” and spoke no more as he walked out the door, leaving a trail of the damage that I had caused.

My body unfroze and reality came in small amounts back to my conscious mind. I immediately cleaned up the mess, cleaned myself up, wiped away my wearied face and returned to my son, who seemed unaware of the turmoil that occurred below.

            We lay in the bed until the morning sun shined upon our faces waking us from what I hoped was only a bad dream. I knew that the bad dream would never go away even when I was awake.

The cops never found him and the investigation have long been closed. I never heard from or about him again. Nor do I want to know. The thoughts that I wish upon him even after these long eleven years are none I would like to repeat. I feel the pain as if it was yesterday when I imagine what I let happen to my little baby who is not so little anymore and knows nothing of the incident.

            I feel that my feelings were justified and some part of me after all of these years wishes I would have done more. For the feeling I carry around with me will not fade away. My logical mind is glad that it didn’t go further than it went for the intentions that I did have would have caused me more years of trouble and turmoil if I would of accomplished them.

I think the “spirit of perverseness” does take over your body and the evil that already exist in our human nature is brought to the surface. Our actions are sometimes uncontrollable and the true judgment of what is good and bad only comes from the society’s eyes that put the situation into their own hands to justify the behavior or condone it. Some would say my actions were called for and worse should have been done. Some would blame it all on me.

            The evilness in the “spirit of perverseness” can only be judged by the individual that acts on the power. For they are the ones that live with the feelings that come along with it that never fade away.

           

Raymond Carver

I really liked the works of Raymond Carver in the short stories “Neighbors” and “Cathedral.” I like the way he doesn’t sugar coat around in his story. He is not afraid to tell about things that happen in everyday life that most try to keep so hush, hush.

In his story “Neighbors” he shows what probably majority of us would do given the chance. If you had a friend that was away on vacation and gave you access to their home and private affairs you would be curious just to see how they lived. Especially if you felt that they were of better status than you. You would want to know their dirty little secrets so they could somehow be brought down to your level. I am not saying that every man would go into his friends house and put on his wife’s clothes but I do like that Raymond Carver had the nerve to actually put the shock and aw into this story like he did. My mouth dropped when I read this and never in my wildest dreams was I imagining him doing that when he went over for hours.  

I loved his use of minimalism but at the same time I was so frustrated of the unknowing. His story made my imagination awaken from years of being put aside for other things of importance. My mind raced trying to figure out the ending before the story had barely begun. Unlike other stories I didn’t figure out the ending until it was wrote out for me in black and white at the very end. In the other stories I read by other authors I knew the ending way before it presented itself. This kept me intrigued throughout the story.

In “Cathedral” his taboo of smoking marijuana was such a shock to me. Yet again my mouth dropped open when he pulled it out. Carver definitely knows how to shock is audience all the other stories we read were much more modest in their talk. Even though we experienced stories of death, murder, and rape the shock was not as apparent. You knew early on in the story the outcome before it was revealed. Even though this story was harder for me to understand and get the real meaning behind it I like his blunt honesty.

I hope in the future that I am able to read more of Raymond Carver’s works and have the same feelings I did with these to stories afterwards.

A story that needed to use more minimalism!

“A Jury of Her Peers” by Susan Glaspell was one short story that made one fact last way to long. I felt that this story would have done very well to have used a little bit more minimalism than so much description. I got so distracted in reading this story that it took me days to get all the way through it.

The ending was no surprise. With so many details thrown at you all at once you knew almost from the time they stepped into the door and Mr. Hale started telling his story who the killer was and it didn’t take long to figure out why before the women figured it out.

I would have to read a sentence over and over before I could get all the way through it and halfway through the story I had to start back over from the beginning. The story just seemed to drag on and on and on. Some sentences were so long and had too many descriptions for just one item. They just seem to never end. For example, on page 193, paragraph 68; the cabinet that Mrs. Wright kept her jam in was described to death. I had to read the sentence over and over. Then realized the description really didn’t matter to the story.

I felt that this story could have been delivered so much better than it was. Don’t get me wrong I liked stories that add descriptions like “Blue Winds Dancing” by Tom Whitecloud, but the descriptions in this story did not seem to help me paint a feeling it just frustrated me and made me count pages to see when the story would end!

"Blue Winds Dancing" by Tom Whitecloud (p.313)

I sat there patiently waiting for my anticipation to be calmed. I felt my heart pounding against my soft, snowy chest. The thrash of a bass drum pounded swiftly in my ears. Salty water droplets toke dwelling against my palms. The grandfather clock, in all of its years of wisdom, ticked away as I felt every second pass by. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. My built up excitement started to make its way out of my small fragile body. My legs started to vibrate against the cold wood floor, creaking under the weight. I finally heard the sound that I had longed to heed. Through the cold, wintery window pane, the winds brought the sound of gravel being pulverized by warm rubber treads. My patients ran out as I dashed to the window, peeping through the tailored window treatments, to see my long awaited revelation. I saw the door of my daddy’s candy apple mustang open ever so smoothly. Time seemed to be running in slow motion. He stepped out with the gravel separating against the weight. My heart had begun to strike against the walls; the salty droplets became a thin film covering against my hands. My breath fiercely escaped my mouth covering the cold, hard glass that stood between me and the chilly, dreary winter day. My breath masked my sight causing me to wipe the moist panes with my pink, fuzzy, footed pajamas. My dad with his back turned, fumbled in his back seat to retrieve a dull, pale, plain, brown box.

Disappointment started to take over my body. Where was my dream, my want, my everything? Tears had begun to work up in my stomach, crawling up towards my eyes as my daddy took that journey with his dull, pale, plain, brown box, to our front entry. My ache and sorrow took over as I fell to the floor. The overflow began and the salty drops rolled down my young, freckled, innocent face.  The door opened and I heard my daddy’s deep, muscular voice call my name, yet my body would not allow me to respond. My sobs were all that called him near as he frantically rushed to my side. He lifted me into his powerfully built arms and soothed me with his now soft gentle words. “What’s wrong Baby girl, what’s wrong?” his trembling voice kept repeating with anxious breaths pushing out the words. “But daddy you forgot, you forgot, you told me if I was a good princess… daddy you promised!” I wailed at him. He stepped up from the hard, chilled, wintery floor and briskly walked to the door where the dull, pale, plain, brown box motionlessly laid. My eyes blurred with sadness could only make out a blur of his manly stature. My head barely raised I was unable to see the devastation that I was about to experience. My face became wet and my body clobbered. Reality of the moment was beyond my existence. My head trembled with the attack, my eyes still blurred, masking my ability to grasp the moment.  My face saturated with an unfamiliar liquid, my body pressed now to the floor I felt numbness over me and a desire to catch a grasp on the moment. I lay there now stiff and motionless as I hear my daddy’s voice call over the devastation that was running all the way through my body. “Come here boy, come here” as he snapped his fingers. The moment was calm and motionless. The grandfather clock again ticking away the seconds. Tick-tock, tick- tock, tick-tock. I rally up enough strength to place my arms over my face to brace myself for the next attack. “Baby girl, get up and look at me,” my daddy commanded. Fear took over and I just started to cry once again. I felt his muscular arms swaddle my lifeless body. “It’s ok, calm down and just open your eyes, I promise everything is ok!” he reassured me. Still scared of what would happen next, I wiped the salty water droplets away and focused my yellow starburst eyes for a moment. The blur was unattainable; I wiped my eyes yet again. This time opening them to a world filled with excitement and joy that warmed my body on that cold, dreary wintery day. There he was. His short, stocky physique; his body quivered making the wood of the floor vibrate underneath. The source of my waterlogged face was now apparent. He was astonishing, spectacular, and my dreams come true. “Daddy, oh, daddy. You didn’t forget. I love you so much.” The experience of that new dog entering my existence will bond with me forever and always!

"Luck" by Mark Twain (pg. 213)

            I have beaten the odds so far in my life. I have been lucky and my doctors will agree. About 8 years ago I went in for a yearly medical exam to find out that I had a really high platelet count. Through lots and lots of test I haven’t really found out to much about why and how to fix it. I did find out that I my organs are flipped around and things like my spleen, liver, appendix, etc. are on the opposite side than the normal person. This isn’t a cause for my extremely high platelet count but it is rare. So what makes me consider myself lucky?  Well the doctors said that they cannot see how in all of these years, I have managed to fight the problems associated with thrombocytosis. Blood clots are a huge occurrence in elevated platelet counts which can cause a stroke. All the medicines that I have been on have not touched my count level. I feel good and don’t seem to have any complications. So I have decided to enjoy every moment I can and be thankful that what I should be experiencing with this disease I have managed to fight all odds. Call it what you will but I must have luck somewhere on my side!

Cathedral by Raymond Carver (p. 180)

Life is full of many lessons that you either learn or repeat until you do. I have had my share of them. One has taught me a lifelong lesson that I try my best to teach my children. When I was growing up my family was all about material things and so was I. All of my friends were the same way and we all thought people that were not in the same league as us were not worth our time. I know it sounds cruel but that was how my family and my friends were so I really knew no other way. I always said that I couldn’t see how people could stand to be like that and you would never catch them being my friends. Well I grew up and life did not go as I had planned for it to go. When my life was turned upside down my “friends” were no were to be found. The people that came to my side and offered me more than they really had to offer were those people that I always degraded and shunned away. They didn’t hold that against me and they showed me something that was better than any material thing that I could ever buy. They gave with their heart in it and did without to help me since I was in worse of a situation than them. I am appreciative for my pitfall and life going the way it did because I found a quality in people that I had missed all those years and I learned that you should not judge people by what they have because sometimes those that have the least actually have more than money could ever buy!