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E3: Modernism and the 20th Century

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john meehan

on 5 June 2014

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Transcript of E3: Modernism and the 20th Century

6 7 8 9 10 11
1 2 3 4 5


I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Woud it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T.S. Eliot
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
"There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat."

- William Faulkner
Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech, 1950
"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

- Ernest Hemingway
"A Farewell to Arms" (1929)
T.S. ELIOT
WILLIAM FAULKNER
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
EZRA POUND
You know I don't like you
But you want to be my friend
There are bodies on the ceiling
And they are fluttering their wings
It's OK, I'm angry
But you'll never understand
You dream of Michelangelo
They hang above your hands

And I know, she is not my friend
And I know, cause there she goes
Walking on my skin again
Saturn on a line
A sun afire on strings and wires
Spin above my head and make it right
Anytime you'd like, you can catch a sight
Of angel eyes on emptiness and infinite

And I dream of Michelangelo
When I'm lying in my bed
I see God upon the ceiling
I see angels overhead
And he seems so close
As he reaches out his hand
We are never quite as close
As we are led to understand

And I know, she is not my friend
And I know, cause there she goes
Walking on my skin again

And I can't see why
You want to talk to me
When your vision of America
Is crystal and clean
I want a white bread life
Just something ignorant and plain
But from the walls of Michelangelo
I'm dangling again.

And I know, she is not my friend
And I know, cause there she goes
Walking on my skin again
When I Dream of Michelangelo
By The Counting Crows
"If I thought that my reply would be to someone who would ever return to earth,
this flame would remain without further movement; but as no one has ever returned
alive from this gulf, if what I hear is true, I can answer you with no fear of infamy."
ZEITGEIST
"the spirit of the age"
the defining philosophy or cultural attitude of a given population in a particular era.
Native American
Literature
Puritan
Literature
Colonial
Literature
Romanticism
Realism
The Harlem Renaissance
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
This Is Just to Say
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
FOUND POETRY
taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry.
The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.
page 668
Disillusionment
Lack of self-worth
Depression
Missed opportunities
Faith
Art
Love
Aging and Death
Major Themes of "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Among the rain

and lights

I saw the figure 5
in gold

5 on a red
fire truck

moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls

and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
The Great Figure
When people talk about "this generation" in 50 years .... what will they say?
"MAKE IT NEW"
critic
teacher
editor
author
1885-1972
page 650-653
IMAGIST POETRY
attempts to isolate a single image to reveal its essence.
"Don't use such an expression as "dim lands of peace." It dulls the image. It mixes abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer's not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol."
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand.
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
- Li T'ai Po
The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anemia.

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
The Garden
En robe de parade.
- Samain
SHOW, DON'T TELL.
FLANNERY O'CONNOR
Southern Gothic
A subgenre of modernism, focused on the South.

It focuses on deeply flawed, disturbing or disorienting characters, decayed or derelict settings, grotesque situations, and other sinister events relating to or coming from poverty, alienation, racism, crime, and violence.
"American Gothic" - Grant Wood (1930)
"A Rose for Emily"
"As I Lay Dying"
1925-1961
"A Good Man is Hard to Find"
“Anything that comes out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic.”
CATHOLICISM
LUPUS
SAVANNAH
GROTESQUE
MORAL FLAWS
FORESHADOWING
her life
her stories
the use of hints or clues to suggest what will happen later in a plot.
FORESHADOWING
ERNEST HEMINGWAY
"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary."
“Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don’t know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use."

- Ernest Hemingway
(in response to William Faulkner)
- William Faulkner
(on Ernest Hemingway)
For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.
Iceberg Theory:
(a.k.a. theory of omission)
A minimalist, bare-bones writing style (popularized by Hemingway) that gives limited detail and forces readers to determine a story's meaning by interpreting the subtext.
1899-1961
alcoholic aviator
author
boxer collaborator drinker expatriot explorer father fisherman fighter genius hunter
journalist
macho
Nobel Prize-winner
writer rebel rival realist soldier
Pulitzer Prize-winner
traveler veteran

womanizer
The Hemingway Hero:
a. Is a man of action, not talk
b. Believes that death is the total end of life ("nada")
c. Lives a life full of physical pleasures
d. Has courage, loyalty, and shows grace under pressure
e. Controls his emotions
Modernist Authors
"'Forget what Zelda said,' I told him. 'Zelda is crazy. There's nothing wrong with you. Just have confidence and do what the girl wants. Zelda just wants to destroy you.'"

- Ernest Hemingway
"A Moveable Feast"
1896-1940
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
The Great Gatsby
1897-1962
"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
DREAMS DECAY WASTE
THE
LOST
GENERATION

Expatriots
Southern Gothic
WWI
20th Century Poets
LANGSTON HUGHES
ROBERT FROST
SYLVIA PLATH
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
Daddy
BY SYLVIA PLATH
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful ‚
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
MIRROR by Sylvia Plath
"Confessional Poetry"
1932-1963
"Writing poetry without rhyme is like playing tennis without a net."
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
"Everyday Poetry"
1874-1963
"Pastoral Poetry"
"Traditional Poetry"
1902-1967
"The Harlem Renaissance"


Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.
-- through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.
1883-1963
"Imagist Poetry"
What does it take to make a "great poem?"
How do we define "value" in a world torn by war?
"Shut up, Bobby Lee. It's no real pleasure in life."

- Flannery O'Connor, "A Good Man is Hard to Find"
"Because people to whom sin is just a matter of words, to them salvation is just words too."
- William Faulkner, "As I Lay Dying"
"All thinking men are atheists."
- Ernest Hemingway, "A Farewell to Arms"
SO WHAT'S THE POINT OF ANY OF THIS STUFF?
"All I kept thinking about, over and over, was 'You can't live forever; you can't live forever."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Great Gatsby"
T
P
C
A
S
T
T
itle
araphrase
onnotation /
ontext clues
ttitude
hift
itle revisited
heme
What might this poem be about?
In your own words -- what's the big picture?
Are there any unique phrases/words/devices?
How does the speaker feel about the subject?
Does the speaker's attitude change? Where/why?
So what is this poem really about, then?
Is there another possible meaning for the title?
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
Nothing gold can stay
p. 791-809
A Sort of a Song
DUE MONDAY:
+ Read "A Few Don'ts by an Imagiste" (p. 653)
+ Write down FIVE tips/rules that Pound makes in this article.

+ Create a TPCASTT chart for Ezra Pound's "The Garden" (p. 652)
"No ideas but in things."
use simple, direct, everyday language to "find" poetry in even the most unexpected of places
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Dreams

been scared and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,
Still Here
Looks like between 'em they done
Tried to make me

Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'--
But I don't care!
I'm still here!
What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?
Harlem (A Dream Deferred)
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
I, Too, Sing America
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.
Due Friday:
+ Create a TPCASTT chart for Robert Frost's "Birches" (798)
828-833
Here on the edge of hell
Stands Harlem—
Remembering the old lies,
The old kicks in the back,
The old “Be patient”
They told us before.

Sure, we remember.
Now when the man at the corner store
Says sugar’s gone up another two cents,
And bread one,
And there’s a new tax on cigarettes—
We remember the job we never had,
Never could get,
And can’t have now
Because we’re colored.
So we stand here
On the edge of hell
In Harlem
And look out on the world
And wonder
What we’re gonna do
In the face of what
We remember.
HARLEM
RENAISSANCE:
a period of rebirth
WHAT IS THE SPEAKER'S ATTITUDE?
How about now?
Does this sound familiar?
PASTORAL POEMS:
idealize the natural beauty and simplicity of country life
Short poems
"Found Poetry"
Irregular line length
Little to no rhyme
Everyday subjects
"No ideas but in things"
Narrative poems
Everyday language
Regular line length
Regular rhyme
Outdoor subjects
"Discover natural beauty"
p. 795
4
3
2
1
Themes of hope
Overcoming adversity
Racial / social pressure
"Jazz Poetry"
Optimism and obstacles
"Speeches" in poems
Print a copy of Sylvia Plath's "Daddy" poem (linked on Edmodo) and bring it to tomorrow's class.
"It is better to present one Image in a lifetime than to produce voluminous works. "
assonance
consonance
alliteration
caesura
meter
simile
metaphor
enjambment
imagery
rhyme
half rhyme
rhyme scheme
Create a TPCASTT for Sylvia Plath's "The Colossus"
1. Use lean, clear prose (cut out all unnecessary adjectives!)

2. Focus on the IMAGE -- don't mix abstract and concrete words.

3. Keep the rhythm more "like a musical phrase," not rigidly bound by traditional rhyme/meter of a metronome.
T. S.
Eliot

James
Joyce

Robert
Frost

Ernest Hemingway

Hilda
Doolittle

W.B.
Yeats

D. H.
Lawrence

William Carlos
Williams
TONIGHT'S HOMEWORK:
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.

Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered

In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,

Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
THE COLOSSUS
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

MUSHROOMS
by Sylvia Plath
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.
JAPAN
EUROPE
AMERICA
p. 651
CONTROLLING METAPHOR
a major symbol or image that dominates an entire work.
Imagist poetry
Lean, spare prose
Natural rhythm
Many cultures
Exact language
Not much rhyme
Controlling metaphors
Heavy use of imagery
Psychological trauma
Historical/Mythological Allusions
Identity, Sexuality, and Gender
Poetry as "therapy"
1888-1965
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