A Victorian poem discussing a girl’s misadventure into a land of Goblins and the aftermath that follows. Though this poem was written for children, it is filled with sexual undertones that make it not only an interesting story superficially, but symbolically as well.
When I write I see the phantoms of people I’ve known throughout my life, from lifelong friends to a person I once saw on the street or in an elevator once. They haunt my mind, they stain me with their memory, and they feed me inspiration for every narrative that makes its way onto a page.
Right now I can see a woman in a conservatory playing at her piano, her dark hair cascading down her back and her white dress pooling around her feet. The rain outside accompanies her. The landscape outside is a mere blur of grays and droplets dripping down glass walls. She won’t open her eyes as she fingers the keys, like she’s trying desperately to shut out everything. I don’t know where she will fit into any stories I am writing now or stories I will write in the future. But nonetheless she has risen from a grave in my mind, the ghost of someone I once knew or at least thought I knew.
Yet sometimes I think I’m just looking into a mirror.
Skinner's great, you can see something new every time you look at one of his illustrations. I found him in a book called Beasts! which is a collection of creatures from world folklore illustrated by a bunch of different artists. You should check it out, it's really cool AND informative.
That’s the mark of a true artist, when you can recognize new things every time you look at a work. I will check out the book for sure. It’s always fun to research things like that. Once in a while they come in handy.
Fanny Brawne:I still don't know how to work out a poem.
John Keats:A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving into a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out, it is a experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept the mystery.
Though this song is so gentle and airy, it also carries with it a tinge of sorrow. I can almost see a sepia photograph of happy memories fading away. I adore the extended metaphor of the bird stealing bread paralleled to his relationship with this woman. There is nothing I don’t like about this song. There is something so sincere about Sam Beam’s work that make it a true joy to listen to.
Tell me, baby, tell me, are you still on the stoop watching the windows close? I’ve not seen you lately on the street by the beach or places we used to go.
I’ve a picture of you on our favorite day By the seaside. There’s a bird stealing bread that I brought out from under my nose.
Tell me, baby, tell me, does his company make light of a rainy day? How I’ve missed you lately and the way we would speak, and all that we wouldn’t say.
Do his hands in your hair feel a lot like a thing you believe in or a bit like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose?
Tell me, baby, tell me, do you carry the words around like a key or change? I’ve been thinking lately of a night on the stoop and all that we wouldn’t say.
If I see you again on the street by the beach in the evening, will you fly like a bird stealing bread out from under my nose?
I find it interesting how at one minute people seem so close, then the next I feel like I've lost them forever. I feel like this isn't reality, this is just my fluctuation of emotion based on day to day occurrences.
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
One of my least favorite kinds of people are those that decide to define themselves by their mental disorder. You know the ones. They introduce themselves as "Hi, I'm so and so and I'm diagnosed with [insert various ailment here]."
As if Victorian Industrial wasn’t a fantastic genre by itself, let’s add in clever lyrics as well. This song has a little spice of attitude that makes it really work. I love it.
It’s not the time. It’s not the place. I’m just another pretty face, so don’t come any closer. You’re not the first. You’re not the last. How many more? Don’t even ask. You’re one more dead composer.
Do I need you? Yes and no. Do I want you?
Maybe so… You’re getting warm, You’re getting warm, You’re getting warmer, oh. Did you plan this all along? Did you care if it was wrong? Who’s getting warmer now that I’m gone?
Misery loves company and company loves more, aore loves everybody else but hell is others!
I’m not for you. You’re not for me. I’ll kill you first! You wait and see, You devil undercover. You’re not a prince. You’re not a friend. You’re just a child and in the end you’re one more selfish lover.
Do I need you? Yes and no. Do I want you? Maybe so. You’re getting warm, You’re getting warm, You’re getting warmer, oh. Did you plan this all along? Did you care if it was wrong? Who’s getting warmer now that I’m gone?
Misery loves company and company loves more, more loves everybody else but hell is others!
You’re so easy to read, but the book is boring me. You’re so easy to read, but the book is boring me. You’re so easy to read but the book is boring Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring me!
Pray for me if you want to! Pray for me if you care! Pray for me if you want to! Pray for me if you dare! Pray for me if you want to! Pray for me if you care! Pray for me if you want to! Pray for me, you fucker, If you fucking dare!
Misery loves company and company loves more, more loves everybody else but hell is others.
“My blood is bruised and borrowed. You thieving bastards, you have turned my blood cold and bitter, beat my compassion black and blue! Hope this is what you wanted. Hope this is what you had in mind. ‘Cause this is what you’re getting. I hope you’re choking. I hope you choke on it.”—Tool
That time I thought I was in love and calmly said so was not much different from the time I was truly in love and slept poorly and spoke out loud to the wall and discovered the hidden genius of my hands. And the times I felt less in love, less than someone, were, to be honest, not so different either. Each was ridiculous in its own way and each was tender, yes, sometimes even the false is tender. I am astounded by the various kisses we’re capable of. Each from different heights diminished, which is simply the law. And the big bruise from the longer fall looked perfectly white in a few years. That astounded me most of all.
“He said ‘you’re really an ugly girl, but I like the way you play.’ And I died. But I thanked him. Can you believe that? Sick, sick. Holding on to his picture, dressing up every day. I wanna smash the faces of those beautiful boys, those Christian boys. So you can make me cum that doesn’t make you Jesus!”— Tori Amos
I am still baffled by the amount of rave reviews Briar Rose received. Admittedly, the story is very unique. The idea of comparing the Holocaust to the Sleeping Beauty fairytale may seem a bit far-fetched initially, yet Yolen manages to bring the truth of this parallel to light. Unfortunately, it was executed in a way that really detracted from what was formally an original idea. Instead we are left with a poorly written, confused, and mediocre young adult novel.
Many of the characters that populate this book are completely unconvincing. Beccah is a shallow protagonist with a boring personality and no flaws to speak of. Magda stuck out to me in particular. She was a nuisance to read with her broken English, and her benign comments seemed to only reinforce the stereotype of the stupid Polack. Stan was a useless plot device (Beccah’s love interest) and should have been further developed or thrown out entirely, as the romance seemed to have no real purpose at all.
There also seems to be an issue in this book with age. Many of the adults act like children. Beccah is so immature I thought her to be 16 or 17 rather than 23. Her sisters were by far the worst though, with their constant bickering and melodramatics, spewing out comments that only a spiteful 10 year old would say. Every time I read their dialogue I would consider putting down the book permanently. Unfortunately this was required reading for a class, so on I read.
I would have much rather seen a novel based on the story Josef tells. The characters were much more human and the action much more real. But even this part of the novel was lacking It wasn’t developed enough to be heart wrenching in the way it had the potential to be. It is not difficult to make stories about the Holocaust sad. However, to make it a truly emotional story, one must pay close attention to the characters and the pacing. Both of these are severely neglected. However, this isn’t just an issue with the telling of Josef’s story. There seems to be something missing throughout the entire book. It desperately needed to be further elaborated on and tied together more neatly.
Overall Briar Rose was a great idea that fell flat due to poor character development, writing, and (what seemed to me) laziness. The amount of complaints I have about this novel are innumerable. The only thing that really keeps me from calling it one of the most disappointing books I have ever read is the idea that underlies it. There is so much untapped potential here it is frustrating. I wish Yolen had taken better advantage of the opportunity she was given.
1) Women’s Studies Scrapbook Project 2) American Novel Paper 3) Folklore Paper 4) Poetry Paper 5) Another Poetry Paper on Keats 6) Finish Stephen Dunn’s Between Angels 7) Finish Cormac McCarthy’s The Road 8) Philosophy Debate Project 9) Study for ALL of my finals 10) Apply for a job
Not in that order, but still. I feel overwhelmed. Guess it’s just that time of the semester.