Word Choices - AP English Literature - Blog

Old Woman Magoun's Daughter

We really do not know that much about Lily's mother besides the fact that she died from eating "sour apples and milk". But that is enough information for me to make an opinion about Old Woman Magoun. We can infer that she killed Lily's mother. Some people have said that she killed Lily's mother in order to preserve Innocence, and she killed Lily to do the same. However, when the Grandma killed her daughter, her daughter had already stopped being innocent for at least more than nine months. Also, Grandma (most likely) killed her daughter AFTER Lily was born, which means she never let Lily experience a mother's love.

I am still not sure if Old Woman Magoun's action of killing Lily was justified or not, but I am sure that she was crazy. Now whether or not a crazy person can make justified and rational decisions is a whole other can of worms.

 

The Power of Spoken Word

For anyone who has ever attended a Spoken Word Showcase at OPRF, you know that last Thursday was no exception to the display of amazing talent of our peers have when it comes to poetry. I want to congratulate anyone who performed because as always, there was no disappointment. Mr. Kahn would be incredibly proud.

For those of you who have never attended a showcase, there's still time to attend one before the year and I would strongly encourage you to go, because listening to spoken word is so much different than silently reading the words off of a page. Spoken word is not only about the words first written down on the page before being performed, but the stage presence, and the delivery of the lines in a way that commands attention and captivates the swirling emotions in the audience.

Each powerful line lingers temporarily before being cut by another powerful thought. Truth is released from the floodgates of a passionate peer whose raw emotion refuses to be contained. It gushes through gaps in teeth, leaps from fiery lips. It sends a chill up my spine me and makes me teeter on the edge of my seat and strain to listen for the next impact.

Here’s an example  of spoken word written and performed by Tanya Davis.

Outer Space

Here's the poem I wrote for the form poetry assignment:

Outer Space

 

Through outer space is where my mind flies.

Like a caged bird, finally free

In the universe is where my inhibition dies.

In a place of happiness, there, nobody cries.

Serenity and the Calm, it’s there I want to be.

Through outer space is where my mind flies.

In my imagination, there can be no lies,

Anything can happen, it is whatever I want to see.

In the universe is where my inhibition dies.

Come to this place with me, a place of great sighs;

A deep breath, and then another, feels good to breathe.

Through outer space is where my mind flies.

You can see clearly now, and now you realize,

How special life is, what life really is to me.

In the universe is where my inhibition dies.

Why not let the mind go up in the skies?

Take a look around, it’s where you’re meant to be.

Through outer space is where my mind flies.

In the universe is where my inhibition dies.

Poetry is Overrated

Before I begin, I would like to make it clear that I have the utmost respect for poets.  They can do something that I cannot.

That said, poetry's positition in society really irritates me.  People view poetry as something amazing, an art form without any equals.  Perrine said that poetry helps define humanity, implying that poetry distinguishes us from the hordes of beasts.  When a song is particularly meaningful, it's more than just a song, it's Poetry.   A guy who quits his job to surf or go to every Cubs game is a bum, but if he quits his job to write sonnets, he's a dreamer and a Poet.  We all agree that Michael Bay movies are awful, but if I say I don't like a particular poem, people tell me I just don't get it. The pretentious mindset of the poetic world is really frustrating.  Yes, poetry is really historically important.  But why is it loftier than storytelling or music?  I don't hate all poetry.  I think some of it is good, and some of it isn't so great, just like every other art form.  I just wonder why society doesn't think the same way.

Music Poetry Mix

I'm still altering the order of the songs, but here is the mix of all the music poetry selections from both of my College English classes.  You'll need Spotify (and it has a free version) to play the mix.

Man's Best Friend

He is your partner, defender, and friend,

While he sits next to you with your hand on his head.

He gives you his heart, body, and soul, just to befriend.

 

Peering out the window, he knows well how to defend,

But can curl up with you on your bed.

He is your partner, defender, and friend.

 

She loves you too, no need to pretend,

People can be harsh, but instead

He gives you his heart, body, and soul, just to befriend.

 

He means all nudges to not offend,

All of them, not just the thoroughbred.

He is your partner, defender, and friend.

 

He is always there at the right time, it does not depend

On his mood, you just have to make sure he is always fed.

He gives you his heart, body, and soul, just to befriend.

 

He will always want to spend

His time with you, up until he becomes dead.

He is your partner, defender, and friend,

He gives you his heart, body, and soul, just to befriend.

I was happy to be there

among saw blades and torches, I sat with a broken heart

waiting for you to take notice

 

leaning over

your scruffy face was within arms’ reach

I was happy to be there

 

I hummed quietly, and not quite in your ear

but I sat patiently

waiting for you to take notice

 

you carefully put your hands over mine

and acquainted me with the clay; we made it sing

I was happy to be there

 

I laid as close as a person could

“we fit well together,” I thought,

waiting for you to take notice

 

you smiled and kissed my forehead

I held fast to your spindly fingers- you’re an artist

I am, too, but I’m just

waiting for you to take notice 

Andiamo!

"Move it, come on, hurry up, let's go!"
My head spins on its axis while the earth stands still
Why does everyone try to rush me so?

"Remember this, don't be late, are you sure you know?"
Color-coded calendars map out every minute I fill
"Move it, come on, hurry up, let's go!"

I love stickers and naptime; I am not ready to grow
Watching raindrops race each other near a wet windowsill
Why does everyone try to rush me so?

Now my dreams replace unicorns with things I must know
My bed is sweet, while the alarm clock's 'good morning' is shrill
"Move it, come on, hurry up, let's go!"

Where did all of my days off go?
No rest stops on this road but the motion is making me ill
Why does everyone try to rush me so?

I hope, skip, and jump towards adulthood, where they all walk slow,
They all hurried up just so they could stand still
So why does everyone try to rush me so?
"Move it!"
    "Come on!"
        "Hurry UP!"
...Nahhh, I'll just go. 

Cow

The cow was wandering freely in the grass

It did not know what to do

It ate a lot of food and had a large mass

 

A car drove in to the grass with a man eating a bass

His car was old but his bass was new

The cow was wandering freely in the grass

 

The cow saw the car but just stayed in the grass

All the while softy yelling moo

It ate a lot of food and had a large mass

 

The way the driver hit the cow was very crass

All the while the man was reading about how to make stew

The cow was wandering freely in the grass

 

The car eventually stopped because it ran out of gas

The cow’s life on earth consisted of moments very few

It ate a lot of food and had a large mass

 

All the while the cow was being watched by a lass

The man did not know what to do

It ate a lot of food and had a large mass

The cow was wandering freely in the grass

A Potter's Creation

As the potter starts his next creation, they cuts his clay from the block.

With a loud thud, it is dropped on the wheel.

They reach over into the pot with clay diluted water

and places their fresh sponge in it.

 

The water drips, and runs slowly down his arms as he squeezes.

It washes over the fresh clay and he starts to work. 

At first, as he forcefully pushes on it but with total control, it turns into a

perfect dome, and that is when the real magic happens.

 

Fingers push into the center of the clay dome and are pulled.

The clay easily conforms to his gentle, experienced touch,

and it starts to take shape into a perfect vase, he stops the upward pull.

He knows if it is worked too much that it will become too thin or will crack.

 

However as he is finishing the piece, he has a thought.

And while he stares out his little cracked studio window,

in front of the wheel that he has grown to love and has become a part of him,

he thinks of his son and wonders.

 

He wonders if he worked him over too much or stretched stretched him too thin,

causing his son to crack, but what he never did was break.

His son never broke, and with that defining thought,

the potter lashed out at his new piece, and flung it everywhere.

 

Silly Old Bear

While trying to come up with a deep and meaningful poem to hand in this week, I had to settle for a good old vilanelle about my favorite childhood character: Winnie the Pooh. It may not be deep, but hey, Winnie the Pooh always managed to get an important message across. 

 

A pot of honey isn’t too hard to find

Just find a best piglet-friend

To help you if the bees are unkind.

 

Roll in some mud to imitate a cloud, but mind

To hide your red sweater in a brown blend.

A pot of honey isn’t too hard to find.

 

Climb up the tree, do nothing of the kind!

Blow up a blue balloon on which you’ll ascend

To help you if the bees are unkind.

 

Enter a cloud’s frame of mind

To fool the bees and them befriend.

A pot of honey isn’t too hard to find.

 

Quietly come at the beehive from behind,

Take your paw and extend

To help you if the bees are unkind.

 

Cautiously eat the honey and unwind

While your friend is below in case you descend

To help you if the bees are unkind.

A pot of honey isn’t too hard to find. 

 

Still Not Sure What Poetry Is

Well, I do know the technical definition of poetry. I understand that poetry uses language to convey ideas and experiences. That bit makes sense. I think, though, that the definition should be extended a bit, because plenty of things that don't involve language at all seem pretty poetic to me.

Last week's music-poetry assignment was interesting because it examined lyrics through a poetic lense- however, it examined them separately from the actual music, so that they were just words on a page like any old poem.
The lyrics take on an entirely different meaning when they are coupled with notes and chords and the intonation of the singer's voice. We probably shouldn't consider sound waves when we analyze poetry, since that is not technically language, but one could make the argument that the sounds of music are important in creating deeper/broader perspectives that cannot be touched by traditional language.

This isn't limited to music. There is poetry about paintings and photographs and film and trees and all sorts of things. They can do everything that poetry does: create multi-dimensional images, communicate experiences and ideas, affirm humanity, etc. They only difference is that they do not communicate using language. By Perrine's definition, this means they are not poetry. However, I think the definition of poetry is not quite so clean-cut.

Poetry in Music

Ever since the series of blog posts regarding music lyrics, I have not been able to stop thinking about poetry in everything I read.  I find myself noticing alliteration and diction constantly.  Often, I find myself scrutinizing every piece of music I listen to.  

For example, I was listening to Passenger's "Life's for the Living" from the album All the Little Lights, when a line in particular struck me.

    "While the evening pulled the moon out of it's packet
      Stars shone like buttons on an old man's jacket"

Here the singer, Mike Rosenberg, not only misspells pocket to make it rhyme, but is using a very clever metaphor.  He compares the coming of the night to a man wearing a jacket.  The moon rises up over the horizon, as if being pulled, like something out of your pocket.  The stars then shine in the sky like freshly polished buttons on an old man's jacket.  This really paints a vivid picture of the impending nighttime, one which I very much enjoyed.

This is just one of the many times this has happened in the past two weeks since.  It may never end.  Poetry and figurative language are everywhere.

A Sonnet For Your Thoughts

In the past when it came to poetry… well let’s just say it flew right over my head. I never really understood poetry that well. If the poet said leaf I thought it was a leaf, I never really looked at the deeper meaning too much. Sonnets though, there is something that I always understood. They are usually about love, neatly organized in fourteen lines with ten syllables in each line. Plane, simple, clean cut, the sonnet is defiantly a friend to me. The iambic pentameter also gives you a way to read the poem in an effectively. Sonnets make sense they flow they make you feel unlike some other poetry I have read. I also feel that they are easier to write. You know exactly what you need; you just need to figure out how to do it. I think this is the fun of sonnets you know how it will come out you just need create it. You have three sections of four that have an a b a b rhyme scheme and ends with a couplet that rhymes with itself to perfectly finish off the thoughts of the poet. What else can I say? I am a fan of the Sonnet.

Photography

The snap of a shutter is my favorite sound

Photography is the root of my passion

Capturing a moment in time is priceless

 

A quick turn of the shutter speed

An adjustment of the focus and click

The snap of a shutter is my favorite sound

 

The Chicago skyline on a starry night

A subtle yet beautiful laugh

Capturing a moment in time is priceless

 

As the sound of  a melody is to a musician

And the beauty of a stroke is to a painter

The snap of a shutter is my favorite sound

 

The creation of art is a treasured act

Immortalizing my view through print is precious

Capturing a moment in time is priceless

 

My muse is what I see everyday

I connect with the world through my sight

The snap of a shutter is my favorite sound

Capturing a moment in time is priceless.

kinda like a kitchen knife through an apple core

I know you’ve heard this like a million times before,

But keep them shoes tied or they’re gona trip you up,

They’re gona take you down to the floor.

 

And I know you’ve heard this a million times before,

But you better button up that blazer and finish that cup

of orange juice to feed you all costs a paycheck and more.

 

Now I know you’ve heard this a million times before,

But don’t piss on the side of the house it stinks the place up,

Treat your property properly don’t tag up the back door.

 

What I haven’t gotten to say before,

Though, is that I love you guys like a lion loves her pup,

I’ll karate chop kinda like a kitchen knife through an apple core,

And everyone will know not to $%# with you guys no more.

Evaporation

My vilanelle.

 

Fog descends on the veins of desire

Slowly infiltrating unseen in the night

As blood runs dry and quenches the fire

 

“I swear I had feelings” so says the liar

But everything looks different in the light

As fog descends on the veins of desire

 

Uncomfortable eyes, made of sapphire

Look away to avoid the sight

Of blood running dry, quenching the fire

 

Crystal tears quickly turn to ire

As helplessness gives way to a fight

Against the fog as it descends on the veins of desire

 

Together we could have ruled empires

But if it was to be, it would ignite

Blood wouldn’t have run dry and quenched the fire

 

And to these things, although one might aspire

It is inevitable even if it seems right

That blood will run dry and quench the fire

As fog descends on the veins of desire

Division

The sun was setting that day

Mama's eyes stood still.

To leave I guess is better than to stay

 

Daddy's eyes were wet and settled at bay

I heard, "If you can't do this, I will."

The sun was setting that day

 

The light on the wooden floors, my brother lay

My fear set, steady on the windowsill

To leave I guess is better than to stay

 

Somber looks filled the spaces- paranoia weighs

Twiddling of thumbs and eyes, my father looked ill

The sun was setting that day

 

I sit, still only dividing my numbers on school days

My brother, still taking naps a quarter till.

To leave I guess is better than to stay

 

Toxic words from the lips of an enemy, my father says

"We need time apart." The room stood still.

To leave I guess is better than to stay.

The sun was setting that day

 

You Know

This is an iambic-pentameter villanelle. I'm not sure if what I submitted a week or two ago counts for this week or if the iambic-pentameter sestina I read in class does; just to be safe, I'm doing this.

 

I hope you know our union is a sham.

I cast a vote to cast us on the rocks.

If you don't know, you don't know who I am.

 

I thought my apathy was on the lam

And never to return like shuttlecocks.

I hope you know our union is a sham.

 

I thought you knew I didn't like your fam

Or at least not to show me your own flock.

If you don't know, you don't know who I am.

 

I measured each degree, meter, and gram

And counted clocks' and watches' ticks and tocks.

I hope you know our union is a sham.

 

You seemed so closed and pressured like a clam.

I jumped all over you like chickenpox.

If you don't know, you don't know who I am.

 

With every plate served of green eggs and ham,

You turned, to me, into a fox or box.

I hope you know our union is a sham.

If you don't know, you don't know who I am.

The Curtains

The Curtains

Wind moves through curtains
Light changing fabric layers like a skirt
Falling to gentle lines of skin
Expanding and stretching with her movement
Curls bounce as her face turns shoulders
in awe, sun flecked her hair.

Tumbling over bone, clavicle hidden by hair
as a child's grandma's curtains
would be a hiding place, her world needed shoulders
to soften the blow of a world in continual movement
against the tenderness of youthful skin.

Burning under the harshness of hardened aged skin,
shadows furrowing into her, like his eyebrow hair
coming together and clumping like his movement,
galloping at best. Hidden in curtains
her protective tent further camouflaged by the skirt
his burly body looking, stooping but not seeing the small shoulders

Hidden, tented, shallow breathing held by shoulders
edged with blue black skin,
beneath fabric that became an adult skirt
of shame that she pinned up into a tight bun of hair
held fast by clips, rusty from windowsill rain, not covered by curtains
whose fluid motions mirrored her own movement

in heart and song. Delicate movement
that one could relate to fingers across the piano, giving in to shoulders
relenting to music, composed within, like curtains
needing wind and light, dark and rain, to protect, as skin
would muscle from exposure to hair.
Raising cold that leaves legs begging for summer in a skirt

that twirls with freedom, allowing wind to edge the skirt,
in one fluid movement,
upward, towards the ends of the hair,
no longer in a bun, but tussled loose, shoulders
used as bouncing boards, as skin
gives away to the protective memories of childhood curtains.

Her soul needed shoulders
to shrug the movement
of shame that was covered in grandma's curtains.

Nature's Path

Heed to Mother Nature's song
Enjoy the life given to you
For life is precious and never lasts long

Those who seek to prolong
Their time only bid it adiue
Heed to Mother Nature's song

Do not worry whether right or wrong
As you will never have a clue
For life is precious and never lasts long

All year long you must remain strong
In order to achieve the breakthrough
Heed to Mother Nature's song

Nature's path is a winding road that shows you where you belong
With each new day you are one day older, yet you rise anew
For life is precious and never lasts long

In truth I know not what Nature desires or where we all belong
But truth is true if it follows virtue, that I know you must value
For life is precious and never lasts long
Heed to Mother Nature's song

Concentrated Writing Can be Long

In the chapter "What Is Poetry?" of Perrine's book, he argued that "The difference between poetry and other literature is one of degree. Poetry is the most condensed and conentrated form of literature" (8). He thinks that poetry is condensed in a way that means every word is, and has to be, important. In addition, poetry is concentrated literature simply because it is shorter than novels and short stories.

I somewhat agree with Perrine, because in a short space, a poet manages to draw up fantastic images in the reader's mind, while using a unique or traditional structure to support and help the poem. I think that rhyme and rhythm schemes, as well as the emphasis on diction and figurative language, can only be found in poems. 

However, I think that equally concentrated phrases and meanings can come from longer works of literature in a way that poetry cannot acheive. Only in longer works can the author develop motifs and ideas that are repeated throughout, giving the reader subconscious ideas about the meaning. In books, a purpose is acheived not through shorter, more special single lines and stanzas, but through paragraphs and pages and chapters of stylized writing that develop a story to draw the reader in. I never find myself fully engaged in a poem like I do in a book.

I don't think that one form beats out the other. Book and poems each are more effective at different things.

Lastly, I think that the condensedness of poetry is what makes poetry more difficult for me to try and write than prose. I am so used to the sentence structure and order of proper English grammar, that when I need to adjust, switch around, and change the length and order of words in order to fit into a poem, I struggle. I could potentially come up with a great extended metaphor and write it in a paragraph, but in a poem?

Brilliant form poems, especially sonnets with a rhyme scheme and iambic pentameter, astonish me, not just because they are brilliant poems, but because somebody had to be able to write them.

Un Vocho

Let the leaves brush the bottom of your feet.

A concrete path as warm as the day

When seasons collide and our lives will meet.

 

The green and gold are hard to beat

As time always goes their way and they

Let the leaves brush the bottom of my feet.

 

Cool whispers sweep, their relief a treat

From heat, yet in dread we play

When seasons collide and our lives will meet.

 

Warmth along my front and thighs as you share my seat.

A chill in my heart when I know I can’t stay

But I let the leaves brush the bottom of our feet.

 

Waiting makes me dream that these moments will repeat

As separation and wishes make me pray

When cold season collide and our lives will meet

 

This life will be gone and months together will fleet

Away and causes me to say,

“Let these leaves brush the bottom of your feet

When more seasons collide and our lives will meet.”

 

In Praise of Whom?

 A sonnet often praised a woman whose beauty was said to surpass that of nature. She was the ideal, the standard of perfection. 

However, in some ways, sonnets seem to not be about the woman, the love of the poem, at all. Renaissance thought valued the individual. It suggested individauls could attain great power and artistic skill. Sonnets demonstrated the great and clever potential of skilled writers. Thus, one could reasonably suggest that a sonnet was written to praise the writer rather than the subject. For instance, even when a sonnet describes a woman's beauty, the main emphasis of the sonnet tends to be the poet's love of that beauty. For instance, in Sidney's "Astrophil and Stella: Sonnet 9" Sideny writes:

Which Cupid's self, from Beauty's mine did draw:

Of touch they are, and, poor I am their straw.

The speaker spends most of the sonnet describing Stella's beautiful poem, but uses the couplet to make the poem about him. The sonnet tended to praise the writer, suggesting they were a great man capable of great love.

Furtheremore, writers often assumed great powers in their sonnets. Spenser, in "Amoretti: Sonnet 75" and Shakespeare in "Sonnet 18" both claim they can make a woman's beauty eternal through their sonnets. Putting aside the fact they were right, how incredibly conceited is that? What writer has the audacity to assume that their words are so important they will be read hundreds of years from now? Admittedly, the sonnets are impressive. However, I think it is worth noting that sonnets may have been designed to praise the writer even more than the subject.

Shakespeare's Social Construct

The focus of class discussions thus far has been somewhat paradoxical. While we claim to disprove of the concept of love as solely social construct, we now listen to the poets preaching the power of "true love" from the haunting realm of antiquity. As a class, we have been asked to comprehend existentialism and apply it with skepticism to the the workings of contemporary society, yet what can we make of these poems, namely sonnets, and their dogma of "love?"

Has Shakespeare, Spenser, Sidney diluted our culture into one in constant pursuit of an abstract idea born in fourteen lines supported by an iambic pentameter? Modern society exemplified by pop culture cannot seem to fathom a fulfilled life without a romanticized version of love, so should we attribute this to Renaissance writers who all just happen to write about the blinding passion of love? I have trouble reconciling the two ideas, considering these poets seem to predate outward existential philosophers. Maybe the sonneteers are the ancestral version of today's barrage of love-focused media that reinforces the social construct. Or maybe love is a concept entirely separate and cannot be defined in terms of existentialism. 

I cannot make a firm assertion regarding the relationship between the sonneteers and existentialists, yet I think it is a paradigm that we must address from both sides of the aisle. Either the poems about love fit perfectly into the existentialist social mold, or they transcend the theory. What do you think?

 

How the Seuss stole poetry

Perhaps one of the most popular poets around is also  one of the most underrated. Theodor Geisel, or as most people know him,  Dr.Seuss, wrote dozens of childrens books as well as working on animation for the United States Army during World War II. His drawings made his words come to life both in the political comics as well as the bizarre universe in his books. 

Although Perrine might disagree, Dr. Seuss was an incredible poet and wordsmith. In 1954, children literacy rates were low because the books they were trying to read were boring. Someone put together a list of 350 words that were important for children to know and asked Seuss to write a book using 250 of those words. The Cat in The Hat was the result using 236 of the words in one of the most memorable books from my childhood at least.

The most impressive feat though, is that through almost all of his works, Geisel used anapestic meter. I know for certain that I would enjoy poetry much less if I had not read Dr. Seuss at all.

Early Morning Musing From a Belated Birthday Girl

Dear AP College English Peers,

I feel very romantic this morning. Maybe it's the two long roses on my dinner table, whose stems bend to break under their heavy orange heads, whose faces glow like dying bowls of ember. Maybe it's the ominous thunderclouds, whose sooty breath is fogging up my window. (Which reminds me I should wear rain boots today). The thin curl of steam from my coffee cup, the chocolate frosted cupcake sitting in a cardboard box, the way my dog perks her ears when I jostle down the stairs, it could be the crowd of flamboyant birthday cards, all clamouring happy birthday wishes to the happy birthday girl.

If I were to wrap up my emotions in a bundle of tidy thoughts, tie them with an incandescent thread, tape it with sturdy scotch

I'd say, our rhythmic unit may last a week or two, But poetry eternally surrounds us, Me and he and you.

Happy Tuesday!

I will dig the earth

The song is called "Ne me Quittes Pas" written by Jacques Brel. He was from Belgium but wrote the song in French as well. In this song, he begs for the love of his life to stay with him. The title translates to "do not leave me." Brel rhymes loosely but the true poetry arises in the lyrics themselves. With a very emotional performance, we feel the passion and dedication he has for his lover. His complete devotion shows when he declares,

       Je creuserai la terre            I will cross the world                                                Jusqu'apres la mort            Till after my death                                                   Pour couvrir ton corps        To cover your body                                                 D'or et de lumiere               With gold and light

The repetition of "Ne me quittes pas(Do not leave me)" along with his tone conveys his helpless and desparate state of mind, and shows that he is not asking but imploring to the love of his life.

He shows how insignificant he feels without her when he pleads to be allowed to become,

    L'ombre de ton ombre     The shadow of your shadow                                         L'ombre de ta main         The shadow of your hand                                            L'ombre de ton chien      The shadow of your dog

The girl he was singing for better have stayed with him because it is obvious that he needed,

    A te regarder                  Just to look at you                                                     Danser et sourire            Dance and smile                                                         Et a t'ecouter                  And to hear you                                                         Chanter et puis rire         Sing and then laugh

After looking through the comments on songmeanings.net I saw that Brel did not mean for this to be a love song. However, he wished that it would serve as a warning for men to not get to this state of desperation.

Poetry Origins

These last couple days we have been focusing on modern poetry, and what it is today. As I thought about it, I couldn't help but wonder, where does it come from? Who would have thought to give rhythm or rhyme to words? It seems kind of obvious that no one would know.

Before literacy, before anyone wrote anything down, stories and legends were passed down orally. In order to do that, many people have to memorize all the words and how they're strung together. It only makes sense that rhythm or rhyming would come out of that. For example, it's easier for us to memorize the bones in the body or a lineage of kings if there is some sort of pattern.

This week we're even showing how songs are poetry. Long before Katy Perry or Eminem, even millennium before the creation of christianity, there were folk songs and poems. The oldest known surviving poem is an epic, called the Epic of Gilgamesh. An epic is a lengthy narrative poem, often containing stories of heroic gestures and battles or information on ancient cultures. 

The Epic of Gilgamesh was found in the area of ancient Sumeria, where it was speculated to have been written somewhere between 2750 and 2500 BC on 12 clay tablets. It is a story of Gilgamesh, who is a king of Uruk, and his story, ultimately with the theme that immortality is not in living forever, but in having a great legacy from living and ruling well. 

It is a long story, and it is easy to see that without techniques from the rhythm of poetry it would have been very difficult to memorize.

A Call for Equal Rights; "One Love"

When I learned that we our blog post this week was to be about music that we believed was poetry, my very first thought was to post a Macklemore song. Seeing as his brand new album The Heist came out on October 9th, (and I've been listening to it nonstop ever since) I thought it would be very appropriate to discuss an extremely powerful track on the album, called "One Love". Here are the lyrics.

The gist of this song is that Macklemore is speaking out against the hate and oppression that our society has towards homosexuals. He himself is the speaker, speaking in first person and expressing his personal beliefs throughout the entire song. The audience of the song is society on a whole. He sends this message to politicians, to religious officials, to America as a country, and to every one of us. Macklemore starts the song out with the lyrics:

    When I was in the 3rd grade/ I thought that I was gay/ Cause I could could draw, my uncle was/ and I kept     my room straight/ I told my mom, tears rushing down my face/ She's like, "Ben you've loved girls since     before pre-k".

These opening lyrics are very powerful. Although at first it may seem that Macklemore is just relating an experience from his early life, it can be viewed as a statement against society's stereotypes of homosexuals. He thought that just because his uncle was gay, and because he didn't do things that were considered "manly", that he was gay. A few lines later in the song, the lyrics that appear are some of the most powerful in the song. They read:

     For those that like the same sex had the characteristics/ the right-wing conservatives think it's a     decision/ and you can be cured with some treatment and religion/ A man made rewiring of a pre-        disposition/playing God.

In these lines, he is referring to the fact that so many people think that being gay is a disease. Many religious officials and some conservatives believe that someone who is gay can be trained to be straight. That is just ridiculous because obviously it is not a choice, it is the way they are born. In many cases, they are trying to "play God" by trying to change the "pre-disposition" in these people. 

Finally, In the second verse, Macklemore speaks to all of the people on social networking websites, and just people in everyday life, that use the term "gay" as a word that means bad or awful. He says:

    Our culture founded from oppression/ Yeah, we don't have acceptance for 'em/ Call each other faggots/     behind the keys of a message board/ A word routed in hate/ yet our genre still ignores it/ Gay is     synonymous with the lesser

This passage really makes people think about the language that they use. Is it really right that so many people use this word with a negative connotation? I think it really shows a great deal of ignorance on the part of the people who use it. This whole song is extremely poetic, and is calling people to make a change in the way that they view homosexuals. Macklemore's inspiring words reveal many of our flaws as humans, but at the same time tries to get us to realize that homosexuals are people just like us. They are no different. It is the SAME LOVE that all of us have.