Poetry Anthology with commentaries

International Baccalaureate World Literature

Poetry Anthology

Ari Gardarsson

26/09/2011

“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickenson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—

And sore must be the storm—

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—

And on the strangest Sea—

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb—of Me.

Commentary:

The poem is well written and gives such a good description on what hope really is. In the poem she is saying that hope is a bird (i think a dove since that also symbolizes peace). “Perches” and “sings the tune without the words” both talk about what birds do. In the second and last stanza it talks about the song. The poem follows the rhyme scheme abab. It is also very dramatic because, for example, in the last stanza it uses the word “Extremity” and capitalized in the middle of a sentence which adds extra emphasis on an already dramatic sounding word. She may also be referring to that hope is just like a bird in the fact that just like a bird, hope can fly around the world freely. She also states that hope is everywhere by saying “I’ve heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea.”

Emily Dickenson (19th century) was an American poet. She lived a introverted and reclusive life. She was thought of as an eccentric by the locals of her town. She became know for her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Fewer than a dozen poems were published during her lifetime but here sister found a collection of nearly 1800 poems and Dickinson’s first volume was published four years after her death.

A Winter Ship by Sylvia Plath

At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of.
Red and orange barges list and blister
Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy,
And apparently indestructible.
The sea pulses under a skin of oil.

A gull holds his pose on a shanty ridgepole,
Riding the tide of the wind, steady
As wood and formal, in a jacket of ashes,
The whole flat harbor anchored in
The round of his yellow eye-button.

A blimp swims up like a day-moon or tin
Cigar over his rink of fishes.
The prospect is dull as an old etching.
They are unloading three barrels of little crabs.
The pier pilings seem about to collapse

And with them that rickety edifice
Of warehouses, derricks, smokestacks and bridges
In the distance. All around us the water slips
And gossips in its loose vernacular,
Ferrying the smells of cod and tar.

Farther out, the waves will be mouthing icecakes ---
A poor month for park-sleepers and lovers.
Even our shadows are blue with cold.
We wanted to see the sun come up
And are met, instead, by this iceribbed ship,

Bearded and blown, an albatross of frost,
Relic of tough weather, every winch and stay
Encased in a glassy pellicle.
The sun will diminish it soon enough:
Each wave-tip glitters like a knife.

Commentary:

There is no rhyme in this poem, at least no rhyme that I saw. It has good adjectives which gives good imagery. When I read this I felt like i was standing in the cold on this “Winter Ship”. Vocabulary is interesting and it is clear that she only used words that pertain to winter, especially winter in the far north like Alaska. “Albatross of frost” gives me an image of big gusts of wind keep hitting the boat over and over again. Her descriptions of the weather on the open sea during winter gives the impression that she has been on a ship in such weather. She also gives the impression that everything you experience out there could possibly kill you. For example, she says “each wave-tip glitters like a knife,” and that feels like she is saying that if you fall into the ocean the waves will tear you apart and the chance of survival is miniscule.

The Surgeon at 2 a.m. by Sylvia Plath

The white light is artificial, and hygienic as heaven.
The microbes cannot survive it.
They are departing in their transparent garments, turned aside
From the scalpels and the rubber hands.
The scalded sheet is a snowfield, frozen and peaceful.
The body under it is in my hands.
As usual there is no face. A lump of Chinese white
With seven holes thumbed in. The soul is another light.
I have not seen it; it does not fly up.
Tonight it has receded like a ship's light.

It is a garden I have to do ...