One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda: Poetry Analysis

I'm not sure when I'll be able to get to this analysis, but I adore Pablo Neruda so I figure I needed to at least post this poem and share it with my fellow Lit students.

This was the Poetry Foundation's Poem of the Day for Tuesday, September 23rd.

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

BY PABLO NERUDA

I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,   

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:   

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries   

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,   

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose   

from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,   

I love you directly without problems or pride:

I love you like this because I don't know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,   

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,   

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

The Hug by Thom Gunn: Poetry Analysis

This was the poem of the day for September 16th. Today's chosen poem was extremely long and overwhelming, so I decided not to tackle that for now. I apologize for not being as on top of these analyses as I would like.

The Hug

By Thom Gunn

It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined

    Half of the night with our old friend

        Who'd showed us in the end

    To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.

        Already I lay snug,

And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,

        Suddenly, from behind,

In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:

         Your instep to my heel,

     My shoulder-blades against your chest.

     It was not sex, but I could feel

     The whole strength of your body set,

             Or braced, to mine,

         And locking me to you

     As if we were still twenty-two

     When our grand passion had not yet

         Become familial.

     My quick sleep had deleted all

     Of intervening time and place.

         I only knew

The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.

--

Same poem with annotations and brief analysis:

The Hug

By Thom Gunn

It was your birthday type of gathering that should evoke warmth and contentment, we had drunk and dined a more intimate detail

    Half of the night with our old friend

        Who'd showed us in the end

    To a bed I reached in one drunk highlights the vulnerability of the narrator stride.

        Already I lay snug,

And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug, hugs don't usually break things

        Suddenly, from behind,

In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed: syntax variation to muddy train of thought

         Your instep to my heel,

     My shoulder-blades against your chest.

     It was not sex, but I could feel

     The whole strength of your body set,

             Or braced, to mine,

         And locking me to you essentially what a hug does, temporarily at least

     As if we were still twenty-two

     When our grand passion had not yet

         Become familial. key clue as to whom Gunn is writing this poem for

     My quick sleep had deleted all

     Of intervening time and place.

         I only knew

The stay of your secure firm dry not burning with passion? embrace.

The Hug is a intimate poem that I hypothesize to be something the poet Thom Gunn wrote for his wife. It is short and insightful, with a hint of nostalgia, as evidenced by the line "As if we were still twenty-two / When our grand passion had not yet / Become familial." It highlights the obvious intimacy between Gunn and his wife - they get drunk together and sleep together, yet is not explicit in any way.

Now it is fall by Edith Sodergran: Poetry Analysis

Note: This is not part of my official AP blog portfolio; it's simply an attempt to stay on top of my goals. Fellow students, feel free to comment, add to, or disagree with my analysis. 

Now it is fall
By Edith Sodergran

Translated from the Swedish by Averill Curdy

when all the golden birds

fly home across the blue deep water;

On shore I sit rapt in its scattering

                                                       glitter;

departure rustles through the trees.

This farewell is vast and separation draws close,

but reunion, that also is certain.

My head on my arm I fall asleep easily.

On my eyes a mother’s breath,

from her mouth to my heart:

sleep, child, and dream now the sun is gone.—

--

Same poem, now with my annotations and analysis: 

Now it is fall

By Edith Sodergran

Translated from the Swedish by Averill Curdy

when all the golden this particular adjective is fabulous - evokes the beauty and richness of summer birds

fly home across the blue deep maybe would have been smoother if flipped...maybe kept this way to stay true to the translation? water;

On shore I sit rapt in its scattering

                                                       glitter;

departure rustles lovely personification through the trees.

This farewell is vast and separation draws close nostalgia, sadness from having to be apart,

but reunion, that also is certain. Immediate reassurance, contrast b/t the imminent farewell and the eventual reunion

My head on my arm I fall asleep easily.

On my eyes a mother’s breath,

from her mouth to my heart:

sleep, child, and dream now the sun is gone.hinting that the childlike innocence of summer? —

Now it is fall painted a nostalgic farewell to summer, not elegiac exactly (elegiac as in mournful, not as in the poetic term), but certainly with woeful undertones. The poem is short, and it was difficult for me to find the complexity in the two stanzas. I felt as if Sodergran hinted as the inevitability of maturation through the end of summer, but that's as far as I could reasonably conclude from the poem. Fellow AP Lit students, feel free to comment on your own feelings about the poem! :)

September Beckons

Note: This is not part of my official AP blog portfolio.

I've been a devoted subscriber to the Poetry Foundation for years. Today I went on their website in search of a poem to analyze (because there's some copyright issues with today's Poem of the Day) and instead stumbled upon a multitude of great poems.

Poetry Foundation author Becca Klaver compiled some poems regarding labor and the end of the summer, because surprise, today's Labor Day. You can view them here. Klaver describes Labor Day as not only a festival for workers but also as a farewell to summer (though this 80 degree weather makes me feel like summer's going to try to linger for a while longer). The leaves will turn crimson and gold soon, and the temperature will (hopefully) drop, and I can finally start wearing boots and sweaters without feeling out of place. I'm pretty excited about once more bearing witness to the beauty of fall. But for us AP students, the end of summer also signals the beginning of hell significant amounts of homework. Let the Physics-Lit-Calc-and-more bloodbath begin!

Anyhow, I particularly enjoyed cruel, cruel summer by D.A. Powell and Lake Echo, Dear by C.D. Wright (anyone else find it amusing that both poets shortened their names? Maybe I should write as A.P. Yan) from Klaver's list, but I wasn't satisfied with the measly sampling she offered. A deeper perusal of poetry about "fall" led me to two more poems that I immediately loved! They are End of Summer by Stanley Kunitz and Now it is fall by Edith Södergran. In my next non-portfolio post, I will try my  hand at analyzing Now it is fall. This poem was originally written in Swedish, and I was particularly impressed by the fact that, even when passed through the obscuring force of another language, the words are still so poignant.

Enough of my blabbing. Happy September, everyone and may the odds be ever in your favor!

Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney: Poetry Analysis

Note: This is not part of my official AP blog portfolio; it's simply an attempt to stay on top of my goals. Fellow students, feel free to comment, add to, or disagree with my analysis. This poem was the Poetry Foundation's Poem of the Day for Thursday, August 28th.

Blackberry-Picking
By Seamus Heaney

for Philip Hobsbaum

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

--

Same poem, now with my annotations and analysis:

Blackberry-Picking
By Seamus Heaney

for Philip Hobsbaum

Late August time reference, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened lush, sensuous word choice wine: summer's blood visceral was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for cleverly used enjambment 
Picking. Then red evokes passion and love and sensuality ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. blueberry-picking is hard work

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The blackberries were ruined
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. stark imagery
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. deeper meaning/message?
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. Hope is futile

Enough by Katie Peterson: Poetry Analysis

Note: This is not part of my official AP blog portfolio; it's simply an attempt to stay on top of my goals. Fellow students, feel free to comment, add to, or disagree with my analysis. This poem was the Poetry Foundation's Poem of the Day for Friday, August 22nd.

Enough by Katie Peterson

So many forget-me-nots, with their white centers,     1

scattered, you'd say, if there weren't

so many everywhere, as many as the stars

last night in between the branches

above the porch, behind the house.     5

Was it an argument or were there just

things they had to say?

I could have faith in so many creatures—

the old setter from the neighbor yard

who follows me around the corner     10

and no longer, the chick with its new beak

just past breakable whose lighter top feathers

have a bit of flight, any mother bear—

you say things and the next day

it's like they don't matter, we want our faces     15

to alter though we don't want to get older, neither

do we want to get younger, repetition

with less knowledge is ridiculous,

just ask the Greeks, you get to keep

being a tree but without the branch     20

that showed the sky your starlike shape?

I don't think so. Steadiness can be useful,

but my loyalty loves a form

that will follow me through changes.

At a diagonal the dark woods     25

on the back slope have enough space

to walk between, not enough to hide.

He looks into them

and writes notes to his mother, she

looks into them and finds alignment,     30

or looks for what she wants.

She has a human skeleton on her desk.

He has a protractor. I had wishes

for both of them yesterday

but the weather has become so kindly,     35

so temperate, I forget what blessings

they don't think they have.

Line 1: Forget-me-nots - flower imagery; white as a color of innocence
Line 2-3: Beauty is scattered
Line 12-13: Fragility of youth, beauty
Line 15-17: Presents paradox in human wanting
Line 17-18: Alliteration - repetition is...ridiculous
Line 20: Tree conveys strength, steadiness
Line 25: Woods - archetypal mysterious and dark setting
Line 32-33: Death vs curiosity or just simple anatomy vs mathematics?

Overall: I'm not a big fan of freestyle poetry (not sure if there's a name for this specific type of poem), and I suppose this one wasn't much different. I pulled what I could. Peterson used enjambment repeatedly, making her writing a little stilted - not to my taste, really. Her metaphors were a bit scattered, and I couldn't find a big overarching metaphor (though if someone else has spotted it, please speak up and help me out!) I did think her symbolism (especially using flowers and woods to set the 'atmosphere' of the poem) was subtle and well-executed.

So poetry analysis is definitely still an issue for me. I can't find the quality in poetry that is supposed to be top-notch. I'll try my hand at some Shakespeare later -- guess I can't become adroit at this overnight!