Discuss the process of self-discovery in poetry .... there's a wide open essay question, eh?
I actually have specific poets to address (Frost & Yeats).... but my first step, I think, is trying to figure out what sorts of things might be seen as reflective of a poet's 'self-discovery' in a poem.
The use of "I", of course, means little, since we already know that the "I" of a poem is not necessarily the poet, but rather, we are to refer always to the narrator rather than the poet.
"You" is somewhat more helpful - as the narrator is presumably offering the benefit of what s/he has discovered...?
Of the selection of poetry included in the syllabus for the course (although not necessarily actually covered, as per usual with this prof we are weeks behind) ... Frost's almost all refer to trees/woods - and of course, paths .... Yeat's most oft recurring image is that of a gyre, which is a circle or spiral.... (Frost is going somewhere, Yeats is spinning in ciricles? LOL)
Given that the paper is only to be 6 - 8 pages long, I'm thinking that I shall need to limit it some way .... perhaps by focusing on these two poets' use of .....
Anyway ...any thoughts re: how poetry relects "the process of self-discovery" would definitely be helpful/interesting, iffen you have any :)
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Might focus on that one and just make reference to some others
Both of them have some info and lots of links in Wikipedia if you're interested.... Robert Frost
W.B.Yeats
Start with your personal response to the poems. I like the really short Frost poems best, not the long narrative ones--they are not all about trees or rocks. What images and motifs call forth a reaction from you? How do you feel about the rural countryside? CAn we understand the perspective of people from 50 to 150 eyars ago, even if they are "modern"?
Decide if this is your self-discovery or that of the poets. You can't create a meaning for yourself without expressing your own world view. Exploring how to read their work will lead to your own self-discovery, whether you write about that specifically. REading a poem is a participatory activity, not passive. You bring as much tot he poem as the poet did.
Do their early poems have the same motifs and structure as the later ones, if you are looking at Frosts and Yeats's self-discovery?
To the extent that you want to focus on them rather than yoruself, how do their poems change as their life circumstances changed? How can you compare and contrast the two? Does Yeats write differently than Fronst about rocks and trees?
If you see lines and circles, find a number of poems that are similar in subject or form or ???? and show how the structure that you see has to do with how you read the poem. Is Frost more direct, or Yeats more closed? Is Frost masculine-linear and Yeats feminine-circular?
If this is a research paper. remember that 20% (at least a page and a half) of the material can be from your secondary source materials--the other writng of the poets, biography, critical essays.
but... can't use outside references with this particular prof... he doesn't like it ...and since that is so, really can't use much biographical info either, as I would have to source that
and I know that not all of Frost's poems feature trees - I've read plenty both online and from our text .... but the poems this particular prof gave us in the syllabus DO - and since this particular prof is ~god~ one does better to stick with what he has given us ...sad but true
Definitely a theme in his choices
Fire & Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
got to go drive hubby to work; I brought his computer home to do a back up (and try to make it smarten up and work better) ... got to take it back and set him up again
Who cares if something is on the syllabus if it is by the appropriate author and fits into your thesis? It shows you did your research.
I love "Birches" btw...
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.
I like it.... do the links I made not work for you, denise? they work for me!
gotta go... hubby's calling
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, "Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper" (1913)
http://www.library.csi.cuny.edu/dept/history/lavender/whyyw.html
With love, Robert Frost :)
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
hi again Jodi... you still here?
Simple is good for me these days. Just tell me what you're actually trying to say, because my head hurts too badly to decipher any metaphors right now... *sigh*
he is a published poet himself too.... perhaps I should use one o' his ;)
Use frost for snowy... and road not taken. I think they talk alot about self discovery and I like the poem not on the list about aging.
Have not read Yeats, but look forward to reading him with some suggestions from you.
Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
all I was going to say is Frost is a wee bit like me....always taking the trail less traveled and wandering around woods.
sharing the light,
The process differs from person to person; people tend to be their own worst critic. One key is to move beyond one's ego and just write. Another key is to set aside quality time to write - being creative is somewhat fickle, so you need to figure out what works for you. For me, I tend to only write when I'm alone and free of human interaction. Silence allows me to find my inner voice - your results may vary. *<| ;-)