How do we know?
By:Caitlyn Vasquez
Fake hair
Transparent smile
Perky personality
Long chuckle
Mellow silence
How do we know?
Sitting on a scream
Whispering her troubles
Talking sweetly
Seeing everything colorless
and lopsided
devoured by corruption
and trouble.
How do we know?
They need to talk
They need to yell
but they lack courage
or even a heart.
They express their pain
in obnoxious ways,
waiting for someone to say
"are you okay?"
But they don't answer,
sitting on the muffled screams.
But how do we know?
Finally when it's too late,
we care too late,
We notice what we've done,
but can't take anything back.
We now sit on muffled screams,
but how do they know?
Monday, February 20, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Innocence
Innocence
By: Caitlyn Vasquez
Who knew back then what we would do now.
Who knew that the young would be the old,
and that the old would be the young.
We are all in some smothering dream you too could pace
Our innocent past has floated away down a mythological river
whose name begins with a L as far as you can recall.
The loniness overwhlems us,
so we sing sin,
and I all alone beweep my outcast state.
Poetry used to be a santuary,
something people could relate too,
but now all they want too do is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
Our grandparents or forefathers probably look at us and say,
you don't think I suffer after I held my pain so long?
When we sing sin, everything anyone ever built for us in the past
is wasted down a sea of thoughts.
But what can they do?
There's no more to build on there. Who knew that the young would be the old,
and that the old would be the young.
The young die faster than the old.
So they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Our past is our father, and you, my father, there in the sad height,
curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
By: Caitlyn Vasquez
Who knew back then what we would do now.
Who knew that the young would be the old,
and that the old would be the young.
We are all in some smothering dream you too could pace
Our innocent past has floated away down a mythological river
whose name begins with a L as far as you can recall.
The loniness overwhlems us,
so we sing sin,
and I all alone beweep my outcast state.
Poetry used to be a santuary,
something people could relate too,
but now all they want too do is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
Our grandparents or forefathers probably look at us and say,
you don't think I suffer after I held my pain so long?
When we sing sin, everything anyone ever built for us in the past
is wasted down a sea of thoughts.
But what can they do?
There's no more to build on there. Who knew that the young would be the old,
and that the old would be the young.
The young die faster than the old.
So they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Our past is our father, and you, my father, there in the sad height,
curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Sonnet 29
SONNET 29
By: Shakespeare
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
"I all alone beweep my outcast state." I feel like I can relate this to most people. How people like to only take care of themselves and be independent. Even when they need help they rather do it alone, and say they got out of their bad state alone.
Out, Out--
‘Out, Out—’
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all was spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
"And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs." Most people would say that the last line sums up the whole poem, but I don't think it is. I think it's just the beginningofa new life for the people described in the poem. The boy died and they would have to continue their lives as if nothing happened; it will be a new experience for them. Death is an obstacle that people have and need to overcome. But in the poem it seems harsher because of all the images Robert Frost provides. He makes it seem as if no one really cared, but in reality it was all their fault that the boy died. "Doing a man's work, though a boy at heart," makes any reader see how hard they overworked their young boy. If they had let the boy be a boy it would have all been avoided.
"And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs." Most people would say that the last line sums up the whole poem, but I don't think it is. I think it's just the beginningofa new life for the people described in the poem. The boy died and they would have to continue their lives as if nothing happened; it will be a new experience for them. Death is an obstacle that people have and need to overcome. But in the poem it seems harsher because of all the images Robert Frost provides. He makes it seem as if no one really cared, but in reality it was all their fault that the boy died. "Doing a man's work, though a boy at heart," makes any reader see how hard they overworked their young boy. If they had let the boy be a boy it would have all been avoided.
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