More Memes

(meme is from The Black Cat)

Another meme that made me laugh.  The real lyrics to Queen's megawatt hit, Bohemian Rhapsody, include the words,

"I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy, from a poor family."


I'm a fan of Poe.  I'm also a fan of Queen.
And even though the meme is a joke, there are some connections between Poe and Mercury.

Both Edgar Allen Poe and Freddie Mercury (the lead singer of Queen) were creative men whose lives were ended too young.  Freddie Mercury died of complications with AIDS,  while Poe's death seems to still be fodder for urban legends... no one is really sure what caused his death.

Despite these two artists being about a century and a half apart, Mercury found inspiration in the dark writer's poetry.  Consider this song, from Queen's second album... (video link here)

Nevermore

There's no living in my life anymore
The seas have gone dry and the rain stopped falling
Please don't you cry anymore
Can't you see
Listen to the breeze, whisper to me please
Don't send me to the path of nevermore

Even the valleys below
Where the rays of the sun were so warn and tender
Now haven't anything to grow
Can't you see
Why did you have to leave me
Why did you deceive me
You send me to the path of nevermore
When you say you didn't love me anymore
Nevermore
Nevermore

 

 

 



The Memes Start in Here.

My friends have been posting this picture on Facebook ad nauseam all semester. It's been a winter of particularly cruel proportions, and equally bad jokes... but this one keeps making me laugh.

Tonight, it finally occurred to me that we might be reading John Steinbeck (the guy whose book title, stolen from Shakespeare, is depicted in this meme) this semester, so I went to check it out... yes!  Weeks twelve and thirteen. Woot!

Maybe I should've saved this picture for then, but today I'm thinking of the ridiculously blinding freak snowstorm I had to drive through, and by weeks twelve and thirteen of this semester, I'm demanding some sunshine. Some sunshine that hints of glorious summer by this sun!  *wink*

Have I mentioned (in the list of modern computer based communication forms this blog is supposed to be about) how much I LOVE memes? 

I post memes in most of the discussion boards in most of my classes.  You know... because they are there.  If there's anything we learned from the minimalist poems of the last pod, it's that sometimes a few well-placed words are more powerful than a plethora of phrases.

...and there's no way I would've waited all the way to Brit Lit in some future semester to post Richard III memes!

Clementine mandarins. Yum.

So... I'm trying NOT to hog all the extra credit points available in the picture banners on Blackboard.  It's a little difficult, being the overachiever that I am.  Instead, I am passive-aggressively tweeting about the current picture posted, hoping someone will snag the points so I will be able to rest because the task will be complete.

I love this poem by the mystery author...This is just to say...

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.8tLzPdWM.dpuf

I always wonder... he says he was sorry, but was he?  He ate more than one.  He even thought about how they were part of someone else's plans.  Maybe he's the guy at work who ignores the names on the lunches in the fridge and just gets into everyone's food anyway. 

I want to call him a jerk, and move on.

But... as I read... I can't help but think that he's saying... "Life is so sweet, life is so cold...forgive me, but I'm grabbing life where I need to grab it..."

Then I want to forgive him, even though he left me hungry.

In my house, it would be about mandarin oranges. 

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.8tLzPdWM.dpuf

By Design

The first time I went to college, a few centuries ago, I was an Oral Interpretation minor.  I'm not sure people even still say, "oral interpretation."  It sort of sounds like the kind of thing that would lead to a sexual harassment complaint being lodged against you. LOL

I'm thankful for that time in my life, as it led me to a better understanding of language and syntax and nuance and just how perfectly crafted words could be.  Up to that point in my life, I'd never had a shortage of words, but I do think I spent a lot of time as a "resounding gong"... making lots of noise, but not really saying anything.

It was in the first Oral Interpretation class that I first read this Robert Frost poem:

Design
(borrowed from Poem Hunter, link)

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth --
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth --
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.   

The whole poem is a "wait, what?" kind of moment.  A white heal-all?  No way!  That flowers is supposed to be bluish-purple!   And a white spider? How peculiar!  And the white spider, on the white flower, has captured a white moth? 

Perhaps you can see the religious imagery with me here.  It's a lot like the white imagery we read in The Storm by Kate Chopin.  Surrounded by so much purity (white sheets, white clothes, white walls), there was a story of adultery.   In Frost's poem, the white trio included a gruesome picture of death, the spider eating the moth.  There's an element of irony as well, in that the moth is dying on a flower known for its medicinal properties of healing!

Frost concludes that God's fingertips miss nothing.  That the timing is perfect for the spider to be fed, that the flower was perfect for hiding the spider, and that the moth was a perfectly color-coordinated dinner for one reason: it was all done by a Designer.

Now I think about this poem when I see the tiniest flecks of bright green in a fly or the texture of the daffodils, right now in my backyard.  There's no place where someone forgot to paint the roses red or to finish sketching out the plan.  In everything in nature, there is a perfect salute to Design.







 

We Real Cool.

Due to the awesomeness of my American Literature instructor, I was made aware of this awesome recording of Gwendolyn Brooks, talking about her most famous poem, We Real Cool (click here to listen).

Here's the poem. I love the suggested cadence by its unusual breaks in the middle of sentences...

We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Pool Players.
        Seven at the Golden Shovel.

            We real cool. We   

            Left school. We

            Lurk late. We

            Strike straight. We

            Sing sin. We   

            Thin gin. We

            Jazz June. We   

            Die soon.

Borrowed from The Poetry Foundation

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433#sthash.ZRy5XCWL.dpuf

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433#sthash.ZRy5XCWL.dpuf

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433#sthash.ZRy5XCWL.dpuf

 A few observations...
1) Gwendolyn Brooks, herself, is pretty darn cool.  I love this picture of her smile, and looking at the You Tube link while listening to her talk about her poem.
2) Don't we all wish there were more adults working with teenagers who tried to think what they were thinking, instead of trying to pound the quadratic equation or a list of the steps of mitosis into their heads?
3) I love that she clarifies the misunderstanding about "jazz."  I wouldn't have guessed it was sexual, but I love that she just wants people to take it however they see it. 
4) Of course everyone loves June.  You can send me presents on the 28th.


 Isn't technology terrific?  I love that we have this recording preserved.  If only we could interview other famous writers, and ask them questions about their writings...

Mr. Shakespeare, how do you feel about the accusations of whoring and plagiarism?

Ambrose Sighting!

I couldn't believe it when I saw Ambrose Bierce today... on Facebook, of all places!  It's not that I found him posting pictures of his lunch or scolding his nieces for too much duckface or anything. But you have got to love it when your personal life and your American Literature class collide, right?

My friend is a radio personality for Moody radio ( My son is a student at Moody Bible Institute, and now I listen to her more than ever!).  I laughed out loud when I saw this on her Facebook wall this morning...

Ambrose Bierce was a 19th century Greg Gutfeld, publicly criticizing businessmen and politicians in the politically correct cloak of sarcasm and cleverness.  I wonder if he drew this conclusion after seeing many an angry rant from those powerful men.  Or perhaps it is a sobering lesson he learned from losing his own temper.

I find it ironic that the publisher of The Devil's Dictionary columns is now being quoted by a Christian radio station.  I suppose God can use anyone to communicate His message. *wink* 

New Tweet

Okay, American Literature peeps...
 
Which short story in our reading list does this tweet come from?
 

 
Yes. I'm being that obvious. LOL

Shallow Cranes

Most of my Stephen Cranes on Twitter are about as deep as The Youth...

*Sigh*
Oh, Henry... Youth is truly wasted on the young. #firstworldproblems

Pensive Pink

This semester, we read The Yellow Wallpaper by American writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman, about a woman's descent into madness at the hand of her doctor-husband's ridiculous "rest cure." 

I began to wonder... under what circumstances could the tables be reversed?  When could a man be stuck in one place for a long time, pondering his wife?

I briefly thought about the Stephen King classic, Misery.  I think Charlotte Perkins Gilmore would like it!  It's definitely an example of a man being trapped in a room, and some creepy mental disorders!  I'm not much for creepy writing, though.  I am in a creative writing class this semester, so I don't just want to write... I also feel compelled... in a good way.  (Little disclaimer: this homework will appear in both classes.  Sorry if you're in my other class and have to read it twice!).  I like that I'm surrounding myself with great literature while I'm also working on my writing technique.

I liked pondering The Yellow Wallpaper, but I wanted to write something a little more lighthearted.  In my weird mind, prostate cancer isn't more lighthearted than mental illness, but I hope that you still find some humor in this.

So, trying to move away from the creepy wallpaper, and transcending gender lines without descending into foot-chopping-madness... I give you...

Pensive Pink.

I can’t believe I let my wife paint the bathroom pink.  Before I retired, I was never here, so I didn’t care.  She seemed happy to spend plenty of money on whatever it was she wanted the house to look like, and she was the one here, in here all the time with that whole little city of bottles all over the counter, so who cared, right? 
Now I’m here all the time, and I notice stuff.  Like a Raggedy Ann doll on a shelf.  What’s the point of that?  Was it the kid's toy, or just something she would think was pretty?    

And why this pink?  Why not Pepto Bismol pink or baby shower pink or thirteen year old daughter's ridiculous looking "But Daddy all my friends are wearing it" hot pink lipstick pink? 

And how long did she shop to make sure the pink of the candle matched the pink of the walls?  Which one did she buy first?  And why should a bathroom smell like roses anyway?  Is it to match this picture?  And let me just say, a man would never put a picture over the toilet, let alone a picture of some big ol’ field of flowers.  Am I supposed to feel like I’m peeing in the field? Or did she just never think about the fact that I have to stand up in here?  

Now I have time to think about all this stuff she did, and even more time to stand here thinking about it because it takes longer to finish.  I end up trying to talk the pee out, like the words I say are going to make the stream flow freely.  I don’t want to talk to my prostate, I want to talk to my wife.  

It’s too late now.   If I could talk to twenty year old me, I would say, “Take better care of your body, because some day you won’t take peeing for granted.  And while you’re at it, don’t take your wife for granted either,  because for some reason you still won’t understand, you’ll really, truly, want to understand why the bathroom is pink.”

Life's Big Questions are Answered by Classic American Poetry. Srsly.

Some existential questions in life cause stress.

Who am I?
Where am I going?
What should I do with my life?

And now this list is being expanded by questions I see spammed all over Facebook and Twitter.
I couldn't resist this one...

Oh, no!  I had no idea that in addition to being married for over twenty years, I also needed a LITERARY soulmate.  I can't possibly be alone in this revelation, as clearly over 1.6 million other people also felt the moral imperative to take this test!

So somehow pictures of houses (I picked on with a yard), random favorite movies (Being John Malkovich, anyone?) and sharing what I do with my weekends (nap should've been an option. Or cram in homework before midnight deadlines.) leads me to the all important answer...


YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. (Make Success Kid face and gesture.)

I love me some Langston Hughes.  I would even say that I sparkly, puffy heart Langston Hughes.  This is the first Hughes poem I'd ever read, and it's still my favorite because the imagery is so deliciously perfect...

                                                     A Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?                                                                                          ~Langston Hughes

See what I mean?  Each line uses a scant few words to paint a picture, and it rhymes without being sing-songy-saccharinly-sweet.  Sometimes I do financial counseling with people, and the word "deferred" (deferred payments, deferred interest...) always makes me think of this poem.  Every single time.

Me 'n' Langston... I'm feelin' this poem. And, you know, we also have all these things in common...

 

Eating, sleeping, drinking, being in love...
This is how to live, peeps.  The Langston way, baby.