Thursday, February 9, 2012


by : Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

My Very Own Response : Forgetfulness reminds me of the flaws us humans have. It reminds me that we are not so far from animals. It really shouldn't be a surprise when i say that us humans think ourselves way grander then any other living thing and also in some cases this is not true. What i am trying to so say is that we forget so much that some time it is just in our nature. We cannot control it as it all slips from our tongue and goes off into a fishing town like Collins mentions. This poem shows us many vivid images that really helps us get the grasp of what Collins says. 

Nick and the Candlestick

by : Sylvia Plath

I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish -
Christ! they are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,
With soft rugs -

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.

My Very Own Responce : This poem shows love by describing uglyness. Plath does something with her poems that either hits you softly on the hand or shatters your nose. The sence forcung your mind to think of the worst things while translating it into something utterliy beautiful like love. She talks of pure love. The uglyness that love is but that is so dersirable. The poem itself is so crazy and cannot be shun in anyway. It probs your mind unexplainable with no pardons and none are needed for the balence of beauty and crazyness.