19th_century_rox_my_sox

= Topic- poetry =

Example 1 “Difference of Color,” from //Parley’s Magazine,// 1834

GOD gave to Afric’s sons, A brow of sable dye,— And spread the country of their birth Beneath a burning sky,— And that a cheek of olive, made The little Hindoo child, And darkly stained the forest tribes That roam our western wild.

To me, he gave a form Of rather whiter clay,— But am I therefore, in his sight, Respected more than they? No!—’T is the hue of deeds and thoughts He traces in his Book,— ’T is the //complexion of the heart,//

On which he deigns to look.

Not by the tinted cheek, That fades away so fast, But by the //color of the soul,//

We shall be judged at last. The righteous Judge, will look at me With sorrow in His eyes, If I, my brother’s darker brow Should ever dare despise.

Example 2 “The Envious Lobster, A Fable by Miss Gould,” in //Parley’s Magazine,// 1834

A lobster from the water came, And saw another, just the same In form and size, but gaily clad In scarlet clothing, while she had No other raiment* to her back, Than her old suit of greenish black.

“So ho !” she cried, “ ’t is very fine! Your dress was yesterday, like mine, And in the mud, below the sea, You lived, a crawling thing, like me. But now, because you’ve come ashore You’ve grown so proud, that what you wore, Your strong old suit of bottle-green You think improper to be seen! To tell the truth, I don’t see why You should be better dressed than I ; and I should like a suit of red As bright as yours, from feet to head. I think I’m quite as good as you; And I’ll be dressed in scarlet, too!”

“Will you be boiled,” the owner said, “To be arrayed in glowing red? Come here, my discontented Miss, And hear the scalding kettle hiss! Will you go in, and there be boiled To have your dress so old and soiled, Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”

“Yes!” cried the lobster, “that I’ll do, And thrice as much, if needs must be To be as gaily clad as she!” Then, in she made a fatal dive And never more was seen alive. Now, those who learn the lobster’s fate, Will see how envy could create A vain desire within her breast, And pride of dress could do the rest, That brought her to an early death: ’T was love of show that cost her breath.

Example 3 searching out some kind of cancer , and the best that I can do is wonder just exactly what you'd say about it.
 * Questions for My Grandfather ||
 * The snow settled on the old pine trees like an x-ray ,
 * The snow settled on the old pine trees like an x-ray ,

I was seven--almost eight, bouncing on a knee, and if I'd known anything of war not played with flimsy, dull-edged cards around an old extendable kitchen table every two Sundays, I might have asked.

I'll bet it changes people, war, I mean. Lead-tipped and trigger-operated death, strafing all those mothers' sons, mortars like small-town fireworks, and everything I've read about.

It's cold here, and my footprints explode into this inch or two, and then disappear, lost with each gust of wind. And if I could, I'd ask how a kid no older than me can get sent to hell and live to talk about it. || Example 4 given by the wise and weary father of my dear and brilliant wife. A Buick, fully loaded, clean and sleek, driven with the care befitting wisdom that comes only with a long and prudent life. But, agonized and wild with crazy longing, I am <span style="color: rgb(205, 73, 243);">magnetized to bluesy possibility, a journey through the land of Robert Johnson, through the Delta fraught with ghosts of heroes black whose nimble hands would stray upon their instruments to thrill the souls of those listening carefully. How their voices told the story of their sadness, so human with the mix of joy and pain that is the common thread of our condition, with love and loss the yarn within the skein. Now I wish to don that heavy garment and take with me my dead young son's<span style="color: rgb(207, 132, 219);"> guitars, and the memory of my older son's deep torment, his music now at play among the stars. How I long to go alone on a blues odyssey in this <span style="color: rgb(176, 17, 232);">Buick Bluesmobile to play. ||
 * Jason Eric Colberg ||
 * Jason Eric Colberg ||
 * || <span style="color: rgb(192, 42, 207);">Buick Bluesmobile Odyssey and Scherzo ||
 * In autumnal Gainesville rests a gift for me
 * In autumnal Gainesville rests a gift for me
 * Oscar Moses Pelta || ||
 * Oscar Moses Pelta || ||

Compare and contrast: The word 'it' is not used in 19th century poetry, it is replaced 't. The language is obviously much different, 'so ho!' isn't called much anymore. And the term 'gay' is used in it's original context, meaning happiness, not homosexuality. 'Thrice' is said instead of three times, and I is used where a modern poet would say me. Also, in the above modern poetry, it's obvious that the multiple technological advancements affects the writing, there were no cars, x-rays, magnets, guitars (maybe but not as popular and probably differently shaped) or cancer. In the first modern poem, they speak of playing cards on Sunday. In the 19th century, the sabbath was crucial, used for praying and reading the bible, non-practicing or atheist being un-heard of. People spoke more precisely, properly in the 19th century then in some modern poetry. Of course 21st century poetry is a little looser, and speak of technological advances that didn't exist in the 19th century. They also don't take religion as seriously now as they did back then.