Hamlet_Entry 1_Week 5

Shakespeare, unquestionably, was a man with a mind of pure imagination. His legacy has lived on for centuries due to his numerous plays as well as sonnets, all of which contain both denotative and connotative implications which have fascinated generation after generation. People have interpreted his writing in several different manners that have all resulted in several different conclusions.

One of his many plays, Hamlet, certainly boasts of his ability to write about such scandalous and such dishonorable characters that seem to intrigue audiences to no end. The main character, Prince Hamlet, was made to believe that his father had died of what the kingdom was told to be of natural causes. His uncle, Claudius, does not hesitate to marry Hamlet’s recently widowed mother, Gertrude, and proclaims himself to be the new king of Denmark. The black veils worn at the recently deceased king’s funeral had been quickly replaced with the white veil worn over Gertrude’s face at her wedding. Her son despises the sudden act of incest, and soon mixes his feelings of hate with that of revenge towards his uncle after the ghost of the late king himself informs Hamlet of his father’s purposeful death by Claudius.

Many people are taken aback by the events that take place in the first fifty pages of the play. Sure- the story is great. The characters are horrendous. And the plot is brilliant. But what can one learn from such a tale as this? One can certainly take away the obvious things, such as: Murdering a relative can often lead to the downfall of a family. Incest is kind of gross and something that no one wants to think about. Ghosts, especially one that originally was your father, are not the most pleasant of surprise visits.

Shakespeare did not write Hamlet simply to point out the obvious “do’s” and “don’ts” of life. It is more than a story and less of a realistic account. Perhaps one can discover what Shakespeare really wrote and intended for his audiences to understand, but only at the end of the script.

“The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.” 

7_Entry 2_Week 4

It has now been officially the first seven weeks of my last year in high school. 

Well this is trippy.

I am not sure how to react to this... but then again I have had many emotions already from the time school has begun. For example, I literally had a mental breakdown the moment that I walked into school this morning. I had gone to a wedding over the weekend, and I had barely gotten enough sleep to keep myself sane and awake. I had also attended a youth group celebration party which included bowling and racing go- carts around the track at Wild Island, and still thought that I was capable of going to school the following morning.

I was very wrong.

The fact that my dad had to go to the emergency room on Saturday due to stomach pains and difficiculty breathing pushed me over the edge into an abyss of "I can't take it anymore I just want to sleep in bed all day and forget about everyone and everything and pig out on left- over hamburgers and toast and ice cream".

So that is exactly what I did.

At first I felt bad about having my mom drive me all the way back home from school... but then again, I realized that maybe it was God's way of saying STOP. Take a minute and breathe. Just rest. It's ok- one day will not kill you.

I have been told many times before that senior year will have many ups and downs and will be beyond stressful. Funny thing is, I am taking the easiest and most laziest classes possible (besides AP English). I also have early out, which means I have only six classes this year instead of eight.

But this year has already been beyond crazy and terrifying and stressful and questioning. And this is my "lazy" year. Literally.

Welcome to growing up... 

A Shakespeare Sonnet_Entry 1_Week 4

Poems. We all know what they are... or at least we think we do. Poems are commonly known to end in words that rhyme with the word at the end of the following sentence. Some poems follow that "rule", whereas others do not.

But what about a sonnet? Not many people have heard one or even know what one is. A sonnet is a poem with fourteen lines and every syllable of every word has an unstressed to a stressed pattern. For example:

(Shall I) (compare) (thee to) (a sum)mer’s day?

Each bolded letter represents a stressed syllable, whereas the regular letters represent an unstressed syllable. Shakespeare uses such a pattern throughout each of his sonnets, as well as a pattern for each line: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. The pattern represents every other line rhyming with the other. For example:

“When my love swears that she is made of truth”

(A) When my love swears that she is made of truth,

(B) I do believe her, though I know she lies,

(A) That she might think me some untutored youth,

(B) Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

(C) Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

(D) Although she knows my days are past the best,

(C) Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;

(D) On both sides thus is simple truth supprest.

(E) But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

(F) And wherefore say not I that I am old?

(E) Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,

(F) And age in love loves not to have years told:

(G) Therefore I lie with her and she with me,

(G) And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

            -William Shakespeare

Shakespeare did not write sonnets solely for entertainment- he wrote them to make people think about what he implying through his words. He does more than rhyme and create a “beat” for readers. He gives them an idea, a concept, a notion- something for them to meditate upon.

The Door: Part 2_Entry 2_Week 3

Between the floorboards on the ground and the white washed ceiling above

A door stands undisturbed between two boards, creating a complete wall

A shelter of protection from the universe breathing... waiting... knocking upon the door

The stars coruscate as the moon rises to its supreme position in the night sky

Forcing the sun to gracefully bow down from its post in the heavens

That door is the border line between existence and oblivion

The punch of reality and the soft whisper of delusion

Screams are suppressed and laughter is just a hollow echo

The devil is able to claw his way across the flesh

Yet no indication of his actions can be detected

Angels are locked outside to sit and wait to hear for the click of a key

The turn of a lock

And to wonder if the face they see to peer out that doorway

To be one of hope, or one of dismay

No one will know and no one will see

What is poisoning the souls of the innocent

What is slowly eating away the purity of the good

What is putting out the light from the candle wick

Unless one lifts the veil of shadows

To reveal the scintillate sunlight

Darling, you will only continue to cry out of choice

No one has coerced you to turn the key to lock the door

Only three things knock upon the beating and fragile door encased between your ribs

Love, mercy, and grace

"Unlock your heart to what it deserves", they whisper in her ear.

She shakes her head and sobs silently

She continues to listen to the magazines and the bill boards and her father

"Take this measuring tape and be sure to take extra care," they shriek.

"Be sure to check not once but twice

Are your thighs suitable for only size 0?

Can you see the pattern of your rib cage pressed up against your flesh?

Is your collar bone broad enough to hold the poison we give you to drink?"

She shakes her head no but thinks she understands.

"No one will love a stupid girl. No one will love an ugly girl," they whisper in her ear.

So she tried.

She really did.

She took the razor and carved every sin onto her skin.

She was sure to fashion a mark every time she ate to remind herself to withhold

Every time her face blinked back from the reflection of the silver mirror

She was sure to scream and to pound her fists into her temple

When she lay in bed at night, and no one cared to kiss away the tears

She was sure to wrap her fingers around the curve of her neck

She refused to let go until the darkness began to cloud her vision

And she was sure that death was within her grasp

And as the golden rays of the sun lay across closed eyelids in the dawn

She was sure to study and to hide the red marks that decorated her neck like holiday lights

Despite dark colors forming a ring round bloodshot eyes

Mother believed it was just a phase

Father thought his little girl had transformed into a monster

Yet no questions were inquired

Only judgment was ensued

When all hope seemed to have exuded down her arms in drops of blood

And the beast had encouraged her time and time again to etch disfigurements onto her hips

One angel could not bear the pain behind that door no more

She broke down the door and threw away the key

She let her cry and scream and confide

She would not let her lock herself away again

Silently she would tell her:

That only three things knocked upon the beating and fragile door encased between her ribs

Love, mercy, and grace

"Unlock your heart to what it deserves", her eyes would tell her.

She saved her.

She saved... me.

What is American Pie?_Entry 1_Week 3

[Chorus]

So bye-bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry

And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye

Singin' "This'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die"

We have all heard those familiar lyrics at least one time or another on the radio in the car or on that one album that your parents keep packed away in that dusty box in the corner. The tune is catchy and the words are easy to sing along to. It is one of those songs that is decades old, yet can still have people humming along to. But how many people actually understand what Don McLean, writer and singer of the song, is actually talking about?

Ever since I first heard the song, I literally thought he was singing about how much he loved pie and America. To say the least, I was simple minded and thought everything that people said or sang or wrote was literally what they meant… I had yet to learn of metaphors, implications, similes, etc.

Our assignment was to look up a song that we do not quite understand and to analyze it like we would a poem. After some research via good old google, I found out that McLean was in fact singing about the downfall of society in the early and late 60s. He sings about the loss of moral values and religion- how people became addicted to drugs as well as the political and social movements that were taking place. The American landscape was radically changing … and McLean’s song only captures a little bit of the historical transition that took place in the 50s and the 60s.

For a more in- depth look at the song, visit the following website:

http://www.whrc-wi.org/americanpie.htm

The Cliché Cylce of Life_Entry 2_Week 2

Birth.

You have just been brought into the world. You have been cleaned. You have been named.

Education.

It is the key to success, to wealth, to happiness. At least that is what every other adult you converse with implies and/ or states explicitly.

School.

It’s required. We have all been attending some sort of school for the past twelve years of our life if we are scheduled to graduate within the upcoming year - whether it was home school, public school, online school, charter school, or private school.

College.

Apply now. Get scholarships. Don't go for student loans because you could find yourself in debt once you have graduated from college. Try to earn a degree so you can have the chance of making a decent living.

Job.

It may be your first, or may be your fifth. Whatever the number may be, you either love it or hate it. You either feel confined or limitless.   

Family.

White picket fence. Clean- shaven husband or primped- out wife. Three or four children who are expected to eventually study at Harvard or Princeton or Stanford. Make mother and father proud. Eventually marry and have children as well.

Death.

There is always an end to every beginning. When someone leaves, another replaces them. People continue on in their bittersweet misery to inhabit the earth to live out the never ending and always cliché cycle of life.

Choose to Repeat Cycle.

Or… fashion and design your own path to follow. Refuse to listen to the thoughts and opinions of others. Listen to what your heart knows to be true.

Don’t let the regular things keep you from achieving the greater things.

Such as, for example, your happiness.

The Story of Replacement_Entry 1_Week 2

"It's an old story- the oldest we have on our planet- the story of replacement."

I sat there, contemplating those three superb lines written by Sharon Olds in her poem "35/10". How odd it must feel to one day behold the beauty of youth, and the next to suddenly behold only lines across one's forehead and age spots on the arm that used to display porcelain skin. What will my reaction be when I awake one day and suddenly realize that I am no longer seventeen, but I am in fact possibly married and possibly have children and grandchildren? Could I handle seeing the gray hairs peeking out from my roots, and could I allow myself to fully depend on a crutch- which is just the beginning signs of my strength being replaced with weakness and years.

The entirety of Olds' poem consists of the mother making physical comparisons to that of her daughter's complexion: "...The fold in my neck clarifying as the fine bones of her hips sharpen... my skin shows its dry pitting, she opens like a moist precise flower on the tip of a cactus..." The mother feels almost as if her daughter has stolen her youth and has replaced it with creases and the unfortunate wisdom of what is happening to her.

"Why is it just as we begin to go they begin to arrive...?" the mother questions in a voice that seems to almost be that of distress. However much we hate it, it is a part of life that we must learn to endure. Some things get better as we become older over the years, and other things become worse. It is the nature of life.

The Door: Part 1_Entry 2_Week 1

Between the floorboards on the ground and the white washed ceiling above

A door stands undisturbed between two boards, creating a complete wall

A shelter of protection from the universe breathing... waiting... knocking upon the door

The stars coruscate as the moon rises to its supreme position in the night sky

Forcing the sun to gracefully bow down from its post in the heavens

That door is the border line between existence and oblivion

The punch of reality and the soft whisper of delusion

Screams are suppressed and laughter is just a hollow echo

The devil is able to claw his way across the flesh

Yet no indication of his actions can be detected

Angels are locked outside to sit and wait to hear for the click of a key

The turn of a lock

And to wonder if the face they see to peer out that doorway

To be one of hope, or one of dismay

No one will know and no one will see

What is poisoning the souls of the innocent

What is slowly eating away the purity of the good

What is putting out the light from the candle wick

Unless one lifts the veil of shadows

To reveal the scintillate sunlight

Darling, you will only continue to cry out of choice

No one has coerced you to turn the key to lock the door

Only three things knock upon the beating and fragile door encased between your ribs

Love, mercy, and grace

Unlock your heart to what it deserves 

The Art of Poetry_ Entry 1_Week 1

Poetry is said to be a meticulous, well- thought out, and aesthetically pleasing piece of literature that primarily communicates experience rather than to convey knowledge. It helps humans to better understand how life is rather than how life works.

Its function is not to tell us about experience but to allow us imaginatively to participate in it. It is a means of allowing us, through the imagination, to live more fully, more deeply, more richly, and with greater awareness. It can do this in two ways: by broadening our experience- that is, by making us acquainted with a range of experience with which in the ordinary course of events we might have no contact, or by deepening our experience- that is, by making us feel more poignantly and more understandingly the everyday experiences all of us have.

For centuries, cultures have used poetry as a way of giving humans a sense of understanding “the everyday experiences all of us have”. Poetry is not meant to be a long and precise description of something that occurred, but rather a speaker’s perspective of something they physically or mentally endured. For example, one such poem titled Suicide’s Note, consists of only three lines and few words but leaves readers feeling apprehensive:

The calm,

Cool face of the river

Asked me for a kiss.

Clearly, the writer has not experienced suicide because he was able to compose a poem about it. Although he has not undergone such a horrific incident, he wrote what he thought an encounter with death would be like.

A poem does not have to be the story of one’s life- it can simply be a melodically put statement of human emotions and senses that has an imaginative dimension to it.

Source: Literature: Structure, Sound, and Sense

            Written by Thomas R. Arp and Greg Johnson