The sun began its assent, illuminating the soon to be dreary winter day as well as the few vibrant, resilient leaves still clinging to life upon the trees. I would often refer to these resilient leaves as foolish for wishing to cling to such a life, yet I would continue to admire their beauty despite their condition. The sun’s rays of warmth and comfort swept across my face bringing me to consciousness to appreciate its radiance and everlasting life. I reluctantly swung my feet around and stood on my wooden floor to start my day. The wood felt most coarse in the morning, especially during those cold winter months, which gave me a greater sense of awareness and an easier transition from dream to reality. Stretching every fiber of my body, I …show more content…
Four years. Four years I’ve lived with essentially strangers whom I help from time to time, four years I’ve lived without uttering a single sentence of truly any meaning to Margaret Vance. Four years of living essentially alone. While I always thought to myself that I should step out of my shell of comfort in hopes of perhaps sparking a long-lasting friendship or relationship, the thought of knowing someone often struck fear and anxiety into my heart. Pushing these thoughts aside, I made my way to my old worn down, tattered barn, which stood roughly one-quarter of a mile from my front door step to tend to the few cows I had to my name. The majority of the grass in and around the village had already made its way to the distinct deceased shade of brown, and the few patches of somewhat vivacious grass in appearance had begun their metamorphosis to death. There was a light hustle and bustle of the villagers, due to the day still awakening, and I offered a few friendly waves of hello as I passed, which all whom I had offered returned.
“Perhaps I should finally get to know my neighbors; they actually seem somewhat decent”, I thought to
The theme for being different is shown in both the passages “Susan B Anthony Dares to Vote”, and the poem “Making Sarah Cry.” Susan is different because in the passage she wants to help make a difference. Sarah is different from all the other kids because the boy makes fun of Sarah every day and he makes Sarah cry. In the stories, it shows that being different is not bad being different it can actually make the world a better place. Even though the themes are the same the social implications are different.
Rita Joe’s poem, “I Lost My Talk” brings to light many of the hardships and struggles that were faced by Aboriginal youth when they were required to attend residential schools. At this time, Aboriginal children were forced to learn English and adapt to Euro-Canadian customs. Essentially, the goal of this institution was to completely abolish Indigenous traditions by discouraging students from speaking their native languages and practicing their culture. For the purpose of this paper, I will analyze Rita Joe’s work in depth, while discussing the central theme of losing one’s identity and voice, which is exemplified throughout the poem. The poem starts off with the speaker describing her loss of voice and character as a little girl when she
The chilly, crisp New England breeze stung my face, as I approached my family 's modest home. The sun was just beginning to dip below the trees, as I snuck through the sturdy oak door to the house. The door swung open with a slow squeak and an instant surge of heat washed over me like a wave, warming my numb fingers. I recognized the familiar crackle of burning wood in the fireplace before stepping past the arched doorway to the kitchen. "
“Maude Clare” is about two people who are soon to be married, but someone from the groom’s past is trying to cause tension. Maude Clare is the groom’s past loved one and she thinks that she is better than the groom’s soon to be bride. Maude Clare has given the couple a gift, but the gift turns out to be an item the groom and Maude Clare shared in the past with each other. Maude Clare wants to get back at the groom for all the hurt he had caused Maude Clare.
A deep silence always surrounded the mountains; even the wind seemed to carry it, spreading it through every valley and cave. We stopped walking at daybreak every day, today when I looked up to see the group stopped I fell onto my backpack and looked around with my elbows in the snow. The sun rose below me seeming to rest on the top of the mountains. Gone was the familiar terrain, the herds of wild yak and horses keeping us company, and the rolling green of the hills. Today the sun was not rising above me.
Kay Ryan’s poem, “Blanduer”, describes how a faithful believer in God can be conflicted between the beauty and power of God’s creation, and the struggles that His created world causes in life. In this poem, Ryan is asking God to be less dramatic with His creation and to make life a little simpler by easing the burden human’s bear. The feeling of conflict can be seen in her use of words. Denotation is defined as “the ambiguous or dictionary meaning of words” (Mays 550).
We were afraid at nigh in the winter. We were not afraid of outside though this was the time of year when snowdrifts curled around our house like sleeping whales and the wind harassed us all night, coming up from the buried fields, the frozen swamp, with its old bugbear chorus of threats and misery. We were afraid of inside, the room where we slept. At this time upstairs of our house was not finished. A brick chimney went up
Walter Dean Myers won the Coretta Scott King award for African American author five times. Myers was originally named Walter Milton Myers but he adopted the middle name “Dean” to honor Florence and Herbert the parents that raised him after his mother passed away when he was 18 months and his father sent him to live with Florence and Herbert Dean. Walter Dean Myers was born in August 12, 1937 in Martinsburg, West Virginia and died July 1, 2014 in Manhattan, New York city, New York. When he was a child his life involved his neighborhood and church, the neighborhood protected him and the church him, and also had a speech impediment that made communicating very difficult for him.
The old woman had been gone for weeks, but passing through the front walls, he saw a vehicle driving down the worn dirt road toward the house. The grounds had been visited twice since the old woman’s death, officials of one sort or another, looking the grounds over, inspecting pipes and furnace ducts. But this ‘car’ towed a trailer behind it, packed with boxes and odd pieces of furniture. The driver of the car was a lone young woman, and as he observed her features and form, he felt something he had not felt for decades: the desire for her companionship, her
I looked out from the passenger side window as we pulled into our parking spot. The trees were beginning to go bare in the frigid October weather, and the ground was covered in their dry, crispy leaves. The four of us were going on a haunted hayride tonight, a popular past-time for season. We clambered out of the car and left our bags behind. It had rained the day before, and it made the ground beneath us soft with mud and trampled leaves.
In “Sleeping in the Forest”,the forest gives off a powerful vibe that is enough to let the speaker fall into a deep sleep. It is mysterious to how the forest or nature does this. After the speaker’s long sleep, she wakes up feeling a dozen times better than the day before. “Ode to Enchanted Light”, a poem by Pablo Neruda, shares the idea of amazement by the light.
Small, stagnant puddles, on the uneven planks of timber wood reflected the dark, brooding sky above - rarely disturbed by the callous slices of moonlight seeping through the clouds, creating a specular reflection through a ripple in the languid water. Surrounding the lake, lay a rigid, pine forest, which stretched far past the mountainous boundaries - rising high, around the solitary lake. A death-like mist pervaded through the trees enveloping them in a gelid, cutting fog. A silent, lonely willow shivered as the still, biting air engulfed its aged branches in an icy cage and suffocated its stiffened lungs, causing each freezing breath to drag. Crusted leaves stacked one on top of the other as
Is poetry as genuine as we perceive it to be; is it as real and raw as we see on television, in movies or simply every day conversations regarding poetry? “Poetry” by Marianne Moore questions poetry and the authenticity of it as of now. She states in line 19 that “however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,” I felt that in her saying that line she was trying to express how some authors become famous off of mediocre and meaningless poetry. That poetry over the years has become something that authors write just to get famous off of. The meaning behind the story they are writing, no matter how short or long, are just empty words that convey no meaning to the audience.
The cool, upland air, flooding through the everlasting branches of the lively tree, as it casts a vague shadow onto the grasses ' fine green. Fresh sunlight penetrates through the branches of the tree, illuminating perfect spheres of water upon its green wands. My numb and almost transparent feet are blanketed by the sweetness of the scene, as the sunlight paints my lips red, my hair ebony, and my eyes honey-like. The noon sunlight acts as a HD camera, telling no lies, in the world in which shadows of truth are the harshest, revealing every flaw in the sight, like a toddler carrying his very first camera, taking pictures of whatever he sees. My head looks down at the sight of my cold and lifeless feet, before making its way up to the reaching arms of an infatuating tree, glowing brightly virescent at the edges of the trunk, inviting a soothing, tingling sensation to my soul.