#mediocre stanzas

[holdinbacksecrets]

he fills the empty space and collects your lonely.

he wraps his arms around you in the kitchen. the first time he slid down to the floor, taking you with him, you giggled in surprise. now, it’s communion.

he’s memorized your movements. there are colors for every feeling. he’s your sole escape route.

nothing scares him. you held your breath, waiting for the moment to come, for the adoration to leave his features. he kissed you, told you to stop waiting and exhale.

the swing creaks. he told you he can fix it, but you asked him not to. the sound holds memories and keeps you connected to little joys that feel so far away now. in that moment, he realized it’s sounds for you. they’re the memory sparker. for him, it’s always been aromas. he keeps a list in his wallet of all the ones wrapped in you.

you’re drunk on the patio. you drank because of a nightmare that felt too real. so real you took a cold shower to convince yourself it ended. somebody else. you saw him with somebody else.

his hand is warm at the riverfront. you’re watching boats and guided, city tours. the breeze rustles his hair. the sun caramelizes your eyes, and he stares. the last day together always arrives like a mad dash, but you’ve outgrown the urgency.

he lays beside you on your living room floor. the carpet is soft. your couch is late. it’s arrival date changed again. you’ve never felt more alive than in this moment, with your life in boxes, your heart wide open, exhaustion on your features, and the man you love beside you.

your life keeps changing. you dye your hair every time it feels overwhelming, but he keeps arriving. he wears the gloves, massages color into the strands, and makes you laugh as the minutes tick by. your hair’s brown again by mid july.

your bedroom walls are covered in pictures. printed pictures you spent hours cutting out and organizing and covering the back corners with loops of washi tape. he sits on the floor and watches the white fill up with details of you, with your favorite things, with pieces of yourself you’re still trying to accept and understand. with your dreams. with your cravings. with your love. with the scary truths of your soul. every picture makes sense to him—to someone who’s seen you for so long. someone who’s payed attention and loved you tenderly.

#mediocre stanzas #boyfriend things #seventeen scenarios #nct dream scenarios #nct scenarios #bts scenarios

[genderdotcom]

bg3 char voice types:

shadowheart: soprano with bad technique so she thinks she's a mezzo (but doesnt actually sound too bad)

astarion: tenor but semi-canonically bad at singing so it's not particularly relevant

wyll: the most perfect tenor voice ever conceived he could go on broadway he could do opera you cannot tell me this man has a bad singing voice just look at him he'd be a perfect bard as well okay listen *is dragged away*

halsin: bass (good at singing)

lae'zel: mezzosoprano but wouldnt care about singing. shes more of an "aggressive chanting" type. would be good if she tried

karlach: mezzo as well but doesnt care about sounding good or singing in her range shes just having fun

gale: baritone and knows some like opera pieces or something (he seems like the kind of guy to go to the opera) and might bust out a stanza to prove some point but is bad at singing.

minthara: contralto. incredibly menacing singing voice but sort of mediocre technically speaking

#hello world #bg3

[puprikaa]

Hi!

Firstly I just want to thank everyone (here, on tik tok, instagram and other sites) for all the support my book has gotten :). I can’t post every page, especially since it’s not out yet, but for now here is a new character!

Some information about the book:

My book is titled “Cardamom Can’t Bake”, and contains 392 words while being 30 pages long, with one page lasting two verses. Situated in a cosy, rural town in the middle of Hyde Park, London, “Cardamom Can’t Bake” embarks on our protagonist, Cardamom Baker’s tale of self-discovery and acceptance. Born in a family of baking prodigies, Cardamom is used to feeling intimidated, isolated, and even dismissed by her family due to her lack of talents in the artistry of pastry-making. Refusing to accept her natural inclination towards other hobbies, she often tries (and fails) to imitate her siblings' creations to redeem for her lack of identity. What follows is Cardamom’s journey of discovering that her potential is not limited to her family or the core values that were instilled upon her at birth, and that maybe being average and mediocre isn’t such a bad thing after all. Where my book differs from most media is here. I’m tired of the constant pressure children’s tales place on “different” kids to make up for their lack of conformity by being good at something else.

The book is also directed towards adults who struggle with feeling as though they are not doing well enough in life. My book is a creation for children and parents alike, to grow and learn to love themselves. The book itself is self-illustrated in a nostalgic Beatrix Potter inspired style, with our protagonist, Cardamom, being a bunny. Each stanza holds four verses in an assonant ABAB rhyme scheme. At the moment, I am illustrating each page myself and have completed nine out of 30. I predict it will be finished by November 2023, or December at the latest.

I started this journey unsure, but I have to admit, the Good Omens fandom and NEIL FUCKING GAIMAN????? supporting my book has motivated me so much more than one would think. Thank you everyone.

#neil gaiman #good omens #picture books #kids book #just to write this book and see ppl are interested is driving me nuts #childrens literature #picture book author #cardamom can’t bake #children’s book #young author

[grandhotelabyss]

Favorite Yeats poem? I can't get enough of him.

"Easter, 1916." He does everything he could do there; it's the greatest political poem in English of the 20th century. First, simply from a "craft" perspective, there is the propulsive but unobtrusive accentual (but not syllabic) meter, the pulsing three-beat line. Then the deceptively simple abab rhyme scheme—except that the even lines only ever off-rhyme. Sound mimics sense in this mingling of the beautiful and the terrible: our march song is never quite in perfect rhythm. We can never quite get the steps right as we march toward our sublime deaths. This isn't "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

For one thing, it's not public rhetoric, or not just public rhetoric. There is the quiet, personal opening of the first stanza, the "I" in its humble self-deprecatory historical setting, when we know what modern life and all its calculating mediocrity meant for Yeats. Then, enacting in language the transformation it proposes of public life, the first appearance of the refrain lifts the poem into epic.

In the second stanza, we find an epic catalogue of the flawed vessels of historical force, made more poignant by a knowledge of what it probably took for Yeats to praise MacBride ("a drunken, vainglorious lout") who had, in his mind, robbed him of Maud Gonne. Small-nation politics lends itself to such gossip. "Great hatred, little room," as he had it elsewhere. But that farce is past. Comedy has turned to tragedy in the national epic of the uprising.

But this, again, is poetry: not propaganda. You don't write the best political poem of the 20th century by celebrating emancipatory violence without subtlety, without nuance, without irony. Here we have the irony of a conservative revolution—again, recall the etymology of Tory—revolution not as the forward movement of history, as the benighted progressive thinks, but rather as the obdurate force that blocks history from engulfing the whole of the lifeworld. He sounds oddly like Benjamin here, as well as like Eliot, showing how vain it is to explain the most serious art and thought by shallow labels like left and right. "Enchanted" as it is, though, the stone is also opposed to nature, to the "living stream" figured most vividly in the prospective mating of hen and cock. As in "Sailing to Byzantium," another favorite, Yeats is worried about the conflict between the art and the life, between raw life and the artifice of eternity. The refrain does not appear, the poem's own flow broken.

Our bard, who as a member of the Protestant upper class favored negotation with England rather than violent revolt, expresses misgivings. Homer didn't have misgivings, for all that Yeats would later want to model himself on Homer's "unchristened heart." He has misgivings about more than just resistance tactics. He identifies with women, he fears for the nation's children, for the nation's very soul. The trope of the stone becomes disenchanted, no longer the Arthurian romance's source of political power but the Old Testament's hardness of heart, inviting divine chastisement. The cause of the revolutionaries itself comes into question for a moment. Was their violence part of the vanity, part of the "motley," with which the poem began? Have we really ever left the comedy, the 18th-century farce? But the motive spiritualizes the event: "excess of love." We think of Antigone, we think of Lear. Tragic heroism is still heroism. And in conclusion, the epic catalogue proper, before the refrain comes around again for our cyclic poet, itself changed utterly: "terrible beauty" no longer a political slogan but the aesthetic credo that will guide the rest of the poet's work out of the bee-loud glade and the Celtic Twilight and into "the desolation of reality," "gaiety transfiguring all that dread," the gaiety that is the achievement of form in the midst of terror.

#william butler yeats #literary criticism #poetry

[wine-roses-and-sunset]

Se c'è una cosa che mi manca è quello stato di lotta tra la quiete piatta e la febbricitante impazienza di quando ho amato.

La gioia di ogni singolo giorno poteva dipendere da uno sguardo fugace o dalla sola presenza di lui nella stessa stanza dove stavo io. Ogni volta era una piccola morte e una successiva rinascita dentro quel muscolo che mi batte nel petto, e una scarica di follia che mi trafiggeva dalla gola fin dietro la nuca. Questo mi faceva paura perché irretiva l'unica freccia al mio arco che mi è stata data alla nascita: non la bellezza, nemmeno l'acume, ma la fredda razionalità della mediocre testa che mi sta attaccata al collo.

Essere innamorata mi ha spesso allontanata dalla miseria umana dei miei pensieri e dalla sofferenza del semplice stare al mondo senza uno scopo e un senso preciso, ogni giorno sempre più vicina alla morte.

Per me, l'amore, era qualcosa di così immenso e inquantificabile che non sono nemmeno stata in grado di pronunciarlo. È nato e morto dentro di me. E non ha trovato realizzazione se non nella futile idealizzazione, nella passeggera concretezza di qualche timido sfioramento delle delle dita. L'amore l'ho visto nel cielo, perché era vasto così.

[sciocchezza]

tutti i "mi manchi" che non dirò mai

mi manchi stanotte. mi manca dormire nel tuo comodo letto, nella tua stanza piena di piante e vinili. mi manca perfino sentirti russare, stanotte.

devo scusarmi con tante, troppe persone, ma tu sei quella con la quale mi devo scusare più di tutte. ti ho forse illuso, mentito, omesso dettagli che dettagli non erano. non ti ho mai detto che, sebbene il mio corpo fosse tuo, il mio cuore non lo era.

ho aspettato che il silenzio tra noi due diventasse assordante prima di capire davvero quanto male ti ho fatto per proteggere il mio cuore infranto.

spero che tu non mi pensi più. che in queste notti solitarie, magari dopo l'ennesimo appuntamento di bumble andato male o l'ultima scopata mediocre, non sia io a mancarti.

spero che quel bacio furtivo davanti all'autobus fosse tutto ciò di cui avevi bisogno per non pensarmi più. ma io continuo a pensarti.

#tutti i mi manchi che non dirò mai

[fallimentiquotidiani]

Ehi, yo, ascoltami stasera

Io preso bene dal tramonto, ma pronto all'alba di una nuova era

Sopra una sedia, contro la mediocrità dell'antica atmosfera

A cui di norma nessuno rimedia

Sono un combattivo col mio micro

Decido il mio destino e il mio destino è decisivo

Pronto ad inaugurare il tramonto

È l'alba di una nuova speranza e di un nuovo giorno

Ho combattuto giorni e notti, verso progetti già distrutti

Difetti di vite senza botti (Già)

E fuochi d'artificio, infiammavo la mia penna dentro un foglio

Dentro una stanza vicino a un cestino

Pieno di deliri di quello che scrivi

Che poi vivi e che rinneghi nei momenti successivi

Perché cerchi svolte, vorresti cambiamenti

Che restano lontani, scrivi pagine e ti penti

Senti l'amaro in bocca, il terreno scotta

Vittima passiva della tua stessa lotta

Cerchi di reagire dentro un ambiente ostile

Ma i giorni sono neri come tratti sul foglio, è febbrile

La foga che ti porta in cerca di una nuova dimora

Di un nuovo Sole, un'alba, un'altra nuova aurora (Nuova aurora)

Perché ho subito troppi giorni la disfatta (La Disfatta)

Ed ora voglio poter dire: "Ce l'ho fatta"

Sono fuggito dal buio notturno

Pronto al sorgere di un nuovo giorno

All'alba di una nuova era, rivalsa

Di un nuovo giorno, guarda su in cielo, c'è già l'alba

Sono fuggito dal buio notturno (Ehi, yo)

Pronto al sorgere di un nuovo giorno

All'alba di una nuova era, rivalsa

Di un nuovo giorno, guarda su in cielo, c'è già l'alba

[Strofa 2]

Guarda in cielo e c'è già l'alba, ho passato mesi ed anni

Senza avere le armi per combattere inganni

Guarda, sono rimasto a testa alta

Continuo ad inseguire il Sole per vedere sorgere l'alba

Continuo dopo aver patito troppi affanni

Ormai sempre più convinto che non sia mai troppo tardi (Ehi, yo)

Lasciatomi alle spalle un passato mediocre

Di trame ormai già note, di sere troppo vuote

Ho visto spegnersi amori, accendersi rancori

Nei miei confronti e frasi come "Stanne fuori" (Stanne fuori)

E notti in cui i pensieri non portavan nulla di utile

Errori di cui eri il solo ed unico colpevole

Ero troppo debole per imporre regole

Ma abbastanza libero per non doverle compiere

Per non piegarmi a questa logica

In testa la mia solita ricerca della strada con l'incognita

Di troppi bivi nei punti decisivi

Troppe volte sei costretto a rischiare, se no non vivi

Se li schivi, sei un codardo e il mondo ti distrugge

La meta è per chi cerca un cammino e non per chi fugge

Ho cercato un obiettivo, lontano da 'sto bivio

Ho aspettato un giorno nuovo nel declino (Nel declino)

Ed ora è tempo di raggiunger la rivalsa

Okay, è tempo di veder sorgere l'alba

[Ritornello]

Sono fuggito dal buio notturno

Pronto al sorgere di un nuovo giorno

All'alba di una nuova era, rivalsa

Di un nuovo giorno, guarda su in cielo, c'è già l'alba

Sono fuggito dal buio notturno (Ehi, yo)

Pronto al sorgere di un nuovo giorno

All'alba di una nuova era, rivalsa

Di un nuovo giorno, guarda su in cielo, c'è già l'alba

Sono

Pronto al sorgere di un nuovo giorno

All'alba di una nuova era, rivalsa

Di un nuovo giorno, guarda su in cielo, c'è già l'alba

Sono fuggito dal buio notturno

(Ehi, yo) Pronto al sorgere di un nuovo giorno

All'alba di una nuova era, rivalsa

Di un nuovo giorno, guarda su in cielo, c'è già l'alba

[Outro]

Sono

Pronto

Sono

Pronto

#L'alba #La Crème #Jack The Smoker #Mace #2003 #Rap italiano #Spotify

[occhietti]

Abbiamo case più grandi ma famiglie più piccole…

Più opportunità ma meno tempo…

Più istruzione ma meno buon senso...

Più conoscenza ma meno senso critico...

Più esperti ma più problemi…

Più medicine ma meno benessere…

Siamo andati e tornati dalla luna, ma facciamo fatica ad attraversare la strada per stringere la mano ad un uomo vicino…

Abbiamo prodotto più pc per registrare più informazione, per replicare più documenti come non mai, ma siamo meno capaci di comunicare…

Siamo imbattibili sulla quantità ma scarsi sulla qualità…

Questi sono tempi da fast-food, ma dalla digestione lenta…

Sono i tempi dei grandi uomini ma di carattere mediocre...

Sono tempi in cui si realizzano profitti astronomici ma povere relazioni…

Questa è un epoca in cui tutto viene messo in vista sulla finestra, per occultare il vuoto della stanza…

Dalai Lama

[holdinbacksecrets]

there’s a spot by the window across from your dining table that holds sun rays so beautifully. you can’t decide if a chair should be placed right there, imagining all the minutes you’d easily spend in its seat. but you hold back. you admire the golden streaks from the kitchen, letting the soft light distract you.

the spot stays empty for an obvious reason, but you’re dancing around it, not ready to admit the missing and yearning and loving you’re still participating in—living. you can’t imagine the loving will ever disappear for him. it lays in every inhale. it hugs every breath. you’re reminded of the words shared in early mornings as the sun would rise because you didn’t know how else to describe him but sun ray, until he slipped into the night.

in your mind, love exists in the sky. it falls to the ground and sticks to eyelashes and shoelaces and ends up seeping into skin. it sticks and seeps and expands until a body is consumed. it’s consumed you for years because you were a child of the sky. your parents could never get you inside on summer nights. you craved the midnight blue longer. you craved the twinkling stars that blurred when your glasses weren’t on, but the scene was always beautiful. it surpassed the need for 20/20.

meeting him, the gasp that followed was audible. he caught it too, having no idea what sparked it. he found out eventually, a few months later when you finally admitted the truth.

it was a thursday evening. you made tea and pulled his sweatshirt over your head. he watched as the skin he traced disappeared behind black cotton. the next moment, he asked: why did you gasp that day?

because i saw the sky in your eyes.

you filled journals with your fascinations about the sky and the love you decided was born there. you wondered if other children had the same ideas as you. if they described everything the sky did and became as magical. you wondered what the sky gave to you, if anything it birthed could be found on your skin, in your features.

your mother joked about the mirror becoming your best friend. you never explained what your hours spent in front of it meant. how you were searching for the sky. eventually, you searched for it in others. as time passed with no discoveries, the searches slowed and the intense desire faltered. the idea lingered, and random days would sweep you up in the hope again. the day you saw jungkook wasn’t one of those hopeful days. months had passed since the hopeful searching found you.

i went home that night and cried. i laughed. i probably looked insane. i danced around my living room. i knew i would end up loving you, and i felt like fate was in the room with me—had been around all along. no one ever knew what i felt and chose to believe. i didn’t know if i’d be taken seriously, and kids can be so mean. that day, i let all the leftover doubts slip away.

jungkook stared. he looked so beautiful and taken by you. as his eyes became glossy, a smile broke: my mother always told me i had galaxies in my eyes—little pockets of love.

your hand covered your mouth in time with his voice cracking. the distance between you closed. you laughed and began to cry.

fate.

#boyfriend things #jungkook blurb #mediocre stanzas

[endcant]

listened to Up For Grabs by Billy Whorley last night. it sucked so im just gonna copy paste my notes from while i was passing out without any editing

this charmingly flimsy soft rock promotional record was archived on YouTube a week prior.

for the first two tracks, it's just fine enough i keep almost forgetting it's not good, but Bill Whorley's voice is amateurish. lyrics are giving "demo lyrics only - please replace for final recording", and the music is jaunty in a truly boring way. i think my ears glaze over and i forget I'm listening to anything at all, and then Whorley’s karaoke vocals take me out of it once more.

it gets real bad once the third track comes around, and i can only marvel at each new corny turn. it’s silly but not fun enough to be zany. it’s not confident enough to be comedic or artsy or anything interesting like that. it’s a very mediocre clown pretending to be happy and funny and not quite cutting it. i didn’t want it to continue. however, just as it felt like it had finally built up some momentum, i saw the end of the track approaching. surely it’s not meant to end in just a few seconds? that’s too long to cover the end of this stanza and too short to be literally anything else! and then he just holds the last note of the apparently-final line out, sounding the entire time like he’s out of breath and just barely hanging on, with energy that indicates that he might be mimicking a much better performance of the same song that he heard at some point where somehow this choice made sense. but it doesn’t make sense for him. he’s barely capable of physically holding the note, let alone doing it well or entertainingly. so basically, a classic karaoke experience

even though it’s only ten minutes to this point, i was already tired of Billy Worley by the time track 4 came around. once again, the music would put my brain to sleep, and then his godawful vocals would shock it back awake. it’s like a new discovery every time he sings a new phrase. wow that was not great. wow, THAT was not great. wow, this is also not great.

i think the only true powers of billy worley are that he sings basically mostly on pitch and attempts the affecation of someone who sings better than he does. but he sounds unpracticed, detached, uncertain, nervous, and somehow slightly bored, like when (again) someone singing karaoke realizes for the first time that a song has a dozen measures of the same line repeated over and over, and they never considered the fact that they would have to make it interesting for that long until they were about 4 repetitions in and they had already run out of energy and breath and interest, and the audience is still there just staring at them, and they have to keep singing it.

honestly billy worley sang this entire offering with the energy of someone who is in the midst of having a stress dream about accidentally becoming a singer and is actively realizing that in this nightmare they dont know how microphones work and they feel compelled to pretend that they do nonetheless

final note is that it feels bad to even say any of this. i feel bad that this tape came up in my youtube recommendations, against all odds. i hope no one else listens to this. i hope he practiced singing more. i hope his family is amused by the existence of this album. i hope he had a successful career doing something completely normal.

#mine #i’m listening to an album every day #music #Youtube

[castelnow]

L'amico pittore mi aveva fatto credere che fosse possibile spedire un panino da Cosenza a Milano. Io ci ero cascata. Mi prende sempre in giro e io non me ne accorgo. A quanto pare, fa così con tutti. Mi ha mandato, senza che glielo avessi chiesto, il suo sito dove parla di arte cinema e teatro, e forse mi ha dato una risposta all'immagine della tomba ne Il ragazzo e l'airone. Mi piacerebbe avere più tempo per pensare veramente alle cose esterne, tipo ai buchi nelle narrazioni, piuttosto che vivere nelle mie memorie. Se non ci fosse la tua mostra, caro amico pittore, Madama sarebbe ancora qui. Invece l'hai risucchiata nelle tue fauci, piccolo Picasso. Tu sei pieno di vita, lui così cupo. Entrambi riservati, chiusi nelle vostre bolle di grandi duri, ma tu, tu sai presentarti, tu sai venderti, tu sei entrato nel ''periodo blu'', e non ti interessa veramente della mia tesi. Volevi solo far conversazione perché Madama aveva lasciato la stanza. Ricerco dentro di te una versione di Madama che non conosco e non è mia, ma invece mi rimbalza solo la mia versione di te. Amico pittore, un giorno Madama si renderà conto di cosa sei per lei. Io l'ho già capito. Ma il tempo deve passare. Per ora, mi complimento per le belle riflessioni e l'avermi inclusa nella visione dei quadri. Per avermi perfino invitata alla tua mostra! Eh già, mica te l'ha detto, quello lì, che me ne sono tornata a Catanzaro. Voi vivete di segreti eppure ballate, alle cinque del mattino, a Montegiordano, dove nessuno vi può vedere. Il più grande segreto è come possiate essere amici. Come fanno una mediocrità e una genialità unirsi? Forse il mediocre sfrutta il genio per la sua genialità e il genio sfrutta il mediocre per mantenerla. Questi son per me i rapporti. Tutta questione di utilità. Deve per forza andare così.

[amoreinendovena]

Ogni volta che mi ritrovo in una stanza piena di italiani o un volo o la qualunque mi sale un filo di intolleranza, nervosismo e disprezzo. Non dovrei, mi faccio schifo solo ad ammetterlo ma sentirli mentre urlano al telefono e qualcuno li osserva perché qui il silenzio è religioso e la squallida risposta è fallì guardare.

Per me la maggior parte degli italiani va rappresentato come mediocre

[ratrinisa]

IDENTIFYING THE FOUR LINGUISTIC DEVICES IN FORGIVING MY FATHER

by Annisa Nur Ratri Oktavianti

A. Introduction of New Criticism

New criticism is a development from “traditional” criticism. It can be said that new criticism is a new way of looking at literature. New criticism was created in the 1920s and later on dominates literary criticism from the late 1930s into the 1960s. New criticism was originally created in the United States. In 1941, John Crowe Ransom’s The New Criticism gave this movement its name. The name New Criticism is still used until these days. Besides new criticism, there is also New Critics. New Critics are a group of American poets and critics.

New Criticism focus is the work itself. New Critics doesn’t refuse the readers’ thought about the author nor the work, but they believed that the work has a special place in new criticism. The readers opinion or thought and the author is not the main topic in new criticism. Why does the work become the most important topic of this theory? It is because to expose its unity. Every aspect or element are crucial. They work together to create a certain theme of the work. “Close reading”, a phrase popularized by New Critics, can reveal the complexity of the work.

To do an analysis of a work by using this theory we have to begin by reading closely. By reading closely, we can find the figures of speech, point of view, diction, imagery, recurrent ideas or events, etc. Then, carefully analyse the work. Remember to search for the four linguistic devices : ambiguity, irony, paradox, and tension. A mediocre work sometimes contains complexity but its not a unified work. A mediocre work sometimes is a unified work but has a little complexity. Secondly, look for the idea that unifies the work. We can resolve the ambiguities by doing this. Next, find details or any images that (will) support this resolution or decision.

B. Introduction to The Work

The creator of the work “Forgiving My Father”, Lucile Clifton was born on June 27th, 1936. She grew up in Depew, New York. Clifton attended college at Howard University (1953-1955) and graduated from State University of New York College (2955). Later in 1958 she married Fred James Clifton.

The poem “Forgiving My Father” is a lyrical poem. A lyrical poem is a poem that is written based of the poet’s feeling and thought regarding any aspects that he/she choose to write about. This poem tells the reader about a girl who did not want to forgive her father in the beginning. In the end of the poem however, the girl had forgive her father. Clifton wrote this poem based of her own past experience. Clifton wrote about the mistakes that her father had done in the past and how it affected her and her family. Her father had failed to be a good father that was supposed to give protection and security to Clifton and her mother. In the poem, Clifton used the words “lecher” and “liar” to illustrate her father’s wrongdoings.

C. Discussion

Ambiguity

Ambiguity or doubt is a condition where a person is in a dilemmatic position, choosing A and B which is filled with doubts. To some extent ambiguity makes a person a dual character, which allows him to act as accommodating as chameleon philosophy. However, in essence, someone who is ambiguous will find it difficult to determine an attitude or action.

We can see the ambiguity of this poem in the third stanza. In the fifth line “what am i doing here collecting?”, the daughter (the speaker) asks herself what is she doing here collecting debt to her father. She doubt her father. The daughter knew, even if she keeps begging to pay the debt to her father, her father would never pay the debt. She is having an internal conflict with herself whatever she should keep asking her father to pay the debt or she should leave her father.

Irony

There are three types of irony in literature: verbal irony, dramatic irony, and situational irony. The embodiment of the three types of irony is indeed as reflected in the terms, but in essence they are both irony, a condition that contains oppositional discrepancies between expectations and reality, between what exists and should exist, and so on.

The third and fourth line in second stanza reflected irony “i wish you were rich so i could take it all” “and give the lady what she was due”. The daughter wished her father was rich so she could her mother’s hospital fee because her mother was sick. But it was too late because her mother already passed away and her father still doesn’t have any money. Even if her father was a rich man, he wouldn’t give the money to her nor her mother because in the same stanza, in the fifth line “but you were the only son of a needy father”, the father would give his money to his needy father.

Paradox

Paradox is a condition that reflects the opposite of what is expected. People are forbidden to step on the grass in the garden, in fact they deliberately trample on it. On cigarette packs there is always an inscription that smoking is very dangerous for health, but a lot of people actually smoke. In cinemas it says "Adults only" for certain films, however, many middle school age children watch the films. Most people want to be rich, but not a few monks or Sufis even ask to be a bit poor so they are not too attached to the world.

In the first stanza, the first and second line “it is friday. we have come” “to the paying of the bills”, the daughter reminds her father that today (on the poem), Friday is the due day to pay all bills so the father have to pay the bill on Friday. But after that on the fourth line “like a ghost, asking for more time”, her father on the contrary asking for more time to her daughter. He said that because he didn’t have any money. Next line “but today is payday, payday old man”, the daughter insists her father to pay the bills right now because Friday is the due date. She is angry and frustated at the action of her father. Eventhough she keep insisting her father, her father would not want to pay the bills.

Tension

Tension is a condition in which a person experiences inner and/or social tension. In the plot, this condition is described just before the climax and approaching the resolution. A character, because of being crushed by various crises, experiences a tremendous inner upheaval. At the end of this tension there is usually a resolution to the problems it faces.

In this poem, her father keeps neglecting his responsiblity to pay the bills. That makes the daughter so frustated. In the end she realized that her negative feelings towards her father has to end someday eventually, and that day is the day when her father died. She had to forget the past and look at the present and future.

D. Conclusion

The ambiguity of this poem is the daughter knew, even if she keeps begging to pay the debt to her father, her father would never pay the debt. She is having an internal conflict with herself wheter she should keep asking her father to pay the debt or she should leave her father.

After that the irony in the poem is the daughter wished her father was rich so she could her mother’s hospital fee because her mother was sick. But it was too late because her mother already passed away and her father still doesn’t have any money. Even if her father was a rich man, he wouldn’t give the money to her nor her mother because in the same stanza, in the fifth line “but you were the only son of a needy father”, the father would give his money to his needy father.

Third, the paradox is the daughter reminds her father that today (on the poem), Friday is the due day to pay all bills so the father have to pay the bill on Friday. But her father on the contrary asking for more time to her daughter. He said that because he didn’t have any money. The daughter insists her father to pay the bills right now because Friday is the due date. She is angry and frustated at the action of her father. Eventhough she keep insisting her father, her father would not want to pay the bills.

Lastly, the tension in this poem is her father keeps neglecting his responsibility to pay the bills. That makes the daughter so frustrated. In the end she realized that her negative feelings towards her father has to end someday eventually, and that day is the day when her father died. She had to forget the past and look at the present and future.

References :

New Criticism

Critical World - A Selective Tour

https://api.taylorfrancis.com/content/books/mono/download?identifierName=doi&ident ifierValue=10.4324/9780203446447&type=googlepdf

https://www.bisd303.org/cms/lib/WA01001636/Centricity/Domain/1342/AP%20Eng% 20Lit%20Formalist%20Criticism.docx

Author's Note :

Ninth post. Only one more :D. At this point, I don't know what I have to say in this note haha.

Wish me luck :3

#college assignment #essay writing #poem analysis #poetry #lucile cliffton

[patronsainto]

Authorized by, G.E.

All right reserved, @PatronSainto.

Code: The Whispered Words of an Eternal Bond.

4th pages of July; 1982. I, muttered to God—the author of our scenario: “I love him to death, forever unbound.” (@channel | PRIVATE.)

Code: Shadows of Pain: A Lament of Loss.

p.a. My dead soul wounds ache in dark sympathy—each day feels like a battle I can't win. (sheets of @channel, my mind lost in a sea of sin.)

Code: The Eternal Promise of Love.

(b.a, 1991.): piece of memories. ╱ @channel, “I will let you live in every stanzas of my poems—‘til you lost your breath in my celestial.”

Code: Stuck in a Never-Ending Nightmare.

I am hunted by a past, full of nightmares and a melancholy day. Here I am again—lost and never found. ╱c.ba, in @channel I remain alive.

Code: A Poem of Sorrow.

Scheme. I: burning poetry. | I, wrote these letters with every ounce of my heart, now they're buried deep. “The sea has swallowed my plea.”

Authorized by, G.E.

All right reserved, @PatronSainto.

Code: A Love Story in the Fires of Hell.

(p.a) If I were to kiss you and fall to hell, I would do it without a single farewell. | @channel, to be forever remembered in fiery abyss.

Code: A Timeless Treasure.

PRIVATE. | taken in 1990: In @channel memories bound with paper and love, captured moments that astound. A keepsake to cherish forevermore.

Code: Heaven's Fortune Unleashed.

Kiss me at once, Name. And I shall break the dough of Heaven into a thousand brooks of boons. (1892’s) “In your kiss, I find my sacred space.”

Code: An Ode to Longing for the Perfect Love.

p.a, (soulfully, b.m.) I crave a love that tastes like poetry, yet all I get is bland mediocrity and my heart is left with unfulfilled fears.

Code: Overwhelming Anguish.

All that blood was never once beautiful, just a shade of red that left me doubtful. In every drop, I saw nothing but pain. (p.a—@channel.)

[atomheartmagazine]

Nuovo post su Atom Heart Magazine

Nuovo post pubblicato su https://www.atomheartmagazine.com/nanni-moretti-guardian/

Nanni Moretti - Il Guardian stronca "Il sol dell'avvenire": orribile, noioso, autocelebrativo

“Il sol dell’avvenire” di Nanni Moretti è stato stroncato dal Guardian: “Orribile, confuso, mediocre e metatestuale”.

Il critico cinematografico del Guardian, Peter Bradshow, che ha dimostrato un grande amore per Nanni Moretti in passato, esprime la sua delusione riguardo al film “Il sol dell’avvenire”. Bradshow lo definisce “sconcertantemente orribile: confuso, mediocre e metatestuale“. Secondo lui, il film rappresenta una completa perdita di tempo, risultando pesante, noioso e privo di commedia, pathos e dramma.

“La stanza del figlio è il più bel film che abbia mai vinto la Palma d’oro a Cannes. E più recentemente la sua commedia cinefila Mia Madre è stata straordinaria”, questa la premessa. Poi affonda sul nuovo film di Nanni Moretti: “Sconcertantemente orribile: confuso, mediocre e metatestuale. Una completa perdita di tempo, stridente e svogliata allo stesso tempo. Tutto è pesante e noioso: la non commedia, il surrogato del pathos, l’anti-dramma“.

La trama del film ruota attorno a Giovanni, un regista con un matrimonio fallito, che sta cercando di realizzare il suo progetto passionale riguardante il partito comunista italiano e la resistenza contro l’invasione sovietica dell’Ungheria nel 1956. Bradshow critica il film anche per l’eccessivo uso di elementi superficiali che ricordano lo stile di Fellini. La scena in cui Moretti si lamenta di Netflix perché “il suo film non ha abbastanza momenti WTF è in realtà un lungo momento WTF, per le ragioni sbagliate”.

Secondo il Guardian, Moretti cerca di ottenere un sostegno sentimentale immeritato attraverso l’inclusione di canzoni italiane classiche e di una stravagante comparsa dell’architetto Renzo Piano, in un tentativo di emulare lo stile di Woody Allen o Marshall McLuhan. Inoltre, l’autore della recensione critica anche la sfilata finale di cameo di leggende del cinema, che rende il film solo blandamente autocelebrativo. Bradshow conclude dicendo che è meglio dimenticare questo film e guardare al futuro sperando in un lavoro migliore da parte di Moretti.

[mcanosan]

Seize the day

CARPE DIEM

Do not let the day end without having grown a bit, without being happy,without having risen your dreams.

Do not let overcome by disappointment.

Do not let anyone you remove the right to express yourself, which is almost a duty.

Do not forsake the yearning to make your life something special.

Be sure to believe that words and poetry it can change the world.

Whatever happens, our essence is intact.

We are beings full of passion. Life is desert and oasis.

We breakdowns, hurts us, teaches us, makes us protagonists of our own history.

Although the wind blow against the powerful work continues:

You can make a stanza. Never stop dreaming, because in a dream, man is free.

Do not fall into the worst mistakes: the silence.

Most live in a dreadful silence. Do not resign escape.

"Issued by my screams roofs of this world," says the poet.

Rate the beauty of the simple things.

You can make beautiful poetry on little things, but we can not row against ourselves. That transforms life into hell.

Enjoy the panic that leads you have life ahead. Live intensely, without mediocrity.

Think that you are the future and facing the task with pride and without fear.

Learn from those who can teach you. The experiences of those who preceded us in our "dead poets", help you walk through life.

Today's society is us "poets alive." Do not let life pass you live without that.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)