The television was on, but I wasn’t watching anything that was on it. Outside the trees danced around in the wind, and it was something that I wished vehemently that I could feel on my face. I was tired of being trapped inside of the house like a porcelain doll that would crack into a million pieces if I ever was let out of any adult’s sight. Unfortunately, this was the price I had to pay for being what I was. When I had been born, there was no celebration like all the other children would get from the relatives that gather around to welcome the new life. No. I was born to these two people who didn’t have the capacity to love me. How could someone carry my tiny body around inside their belly for 9 months and not feel any sort of love for me I will never be able to conceive. My mother killed herself not long after I came into this world. Something about not being able to cope with what she had brought into the world. I personally don’t care; it’s just one more thing that I will have to learn to deal with later on in life. Love is hardly a gift that is given to those like me, demons. When I was about 13, my grandparents decided to tell me exactly what I was, and how I came to be on this planet. I didn’t get that normal speech about the birds and the bees, nothing special or awkward for me. I learned that my mother had been kidnapped when she was only 16, three years older than I had been when the story came out. The person, or rather thing, that had taken her was known as a Yoviach, a demon who was notorious for taking away human females who were not protected. When my mother had been tossed back onto the doorstep of my grandparents it had been with her pregnant and completely insane from being held captive. They refused to allow her and since they weren’t able to believe that some fairy-tale creature had taken her away in board daylight I was able to be carried to term. A female Yoviach is something altogether different from the male counterpart. I am not someone who will go make off with men in the middle of night and hold them captive for years. No, my gender is highly coveted by the demons that sire us upon the humans. We females hold much power over the way the elements work within the world, and we are able to use these powers in ways that would eventually kill off all of the humans that live within this world. I am wanted, and so I must stay inside. There are times I wonders if my life is worth it, and then I realize that if I didn’t exist the world would fall apart since there must be some sort of balance between me being here and the males constantly siring more of myself. How odd that I can be part of something so much bigger than myself.

A Perfect World…. and all of it ours

This weeks readings, while having different ways of expressing this, all centered around the theme of expansion of an empire. We get different depictions of how this affects the people of this colonization and assimilation of people to an empire or large country, and typically when discussing the repercussions of acquiring a country through war or purchase instructors tend to gloss over all the turmoil and gory details that exist in these land-holdings. Song of the Red Indian by Eliza Cook gives the reader an introspective look on how these people would feel having their homes taken away from them by force. We don’t think about those we hurt to get to the top when it doesn’t affect us. “The eagle has its place of rest, / The wild horse where to dwell; / And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest, / Made me a home as well,” these lines show that bereft feeling that is cast upon a culture after their home no longer belongs to them, and they are being pushed off of land that they have been living on for years. Cook continues to allude to the idea of expansion as something bad by insinuating that this expansion is a disease, “We need no book to tell us how / Our lives shall pass away; / For we see the onward torrent flow, / And the mighty tree decay” trees are meant to be the bearers of wisdom as they have been around and experienced more life than other beings, so the decaying of a tree is almost like removing the parts of history in which they reside while also removing the culture that they have built. We can also see from the poem The White Man’s Burden by Rudyard Kipling that need for assimilation or exile, because these savage individuals must become culturally acceptable if they wish to live within the new society, and it is up to the white man to ensure that exactly this happens…. White is of course the most pure of colors, so if we can make them all seem white then they are on their way to living an acceptable life.

Expansion is a large part of these readings, but we also have the idea of progress and the age of Steam rising from these works as well. Tennyson specifically deals with these ideas of the new age of productivity ripping away the mystical in the poem Locksley Hall. At the beginning of this poem we almost see this dream-scape being created for us, albeit with a depressing atmosphere that seems to suck all the energy out of the world. We almost see this bidding of goodnight as the poem opens, or at least a separation from the world when the narrator asks for the bugle to be blown when they have need of him, sort of like he wishes to be alone with his thoughts or to sleep a little longer before awakening to the reality of the war around him. Locksley Hall, the place, seems to be a place that has almost taken on the representation of the old world before the onset of change, we can even take this a step farther with the call of the curlew (a call of the dead entering the realm of Dreaming) and believe that the narrator is being visited by spirits and beings of the Underworld. “Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, / Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. / Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade, / Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid,” Orion is the hunter who hunts the Pleiads, and they are constantly being chased, thus they are in constant motion which reflects the world and it’s motion as well especially as the people seem to be rushing towards something that they are never going to achieve…. The perfect world.

Keep Moving Forward…

In Memoriam by Alfred Tennyson is perhaps one of the most interesting pieces we have read in this class, and definitely a new favorite of mine (I even went as far as to purchase a copy from Kindle for cheap so I can keep it with me). Reading or writing poetry is a most cathartic experience, in my opinion, and as someone who has had 6 close people pass away within the last 2 years… I can understand why this would become such a popular piece of literature, and have been a very helpful tool for dealing with grief. 

In this second part of the narrative, we see that Tennyson is detailing how his life is progressing after this devastating loss of Arthur Hallam. As with real grief, there are moments when the sections are hopeful, perhaps even a little uplifting, and sections that encompass all of the depression that must have been bottled up inside Tennyson. This second part, however, seems to be twinged with sadness, but overall a journal of how he is learning to live again despite the fact that he still really misses his friend. “…knowing Death has made / His darkness beautiful with thee” (1391-2) shows that there has been some progress with this distraught man, while he is still resentful of the fact that Hallam is gone it almost seems that he is trying to force himself to accept this. We even see the closing to this circle of sadness at the Epliogue where Tennyson details just how happy of a situation his sister Ceclia’s wedding is, and while giving tidbits about Hallam, we see that Tennyson has grown able to enjoy the happiness around himself, “ Nor have I felt so much of bliss / Since first he told me that he loved / A daughter of our house;” (2757-9). 

Reading through this piece has helped me to get a better grasp on grief, and perhaps understand not only my own battles with grief, but what my younger brother has also been going through for the last year. The night of Thanksgiving in November of 2015, my brother lost his best friend in an automobile accident. They were as close as siblings, and lines 217-220, “My Arthur, whom I shall not see / Till all my widow’d race be run; / Dear as the mother to the son, / More than my brothers are to me.” Is something that really reflects their friendship. Everything in In Memoriam has seemed like some sentiment that my brother has expressed over the last year and a half. Less than a month ago we lost my aunt to cancer, a mere 6 days after her granddaughter had been born (my cousin’s first child). He is currently experiencing a grief that could perhaps rival that of Tennyson. Having finished this piece, I think that I may refer both of them to this beautiful depiction of the processing of grief. 

“For I Am Missing You…”

In Memoriam by Alfred Tennyson is a wonderful piece full of despair for his friend whom he loved like a brother, and this hopeful tone that offers the reader some solace from the unfortunate situation of a death. Such imagery that suggests this sort of praising to God and allowing his love to make a person feel better, there is definitely an argument in the early stanzas/ the prologue, “thy foot / Is on the skull. Which thou hast made.” (67-8) but there are just as many places where Tennyson seems to be almost showing a hatefulness to God and bitterness to how swiftly a person’s life can end, almost as if God should be benevolent. I remember once writing a paper for an American History class on whether God is benevolent or omnipotent, based on the idea of the genocide of the Jewish community. The idea was that is God aware of these terrible things and letting them happen or is he unaware and only has time to focus on so many things at one time, because if he knowingly allows these atrocities to occur he can not be seen as benevolent, but if he fixes all the terrible things in the world then he cannot be seen as omnipotent for he would then allow terrible things to happen . 
Tennyson seems almost to be chastising these people who believe that their loved ones will always make it home, and if not chastising then he is definitely writing in cynicism. He writes about how a father can send his son to his death, how a mother can think that her prayers may have any effect on saving her son, and a girl whose only worry is for how she will appear to her beloved. The image of the naive girl is carried a little farther than that of the mother or father however, “O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, / That sittest ranging golden hair; / And glad to find thyself so fair, / Poor child, that waitest for thy love!” (145-8) and then gives her even further vanity by making her set the hair again with trappings that no one would care about save she and other silly women. In this same chapter we see that there is also the image of a mirror, something that is to be used to see into the soul, and it appears that this girl’s soul is too wrapped up in her vanity to worry about whether the man she waits for is even alive. 
We see a lot of references to boats and the sea, especially as Arthur Hallam’s remains were being brought from Italy on a boat. Tennyson likens the sails of this boat to a shroud of death, but also to wings, “Spread thy full wings,” (204) almost as if the boat were a bird or perhaps the angel of death ferrying the man home. The imagery of the boat also evokes the idea of Charon (Death) and his boat that moves along the River Styx, ferrying those who have died to their final resting place in the Underworld where they shall either be granted eternal happiness in Elysium or eternal pain in Tartus. Coupled with this image of Charon/ Death we also see a reference to the god Pan and his pan flute that was made out of a reeds so that he could always feel that closeness to his love, “since the grasses round me wave, / I take the grasses of the grave, / And make them pipes whereon to blow.” (438-40). There is a decided murkiness to whether he believes in God or gods, or if this is just imagery that he is accustomed to seeing and has introduced this into the narrative.

All is one and One is all

God is everywhere. This is a common phrase to hear when talking to anyone about this all powerful deity known as God. This week’s selections dealt with the being known as God, specifically his influence in Nature, and how he apparently leaves a part of himself within all things he creates. 

Emily Bronte’s No coward soul is mine, speaks directly to the idea that God dwells within everyone and everything. “O God within my breast / Almighty ever-present Deity,” (5-6) these lines show that she believes in an internalized God, one who has left a connection open between him and herself. This piece also seems to evoke the images of a battle cry, one that yells out for others to be saved from themselves and made to feel a divine connection. This crying out for having a deep connection with God is also seen in many others of the selections this week by Gerard M Hopkins. Each one of his poems seems to deal with the idea of a God who has left his mark upon everything in the world, and is also within everything. As kingfishers catch fire is a perfect example of this sort of internalized deity that appears within every living thing, “Christ play in ten thousand places, / Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his / To the Father through the features of men’s faces”(12-14). All is one. One is all. Something strange is that the idea of having God within Earthly beings is almost not a Christian belief at all. This idea stems from an almost pantheistic, Pagan, outlook on the world. Everything carries with it a signature of the gods, and is influenced by an outside force of diestic proportions. These poems then take on an interesting additional meaning that they are almost a deeper understand of this being/ beings known as God, or maybe just the idea of playing around with what it means to worship a God in the time of so much scientific advancement in the world. Pied Beauty, also by Gerard M Hopkins, expresses this need to see everything as a simplistic example of the reality of a God, “He father-forth whose beauty is past change / Praise him”(9-10). 

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

As children we are taught the phrase, “actions speak louder than words,” occasionally this is applied to how we treat others when making a promise to treat someone with respect, but the more often connotation of this phrase is applied to expressing love through actions instead of showering your love with gifts or meaningless, nonsensical words. Passion. This can not be bought in a store. Sometimes, however, such passion has the ability to warp into something vile and deformed, and from there obsession is formed.

This week, our poems all reflected that sort of warped affection for another human being, and how it is resolved in different ways. One poem in particular highlights the diseased mind once it has been corrupted with a diseased type of love, Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover”. The immediate setting of the poem is dark and dreary, but light enters the home as the lady, assumed to be Porphyria, enters the narrative. Passion quickly perverts the mind of this man and he decides to strangle the woman with her own hair in an effort to keep the beauty with him forever, “That moment she was mine, mine, mine, fair, / Perfectly pure and good: I found / A thing to do, and all her hair / In one long yellow string I wound / Three times her little throat around, / And strangled her.” (36-41). There is something morbidly enthralling about the way that Browning describes this dead woman as still bearing a smile and a bright face after the man has untwisted the hair about her neck. This particular poem sparked a memory in my mind of a song by alternative rock band Avenged Sevenfold called “Little Piece of Heaven” during which the narrator kills his girlfriend in a fit of jealous rage because he believes that she will cheat on him, unlike Browning’s poem however, the woman in the song is able to get her revenge and murder the narrator as well.  

Each of the other poems also reflected this sort of strong emotion that is evoked incorrectly leaving all or both parties fairing rather poorly as a direct cause. Matthew Arnold’s poem “The Buried Life” uses this sort of unspoken love as way of showcasing a battle of emotions in the heart of a man, and how the revealing of such an unmasculine display would end him, “I knew the mass of men concealed / Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed / They would by other men be met / With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;” (16-19). Elizabeth Barrett Browning has a poem, “Lord Walter’s Wife”, with a man who happens to have no real problems expressing himself in words, but is attempting to tell a woman she is beautiful while also being rather condescending in his tone of voice, “ ‘because you are far too fair, / And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold-coloured hair.’ “(3-4). Is this a reflection of the stereotypes of this time period? Perhaps that the woman was not able to do anything without it meaning that she was deliberately courting the attention of everyone around her, even when it was something permanent as eye-color or the tilt of a brow. The sad thought is that we still see these sort of behaviors portrayed today, because the other gender is not allowed to be attractive without people taking notice of them.

Although it is not appropriate for anyone under the age of 18 due to blood, gore, and sexual situations, I am going to also add the link to that song I mentioned above in my post…. A Little Piece of Heaven