Aunt Jennifer's Tiger
Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer's fingers fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
By: Andrienne Rich
Adrienne Rich was born on May 16, 1929 in Baltimore, Maryland. She attended Radcliffe College, graduating in 1951. In 1953, she married Harvard University economist Alfred H. Conrad. Two years later, she published her second volume of poetry, The Diamond Cutters. After having three sons before the age of thirty, Rich gradually changed both her life and her poetry. Throughout the 1960s she wrote several collections, including Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law (1963) and Leaflets (1969). The content of her work became increasingly confrontational—exploring such themes as women’s role in society, racism, and the Vietnam War. The style of these poems also revealed a shift from careful metric patterns to free verse. Adrienne Rich wrote the poem “Aunt Jennifer‘s Tigers, “to explain a woman’s struggle to accept the indignities of her daily life and using sewing as an escape. In the poem, Jennifer has control over her tigers in her sewing, but her husband has control over her in reality. And the reason she creates tigers, because they are fearless and exotic unlike her. Her world is more domestic and she has to be submissive to her husband. I love this poem, because the images are images are strong and express the overall message. Since Aunt Jennifer is being control, she finds freedom in her explosion of fabric with her tigers.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Order Up Free Entry 3/2/2010
Have you seen my status?
I am about to let the weakest link Go lol.
To cook a man
Prep: 20 minutes Bake1hour and15 minutes Oven: 350 f
6x8 Baking pan Cool: 30 minutes Serves: 1
• Preheat the oven to 350 f
• Allow the man to stand at room temperature for 30 minutes
• Grease the 6 x8 square feet baking pan and set it aside
• Start to grease the man’s elbows for four minutes or until thick
• In a small saucepan heat and stir his lies until they melt
• Before inserting the man into the baking pan, begin to trim the fat
• Gradually cut off his phone, twitter, myspace and facebook page
• Once done, place him in the oven and cook for 1hour and15 minutes
• Cook until golden brown
• When he’s golden brown take him out the oven and let him cool for 30 minutes
• Or until he’s ready to serve
By: Shanterica Brooks
I am about to let the weakest link Go lol.
To cook a man
Prep: 20 minutes Bake1hour and15 minutes Oven: 350 f
6x8 Baking pan Cool: 30 minutes Serves: 1
• Preheat the oven to 350 f
• Allow the man to stand at room temperature for 30 minutes
• Grease the 6 x8 square feet baking pan and set it aside
• Start to grease the man’s elbows for four minutes or until thick
• In a small saucepan heat and stir his lies until they melt
• Before inserting the man into the baking pan, begin to trim the fat
• Gradually cut off his phone, twitter, myspace and facebook page
• Once done, place him in the oven and cook for 1hour and15 minutes
• Cook until golden brown
• When he’s golden brown take him out the oven and let him cool for 30 minutes
• Or until he’s ready to serve
By: Shanterica Brooks
Monday, March 1, 2010
Digging
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney was born in April 1939, the eldest nine children. His father owned and worked a small farm in County Derry in Northern Ireland. Heaney's mother came from a family from the modern world than with the traditional rural economy. Heaney left the farm life, when he attended St. Columb's College, Derry in 1957 to continue his studies. In 1961 Heaney graduated from Queen's University and became a teacher at St. Joseph's College of Education. In 1966 he became a lecturer at Queen University. At Queen University, Heaney's published his first book called, Eleven Poems in 1965 and later the poem “Digging” in 1966.
I love the poem “Digging,” because Heaney uses nature to depict his ancestor’s cultural background. To me this poem has two different meanings. To me the first meaning of this poem explains how he uses his pen as his instrument. The second meaning of the poem deals with Heaney family. Heaney uses this poem to describe his connection between his grandfather and father, while searching for his own identity through their cultural background. I love how Heaney uses a semantic structure when comparing writing poetry to digging on a farm. This to me is brilliant and shows a great example of how to play on words in a poem.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney was born in April 1939, the eldest nine children. His father owned and worked a small farm in County Derry in Northern Ireland. Heaney's mother came from a family from the modern world than with the traditional rural economy. Heaney left the farm life, when he attended St. Columb's College, Derry in 1957 to continue his studies. In 1961 Heaney graduated from Queen's University and became a teacher at St. Joseph's College of Education. In 1966 he became a lecturer at Queen University. At Queen University, Heaney's published his first book called, Eleven Poems in 1965 and later the poem “Digging” in 1966.
I love the poem “Digging,” because Heaney uses nature to depict his ancestor’s cultural background. To me this poem has two different meanings. To me the first meaning of this poem explains how he uses his pen as his instrument. The second meaning of the poem deals with Heaney family. Heaney uses this poem to describe his connection between his grandfather and father, while searching for his own identity through their cultural background. I love how Heaney uses a semantic structure when comparing writing poetry to digging on a farm. This to me is brilliant and shows a great example of how to play on words in a poem.
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