“Hope” is the thing with feather (BY EMILY DICKINSON)

I have nothing concerning TESOL to share with you guys today. I am really busy at this very moment. The only thing I would like to show you today is this beautiful poem written by Emily Dickinson. 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 
(BY EMILY DICKINSON)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Summary

The speaker describes hope as a bird (“the thing with feathers”) that perches in the soul. There, it sings wordlessly and without pause. The song of hope sounds sweetest “in the Gale,” and it would require a terrifying storm to ever “abash the little Bird / That kept so many warm.” The speaker says that she has heard the bird of hope “in the chillest land— / And on the strangest Sea—”, but never, no matter how extreme the conditions, did it ever ask for a single crumb from her. (SparkNotes)

Like almost all of Dickinson’s poems, “ ‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers—...” takes the form of an iambic trimeter that often expands to include a fourth stress at the end of the line (as in “And sings the tune without the words—”). Like almost all of her poems, it modifies and breaks up the rhythmic flow with long dashes indicating breaks and pauses (“And never stops—at all—”). The stanzas, as in most of Dickinson’s lyrics, rhyme loosely in an ABCB scheme, though in this poem there are some incidental carryover rhymes: “words” in line three of the first stanza rhymes with “heard” and “Bird” in the second; “Extremity” rhymes with “Sea” and “Me” in the third stanza, thus, technically conforming to an ABBB rhyme scheme. (SparkNotes)

Commentary

This simple, metaphorical description of hope as a bird singing in the soul is another example of Dickinson’s homiletic style, derived from Psalms and religious hymns. Dickinson introduces her metaphor in the first two lines (“ ‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers— / That perches in the soul—”), then develops it throughout the poem by telling what the bird does (sing), how it reacts to hardship (it is unabashed in the storm), where it can be found (everywhere, from “chillest land” to “strangest Sea”), and what it asks for itself (nothing, not even a single crumb). Though written after “Success is counted sweetest,” this is still an early poem for Dickinson, and neither her language nor her themes here are as complicated and explosive as they would become in her more mature work from the mid-1860s. Still, we find a few of the verbal shocks that so characterize Dickinson’s mature style: the use of “abash,” for instance, to describe the storm’s potential effect on the bird, wrenches the reader back to the reality behind the pretty metaphor; while a singing bird cannot exactly be “abashed,” the word describes the effect of the storm—or a more general hardship—upon the speaker’s hopes. (SparkNotes)

References

Poetry Foundation. (2015). Retrieved June 27, 2015, from http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171619

SparkNotes Editors. (2002). SparkNote on Dickinson’s Poetry. Retrieved June 27, 2015, from http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/dickinson/

PORTAL DA LÍNGUA INGLESA has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-partly internet websites referred to in this post, and does not guarantee that any context on such websites are, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In some instances, I have been unable to trace the owners of the pictures used here; therefore, I would appreciate any information that would enable me to do so. Thank you very much.

Is something important missing? Report an error or suggest an improvement. Please, I strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that does not look right, contact me!

Did you spot a typo?

Do you have any tips or examples to improve this page?

Do you disagree with something on this page?

Use one of your social-media accounts to share this page:

The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost)

I cannot express how much I love this poem. I have read it many years ago. Back in college, it used to be my favorite one. Since I don’t have anything better to share with you folks tonight, here it goes - The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost.

Have fun!

The Road Not Taken 
(Robert Frost)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day! 
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) was an American poet. He is well known for his realistic writings of rural life and his use of American informal (slang) speech.[1] His poems were often set in rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, and used these settings to look at complex social and philosophical themes. Frost has often been quoted by other people. He was honored often during his lifetime, receiving four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. [From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

PORTAL DA LÍNGUA INGLESA has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-partly internet websites referred to in this post, and does not guarantee that any context on such websites are, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In some instances, I have been unable to trace the owners of the pictures used here; therefore, I would appreciate any information that would enable me to do so. Thank you very much.

Is something important missing? Report an error or suggest an improvement. Please, I strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that doesn't look right, contact me!

Did you spot a typo?

Do you have any tips or examples to improve this page?

Do you disagree with something on this page?

Use one of your social-media accounts to share this page:

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer BY WALT WHITMAN

  

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

BY WALT WHITMAN

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

PORTAL DA LÍNGUA INGLESA has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-partly internet websites referred to in this post, and does not guarantee that any context on such websites are, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In some instances, I have been unable to trace the owners of the pictures used here; therefore, I would appreciate any information that would enable me to do so. Thank you very much.

Is something important missing? Report an error or suggest an improvement. Please, I strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that doesn't look right, contact me!

Did you spot a typo?

Do you have any tips or examples to improve this page?

Do you disagree with something on this page?

Use one of your social-media accounts to share this page:

I am always looking for ways of improving this blog. I should be grateful if you would indicate the appropriate number below.

How would you rate this post?

(5) Excellent (4) Very good (3) Good (2) Satisfactory (1) It needs improvements

PINK DOG (by Elizabeth Bishop)

PINK DOG

                        

                         [Rio de Janeiro]

The sun is blazing and the sky is blue.

Umbrellas clothe the beach in every hue.

Naked, you trot across the avenue.

Oh, never have I seen a dog so bare!

Naked and pink, without a single hair...

Startled, the passersby draw back and stare.

Of course they're mortally afraid of rabies.

You are not mad; you have a case of scabies

but look intelligent. Where are your babies?

(A nursing mother, by those hanging teats.)

In what slum have you hidden them, poor bitch,

while you go begging, living by your wits?

Didn't you know? It's been in all the papers,

to solve this problem, how they deal with beggars?

They take and throw them in the tidal rivers.

Yes, idiots, paralytics, parasites

go bobbing int the ebbing sewage, nights

out in the suburbs, where there are no lights.

If they do this to anyone who begs,

drugged, drunk, or sober, with or without legs,

what would they do to sick, four-legged dogs?

In the cafés and on the sidewalk corners

the joke is going round that all the beggars

who can afford them now wear life preservers.

In your condition you would not be able

even to float, much less to dog-paddle.

Now look, the practical, the sensible

solution is to wear a fantasía.

Tonight you simply can't afford to be a-

n eyesore... But no one will ever see a

dog in máscara this time of year.

Ash Wednesday'll come but Carnival is here.

What sambas can you dance? What will you wear?

They say that Carnival's degenerating

— radios, Americans, or something,

have ruined it completely. They're just talking.

Carnival is always wonderful!

A depilated dog would not look well.

Dress up! Dress up and dance at Carnival!

1979

Elizabeth Bishop

CADELA ROSADA

                         

[Rio de Janeiro]

Sol forte, céu azul. O Rio sua.

Praia apinhada de barracas. Nua,

passo apressado, você cruza a rua.

Nunca vi um cão tão nu, tão sem nada,

sem pêlo, pele tão avermelhada...

Quem a vê até troca de calçada.

Têm medo da raiva. Mas isso não

é hidrofobia — é sarna. O olhar é são

e esperto. E os seus filhotes, onde estão?

(Tetas cheias de leite.) Em que favela

você os escondeu, em que ruela,

pra viver sua vida de cadela?

Você não sabia? Deu no jornal:

pra resolver o problema social,

estão jogando os mendigos num canal.

E não são só pedintes os lançados

no rio da Guarda: idiotas, aleijados,

vagabundos, alcoólatras, drogados.

Se fazem isso com gente, os estúpidos,

com pernetas ou bípedes, sem escrúpulos,

o que não fariam com um quadrúpede?

A piada mais contada hoje em dia

é que os mendigos, em vez de comida,

andam comprando bóias salva-vidas.

Você, no estado em que está, com esses peitos,

jogada no rio, afundava feito

parafuso. Falando sério, o jeito

mesmo é vestir alguma fantasia.

Não dá pra você ficar por aí à

toa com essa cara. Você devia

pôr uma máscara qualquer. Que tal?

Até a quarta-feira, é Carnaval!

Dance um samba! Abaixo o baixo-astral!

Dizem que o Carnaval está acabando,

culpa do rádio, dos americanos...

Dizem a mesma bobagem todo ano.

O Carnaval está cada vez melhor!

Agora, um cão pelado é mesmo um horror...

Vamos, se fantasie! A-lá-lá-ô...!

1979

Poema extraído de: Elizabeth Bishop. O Iceberg Imaginário e Outros Poemas.   Seleção, tradução e estudo crítico de Paulo Henriques Britto. Companhia das Letras, São Paulo, 2001

PORTAL DA LÍNGUA INGLESA has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-partly internet websites referred to in this post, and does not guarantee that any context on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In some instances, I have been unable to trace the owners of the pictures used here; therefore, I would appreciate any information that would enable me to do so. Thank you very much.

Is something important missing? Report an error or suggest an improvement. Please, I strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that doesn't look right, contact me!

Did you spot a typo?

Do you have any tips or examples to improve this page?

Do you disagree with something on this page?

Use one of your social-media accounts to share this page:

One Art (by Elizabeth Bishop)

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

A arte de perder não é nenhum mistério

tantas coisas contém em si o acidente

de perdê-las, que perder não é nada sério.

Perca um pouco a cada dia. Aceite austero,

a chave perdida, a hora gasta bestamente.

A arte de perder não é nenhum mistério.

Depois perca mais rápido, com mais critério:

lugares, nomes, a escala subsequente

da viagem não feita. Nada disso é sério.

Perdi o relógio de mamãe. Ah! E nem quero

lembrar a perda de três casas excelentes.

A arte de perder não é nenhum mistério.

Perdi duas cidades lindas. Um império

que era meu, dois rios, e mais um continente.

Tenho saudade deles. Mas não é nada sério.

Mesmo perder você ( a voz, o ar etéreo, que eu amo)

não muda nada. Pois é evidente

que a arte de perder não chega a ser um mistério

por muito que pareça (escreve) muito sério.

PORTAL DA LÍNGUA INGLESA has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-partly internet websites referred to in this post, and does not guarantee that any context on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In some instances, I have been unable to trace the owners of the pictures used here; therefore, I would appreciate any information that would enable me to do so. Thank you very much.

Is something important missing? Report an error or suggest an improvement. Please, I strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that doesn't look right, contact me!

Did you spot a typo?

Do you have any tips or examples to improve this page?

Do you disagree with something on this page?

Use one of your social-media accounts to share this page:

A DRINKING SONG (BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS)

A DRINKING SONG

(BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS)

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.

PORTAL DA LÍNGUA INGLESA has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-partly internet websites referred to in this post, and does not guarantee that any context on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

In some instances, I have been unable to trace the owners of the pictures used here; therefore, I would appreciate any information that would enable me to do so. Thank you very much.

Is something important missing? Report an error or suggest an improvement. Please, I strive for accuracy and fairness. If you see something that doesn't look right, contact me!

Did you spot a typo?

Do you have any tips or examples to improve this page?

Do you disagree with something on this page?

Use one of your social-media accounts to share this page: