Poems for Studying Marxist Criticism In speech--which I have not--to make your will And for my nineteenth birthday I got a union card and a wedding Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this coat “My Papa’s Waltz,” by Theodore Roethke "Or that in you dis gusts me; here you miss, We w ent down to the courthouse "Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let and the judge put it all to rest The w hiskey on your breath Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set No w edding day smiles no walk down the aisle Could make a small boy dizzy; Her w its to yours, forsooth, and make excuse, No flow ers no wedding dress But I hung on like death: --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Such waltzing was not easy. Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, That night w e went down to the river Whene'er I passed her; but who passed w ithout And into the river we'd dive We romped until the pans Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Oh dow n to the river we did ride Slid from the kitchen shelf ; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands My mother’s countenance As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet I got a job working construction for the Johnstown Company Could not unfrown itself. The company below, then. I repeat, But lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy The Count your master's known munificence Now all them things that seemed so important The hand that held my wrist Is ample w arrant that no just pretense Well mister they vanished right into the air Was battered on one knuckle; Of mine for dowry will be disallow ed; Now I just act like I don't remember At every step you missed Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed Mary acts like she don't care My right ear scraped a buckle. At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, But I remember us riding in my brother's car You beat time on my head Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir With a palm caked hard by dirt, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! At night on them banks I'd lie aw ake Then w altzed me off to bed _____ And pull her close just to feel each breath she'd take Still clinging to your shirt. Now those memories come back to haunt me _____ “Uphill,” by Christina Rossetti they haunt me like a curse Is a dream a lie if it don't come true “My Last Duchess,” by Robert Browning DOES the road w ind uphill all the w ay? Or is it something w orse Yes, to the very end. that sends me dow n to the riv er That's my last duchess painted on the wall, Will the day's journey take the whole long day? though I know the riv er is dry Looking as if she were alive. I call From morn to night, my friend. That sends me down to the river tonight That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Dow n to the river Worked busily a day, and there she stands. But is there for the night a resting-place? my baby and I Will't please you sit and look at her? I said A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. Oh dow n to the river we ride "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read May not the darkness hide it from my face? _____ Strangers like you that pictured countenance, You cannot miss that inn. The depth and passion of its earnest glance, “Common People,” by Jarvis Cocker But to myself they turned (since none puts by Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) Those who have gone before. She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge, And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? she studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College, How such a glance came there; so, not the first They w ill not keep you waiting at that door. that's where I, Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not caught her eye. Her husband's presence only, called that spot Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? She told me that her Dad w as loaded, Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Of labour you shall find the sum. I said "In that case I'll have a rum and coca-cola." Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps Will there be beds for me and all w ho seek? She said "Fine." "Over my lady's wris t too much," or "Paint Yea, beds for all w ho come. and in thirty seconds time she said, "Must never hope to reproduce the faint _____ "Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff "I w ant to live like common people, Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough “The River,” by Bruce Springsteen I w ant to do whatever common people do, For calling up that spot of joy. She had I w ant to sleep w ith common people, A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, I come from dow n in the valley I w ant to sleep w ith common people, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er where mister when you'r e young like you." She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. They bring you up to do like your daddy done Sir, 'tw as all one! My favor at her breast, Me and Mary w e met in high school Well w hat else could I do - The dropping of the daylight in the West, when she was just seventeen I said "I'll see w hat I can do." The bough of cherries some offic ious fool We'd ride out of that valley down to where the fields were green I took her to a supermarket, Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule I don't know why but I had to start it somew here, She rode with round the terrace--all and each We'd go down to the river so it started there. Would draw from her alike the approving speech, And into the river we'd dive I said pretend you'v e got no money, Or blush, at least. She thanked men--good! but thanked Oh dow n to the river we'd ride she just laughed and said, Somehow --I know not how --as if she ranked "Oh you're so funny." My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name Then I got Mary pregnant I said "yeah? With anybody's gif t. Who'd stoop to blame and man that w as all she wrote Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here. This sort of trifling? Even had you skill Are you sure you want to live like common people, you want to see whatever common people see, And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, you want to sleep with common people, Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime I sw ear by the miracle-working ikon, you want to sleep with common people, Floats through their woods at morn; and by the fire and smoke of our nights: like me." All other sounds, in that still time, I w ill never come back to you. But she didn't understand, Of breeze and leaf are born. _____ she just smiled and held my hand. Rent a flat above a shop, The cottage homes of England! “Departure,” by Anna Akhmatova cut your hair and get a job. By thousands on her plains, Smoke some fags and play some pool, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, Although this land is not my own, pretend you never went to school. And round the hamlet fanes. I w ill remember its inland sea But still you'll never get it right, and the waters that are so cold cos when you're laid in bed at night, Through glow ing orchards forth they peep, watching roaches climb the w all, Each from its nook of leaves; the sand as white if you call your Dad he could stop it all. And fearless there the low ly sleep, as old bones, the pine trees As the bird beneath their eaves. strangely red where the sun comes down. You'll never live like common people, you'll never do what common people do, The free fair homes of England! I cannot say if it is our love, you'll never fail like common people, Long, long, in hut and hall, or the day, that is ending. you'll never watch your life slide out of view, May hearts of native proof be reared _____ and dance and drink and screw, To guard each hallowed wall! because there's nothing else to do. “You w ill hear thunder,” by Anna Akhmatova And green for ever be the groves, Sing along w ith the common people, And bright the flowery sod, You will hear thunder and remember me, sing along and it might just get you through, Where first the child's glad spirit loves And think: she wanted storms. The rim laugh along w ith the common people, Its country and its God! Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, laugh along even though they're laughing at you, _____ And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. and the stupid things that you do. Because you think that poor is cool. Sonnet XVII , by Pablo Neruda That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, I w ant to live with common people, I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, I w ant to live with common people etc... or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. Leaving my shadow still to be with you. _____ I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. “The Homes of England,” by Felicia Hemans I love you as the plant that never blooms "Where's the coward that would not dare but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; To fight for such a land?"-- MARMION. thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. THE stately homes of England, How beautif ul they stand, I love you w ithout know ing how, or when, or from where. Amidst their tall ancestral trees, I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; O'er all the pleasant land! so I love you because I know no other way The deer across their greensward bound, than this: where I does not exist, nor you, Through shade and sunny gleam; so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, And the swan glides past them w ith the sound so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. Of some rejoicing stream. _____ The merry homes of England! “You thought I w as that type,” by Anna Akhmatova Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love You thought I was that type: Meet in the ruddy light! that you could forget me, and that I'd plead and w eep and throw myself There woman's voice flows forth in song, under the hooves of a bay mare, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along or that I'd ask the sorcerers Some glorious page of old. for some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift: The blessed homes of England! my precious perfumed handkerchief. How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness Damn you! I w ill not grant That breathes from Sabbath hours! your cursed soul vic arious tears or a single glance.