Week 4-1

A hook and eye closure

[you fit into me] Margaret Atwood

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Sonnet 18 William Shake?speare?

Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, an image from the 1609 Quarto

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
You are more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease has all too short a date:

Sometimes the eye of heaven shines too hot,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every "fair" at some time fades from fair,
By chance, or the untrimmed change of nature.

But your eternal summer shall not fade,
nor will you lose possession of your "fair,"
nor will Death brag that you are his
when you pass into eternity.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

May Morning James Wright

     Deep into spring, winter is hanging on. Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness, he stays alive in every shady place, starving along the Mediterranean: angry to see the glittering sea-pale boulder alive with lizards green as Judas leaves. Winter is hanging on. He still believes. He tries to catch a lizard by the shoulder. One olive tree below Grottaghlie welcomes the winter into noontime shade, and talks as softly as Pythagoras. Be still, be patient, I can hear him say, cradling in his arms the wounded head, letting the sunlight touch the savage face.

Deep into spring, winter is hanging on.
Bitter and skillful in his hopelessness,
he stays alive in every shady place,
starving along the Mediterranean:

angry to see the glittering sea-pale boulder
alive with lizards green as Judas leaves.
Winter is hanging on. He still believes.
He tries to catch a lizard by the shoulder.

One olive tree below Grottaghlie
welcomes the winter into noontime shade,
and talks as softly as Pythagoras.
Be still, be patient, I can hear him say,

cradling in his arms the wounded head,
letting the sunlight touch the savage face.