"I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me." This sentence sets up this notion of the "Invisible " and "the blind" that seems to bear a thematic relevance throughout the prologue and the first chapter. The narrator is invisible because of his physical color. He describes a defined barrier that contradicts by simultaneously not being there and yet, in reality, existing. The "blind" see all that is in proximity and in a sense only what they choose to see. Blind seems to correspond with the dreamers and sleepwalkers that are later referenced.

An essential element of this piece is the voice of the narrator. The voice is conversational, direct, and intellectual. The syntax is inviting and unique. It's not a light, easy read. The candid voice welcomes consideration, and as a reader I found myself stopping to reread sections in an attempt to take it all in.

The value of the plot does not rely only on action; it is about insight and reflection. The mugging couldn't achieve the same depth without being heightened by reflection. "You ache with the need to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of all the sound and anguish, and you strike out with your fists, you curse and swear and make them recognize you." This phrase hurts as well as working to heighten the plot. It would be easier to view the narrator as a "mugger", another bad guy. But, as a reader I'm forced into his pain and my own irrational rationalization. Is every human mind so quick to satisfy justification? It seems that I want to understand it all, and Ralph Ellison is going to challenge that. How valuable.

1,369 bulbs make a lot of light. I love the strangeness of this. It seems relevant and powerful that in his hole he has created a haven where he can exist in pure unrestrained light. The narrator compares himself to Edison and Franklin in his ingenuity. Of it he says, "Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form." That statement suggests a physical pleasure of actually being illuminated, but also suggests a greater meaning of power. Perhaps, being able to accomplish something like that, of having the electric company notice him, even as only numbers, lost watts, is satisfying.

Robert Hayden was born into the poor neighborhoods of Detroit. His parents divorced early on and his mother left him in foster care. Of his upbringing he said, "I lived in the midst of so much turmoil all the time I didn't know if I loved or hated." This conflicting statement seems to bear more depth than words could explain. I think it may be more effective to just feel its meaning. This accomplished man became an English professor, distinguished writer, and the first African American to be poetry consultant to the Library of Congress.
Middle Passage by Robert Hayden retells the horror of the slave ships traveling from Africa with specific focus on The Amistad. Without reading a word, the physical appearance is fragmented with broken structure and altered margins. There is movement in appearance even without the words. The opening brings us into the four slave ships that are labeled and directly to vivid description of "sails flashing like weapons, sharks following moans, fever, horror, and dying." The language is brash, precise, and concise. Images are explored through a small number of carefully compiled words.
Historical details are inserted with specific dates, names, and events. I found so much relevance in this poem not just in the writing that was lush, but in the incorporation of facts. There's depth in the content of this poem not just in the views of the author but in the historical relevance. The sections seem to be separated by different voices leaning into each other with a hymn constantly echoing in the background. The hymn declares the words of the Christian, "Jesus Savior pilot me over life's tempestuous sea." The hymn continues, woven into the suffering and crews despondence and evil. It seems to clarify the hypocrisy of the "heathen" view that did exist.
Small amounts of repetition are inserted like, "Voyage through death, voyage whose chartings are unlove." This poem is pure horror. I also notice portions where more subtle alliteration of consonants is used. "They threw overboard the butchered bodies." Downward movement is achieved as words included in the opening of the poem bring closure that lingers with the reader. "Voyage through death to life upon these shores." I view Hayden as a master of language. I'm astonished at the concise writing that contains so much fact, story, detail, emotion, and imagery.

Help. I'm weighing the prompts and wavering back and forth until I'm a little dizzy, nauseous actually. I'm extremely intrigued by T.S Elliot's Tradition and the Individual Talent. But, I'm not worthy of corduroy and I'm not ready to be paired with the words "literary scholar" even if I am pretending. The other options invite me to become Ezra Pound or to dictate the content of a text book. Wow. Mostly, I'm just a girl who loves to read.

In Tradition and the Individual Talent Elliot states the "criticism is as inevitable as breathing." Is that a warning, complaint, or an invitation to examine his essay and think? For some reason, it invites me into his compilation of thoughts. I'd like to see the intellectual author with a more defined thread of coherency. I notice the first essay holds a strong thematic element of timelessness among writers and the distinct influence of writing from all eras upon itself. .

The idea of "tradition" is approached in depth. While the initial definition of "a generation before us in blind and timid adherence to his successes" is regarded as something to stay away from. Elliot's own ideas of tradition lean towards hard work and perception that is not "handed down." Elliot touches on the cultural influence of country which is an extremely interesting angle to explore of a man in his circumstance.

It's also time to reason with the poet versus the poetry. What and how do they connect? One should know why "The mind of the poet is the shred of platinum." Elliot weighs the aged author, and the influence of emotions. He concludes the essay with a contrast of living and dead, a common theme of his work.


I'd love the experience of reviewing his essay from a bit less formal syntax than a text book would require. That might reveal quickly why I shouldn't write a text book; I tell stories. How about a response letter to the publishing magazine of the piece or a literary review from an Innocent bystander? Can I examine the content with a valiant effort of dissecting the words? I want to make some sense of Elliot. And who knows, with this insight maybe the next time I read The Waste Land, I'd grasp a line or two with more clarity.

Marianne Moore writes poetry with distinct flavor. I can't say that she exactly moved me at first, but there was an intriguing voice and tone that came through as I read. I wanted to read it again. She has flair in the edgy way she presents what is seemingly mundane. I didn't know if she was making a joke or making fun of me as I read. I felt like I should be on guard.

"I, too, dislike it." What a quirky, sarcastic, and possibly clever way to begin a poem. I think that's against all of the laws of writing, but Marianne could care less. I admire that to a degree, because I'm a rule girl. I like safety.

But, It's a trick. She slyly endears the reader into what might happen if they read a poem. (even with "perfect contempt") In poetry there is a place for "the genuine." I loved that comparison. I believe genuine is better than proper when it's necessary. Genuine is a deep compliment.

The following phrases deepened the poem in a personal way. The reference to actual physical properties influenced by words was powerful and true. "Hair that can rise" I read; it's my treat at the end of the day. That doesn't mean I understand or know anything, but I feel so much from compiled words. The stories linger in my mind for days, and I think about them. I know what it is to turn the pages and have the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I've laughed out loud, cried, and left the hall light on because a fictional "monster" might jump of the page when I'm sleeping. She is sarcastically bringing us to poetry.

She calls poetry important not because of "high-sounding interpretation. I appreciate that. This is personal for me as I have stayed away from poetry, afraid of not understanding it. I'm learning that it's not hanging around for me to misinterpret. It doesn't care about me that much.
Maybe, It's there to learn from. Maybe, its a process of bits and pieces coming over years.


As I read I kept thinking I can use this poem. I'll teach High School English someday, and I'll compile this poem with my curriculum. I think it would be a great icebreaker for the students that have a mental block when you start talking poetry. They'll like the first line, and I'm hoping she can slyly show them something "genuine" in it.

Let me start by being honest. I'm moved by a sense of beauty at the compilation of sound and meter and the way the words feel on my tongue when I read them out loud. But, when it comes to deciphering them, I'm lost. Robert Frosts sets the lines in a steady rhythm and language that seems simple, but I know it has more meaning than I can perceive. I'll do my best.

I'll settle into poem that stood out with clear political connotations and references that were unsettling to me. The Gift Outright begins with phrases that caused me to cringe. This piece was recited by Frost at John F. Kennedy's 1961 inauguration. "The land was ours before we were the land's. Before we were her people... she was ours.." I couldn't help but relate these statements to the Israeli Palestinian conflict. And, I wonder if Frost wrote from a literal view. Where did he really stand?

Does our Manifest Destiny hold the same fervor that the Jewish and Muslim people's beliefs would that justify obtaining at all costs God's will? Is every people willing to kill for their promised land? I see the parallels in all cultures and it's frightening.

My husband and I were able to travel to Jordan in November for two weeks, and hosted a Jordanian administrator in our home for an additional two weeks. We spent time in a Palestinian refuge school in Amman. These children have no country. They call them selves Palestinians, but there is no Palestine. Jordan will house, but not accept them as their own. They have every faith that they will again return to their homeland. Israel doesn't exist to a Muslim; Palestine doesn't exist to an Israeli Jew. My perception is that these feuding groups are not always as different from Americans as we would believe or the media would portray. There is pride in every culture.

The words possessing, unpossessed, and possessed were skillfully used in the next phrases. Basically, we can look at the early Americans as a people who became possessed with possession of land. It was never enough. They wanted "sea to shining sea." Maybe this piece is a recognition of faults or is he serious?

I'd go to the phrases that refer to the "weakness of withholding of ourselves" and relate it to allowing ourselves to be possessed and lose ourselves in that. Does the cause somehow override humanity?

I'm troubled by the final phrases. I read into them the suggestion that whites deeded a gift of land to the Indians, as if it was a great gesture. Also, is he suggesting that The Indian culture was "still unstoried, artless, and unenhanced?" I have to say that this week I have more questions after compiling my blog than I had when I began. What was the true message and motive of the author?

W. E. B. Du Bois invites the reader gently into From The Souls of Black Folk. "I pray you, then, receive my little book in all charity, studying my words with me, forgiving mistake and foible for sake of the faith and passion that is in me." It's an endearing welcome to compiled words that begin laced with humility. It stirs the soul and persuades a reader to think with their mind and heart unlocked.

Du Bois includes a singular metaphor that is repeated through the piece. He refers to "the Veil." He wrote of being a student with brown skin and the rejection of a white girl, in grade school. "It dawned on me with a certain suddenness, that I was...shut out from their world by a vast veil."

What a haunting example of the way we view others through some type of invisible separation that doesn't really exist, but is there, nonetheless. It's an imaginary barrier formed by prejudice and perceptions that form through experience and society. But, it's so sly and filtered, only the most discerning can see it.

This idea stemmed from an event that happened when he was a young boy. "The veil" was starting to form. The idea makes too much sense to me. I see children that are born without it. They don't know separation and difference; they come with acceptance. I'd love to be like a child and be best friends with everyone I meet. They don't have the oppression, yet, that we, often unknowingly, instill in them and let creep into our own selves. It's such a twisted truth we fight against.

The gentle tone of Du Bois work changes to reveal the injustice. But, the balance is ideal. Bold statements, logical opinions, and heart wrenching song are mixed with the facts. He uses history and truth to back his motives. Speaking of black men he said,"To be a poor man is hard, to be a poor race in a land of dollars is the very bottom of hardships. He felt the weight of his ignorance."
It's just too much to grasp.

He goes on further to relate "true American song" to the music of the Negro Slave, and "American fairy tales and folklore" to India and Africa. We all live in this collective nation rich with history, great intentions, and some absolutely horrific decisions.

Du Bois concludes his third chapter with the powerful words of the founding fathers proclaiming "equality, liberty, and happiness." He gives Americans the truths and ideals that were not upheld. He was correct in saying, "The Nation has not yet found peace from its sins; the freedman has not yet found in freedom his promised land." I think it's significant to consider that in a mixed quest that had so much to do with an initial pursuit freedom and liberty, too many found bondage of the soul in becoming the physical master of another human being. How could there ever be freedom in that?

He was Frederick Douglass' clerk. Frederick Douglass. Who does that? After plans of becoming a lawyer, Paul Laurence Dunbar simply changed his mind. He wanted to "prove to the many that we were more human than African."

Isn't it ironic that the same devotion would bear a wall of criticism from Harlem Renaissance leaders for his "black folk" dialect usage. The southern slave language is rampant and rhythmic in An Ante-Bellum Sermon. It bears a distinctive meter that begs to be read in a dominant voice or even attached to the chords of a hymn. It read like a sermon story with the reflective comparison of Moses. I admire Dunbar's choice to display "without apology" the words the way they were. I'm certain there are better resting places for the shame of slavery.

We Wear a Mask is a clustered title that historically suggests a connection between the constant oppression of a slave to their master. The entire poem bears the metaphor of a mask without a direct word that would relate it to slavery or race. It uses repetitive constanats and as I read it felt heavy, moderate, and flowing. It has a theme that lingers.

The mask of a slave was worn with dire consequence. It wasn't just about what others might think, but what penalty would come. Their minds and hearts were silenced to the degree of possible death. It's bigger than I'll ever comprehend.

But, this piece doesn't recognize skin color. It talked to me. Mask, grins, and lies are three words huddled together in the first sentence like a truth we all know and continue to abide. I wonder if the mask is for protection or some attempt at social propriety? I haven't seen evidence in my society of strict penalties for bawling at the bus stop, or bellowing in the park. Although, it does sound awkward and there is an ordinance about disturbing the peace. I imagine our behavior results from a concoction brimming with mixed intent. It's a fixture all humans tend to wear in different degrees.


"We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries" Don't we all have the private moments of supplication, of falling apart and letting it all go, whether it be to a divine source or just the sky? We "let the world dream otherwise." Dream seems significant in relation to the imaginary fantasies that they are. We let the world see lies. And, without even realizing it, we stride out of our closets, again, with a smile plastered across our face that is sometimes real. I think that's what we're all looking for.