Poetry Analysis

  1. Identify the mode/genre of the poem and 2. conduct a close reading that pays attention to the prosody, mode, and genre (the form) of the poem. 3. Make sure your essay has a thesis.

Disappearing Act
by Tony Barnstone

And then one day the streets were empty. And
then one day our neighbors all were gone.
Alkazam! Poof! A magic act. At gun-
point these Americans were taken: hand
over your house, your business, farm. They’re not
yours anymore. Now grab what you can carry
and board the train. And like a cemetery
our town filled up with emptiness. At night
the vacant houses watched me, and in fright
I’d burst out singing “Pistol Packin’ Mama”
and then I’d run past them, lickety-kite.
I had the normal tussles, childhood drama,
and called the kids I fought “Dirty Jap rat,”
and hid my German blood. Whites could do that.

Boy, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 1942
(note that this poem takes place during WWII. The United States, Great Britain, and France, were at war with Germany, Japan, and Italy. The poem refers to the Japanese internment camps in the United States, in which American citizens of Japanese descent were placed in internment camps, forfeiting their property).

Listening To A Brown-Eyed Man Play It For Somebody Else
C. D Wright

An old woman riding the bus folds her paper
thinking of him.
A man gets out of a government car, shows a boy
a picture of him.
A woman finished off a fifth talking about him. Or just
talking
About the brown eyes.

Somewhere between the bed and the clothesline
You stopped losing blood. The only thing I had to go by,
An envelope that went through the wash.
There were rumors. No one had influenza. There were no
deer
Left to shoot. People had to do something
With their lives. The women you sold the encyclopedias
Didn’t get any volumes after C. She remembers you,
College boy. Working his way through.
Beautiful eyes. The man at the post office
Gave me your combination. When I opened the box
Your sour breath blew in my face. I heard
You went south in a tent. Revivals one night,
Movies for men the next. You hired someone
To wipe off the folding chairs.
You walked through the parking lot.
Boys were drinking root beer. Setting fire to cars.
They whipped you good. Your landlady
Patched you up. She said you would be back.
You left your felt hat and your albums,
Nothing but blues.
You did time. I heard. Your mother is dead.
The past is a deep place. I know
Lightning doesn’t strike lovers or old musicians,
They disappear in a dream of the tree it does.

The Right Time
by William Stafford

All the lies in our town ran to the river one summer night and jumped in. It was after a band concert in the park, full moon, fireflies, ice cream on the way home. And like a hiave of bees the lies just up and left. They couldn’t stand it any more.

I sat on the front step and watched through the moonlight hours. Owls along the street began to mourn. Aglow at every corner, our town stretched out and slept. A window in Jane’s house on the corner shone and then dimmed.

In a heavy darkness out there my teachers were sleeping, and the mean cop who chased us from The Fair Grounds, and the bankers and merchants and mothers in their mysterious lives.

After that night I forgave and was forgiven. The courthouse, the school, parents, police—these never frightened me afterward.

When we live again, when Crazy Horse comes back, and the buffalo dot the hills, one little shadow will wait, off to the side. It will be staring through a thin row of trees at a full moon floating and waiting while lights go off in a town, late and still, on a summer night.

Annunciation: Eve to Ave
by Mary Szybist

The wings behind the man I never saw,
But often, afterward, I dreamed his lips,
remembered the slight angle of his hips,
his feet among the tulips and the straw.
I liked the way his voice deepened as he called.
As for the words, I liked the showmanship
with which he spoke them. Behind him, distant ships
went still; the water was smooth as his jaw—
And when I learned that he was not a man—
bullwhip, horsewhip, unzip, I could have crawled
through thorn and bee, the thick of hive, rosehip,
courtship, lordship, gossip and lavender.
(But I was quiet, quiet as
eagerness—that astonished, dutiful fall.)

An Hour Later, You’re Hungry Again
by Adrienne Su

For the table to be round.
For the teapot to be bottomless.
For your elders to compose the menu.
For the waiter to recite the order back.
For the fish-maw soup to be ladled at the table.
For red vinegar to bloom in it, a submerged flower.
For the bright lights and immaculate tablecloth.
For the extra order of Singapore noodles.
For the white blossoms on Chinese broccoli.
For your mother to warn you which sauces are hot.
For your brother to turn the lazy Susan just when you need it.
For the cloth napkin to slide to the floor.
For rice in a hexagonal lacquered box.
For the hill of bones on your tiny plate.
For the Wash ’n Dri packet after the lobster.
For the sea bass to give up its spine without resistance.
For your aunt to serve you nameless meats you love.
For your grandfather to assign everyone a favorite dish, incorrectly.
For the shrimp to have expressionless eyes.
For your grandmother to murmur “thank you” as everyone serves her.
For the owner to insist on calling your father “professor.”
For the ice water you requested but forgot to drink.
For the film of oil on your last grains of rice.
For the gift of red-bean soup with the oranges.
For the numbers on the check, in Chinese penmanship.
For the leftovers in their cartons, in tied plastic bags.
For the Chinese-newspaper rack in the vestibule.
For night to have fallen while you were eating.
For ginger and scallions to infiltrate the dreams
from which you will wake in the only home you know.

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