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TEST BORRADO, QUIZÁS LE INTERESE: Literatura Inglesa IV

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Título del Test: Literatura Inglesa IV Descripción: Poemas Lit Autor: Uned OTROS TESTS DEL AUTOR Fecha de Creación: 03/05/2019 Categoría: Otros Número Preguntas: 53

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I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat. The convenience of the high trees! The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray Are of advantage to me; And the earth's face upward for my inspection. My feet are locked upon the rough bark. It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads - The allotment of death. For the one path of my flight is direct Through the bones of the living. No arguments assert my right: The sun is behind me. Nothing has changed since I began. My eye has permitted no change. I am going to keep things like this. Remember how we picked the daffodils? Nobody else remembers, but I remember. Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy, Helping the harvest. She has forgotten. She cannot even remember you. And we sold them. It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them. Were we so poor? Old Stoneman, the grocer, Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot (It was his last chance, He would die in the same great freeze as you) , He persuaded us. Every Spring He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen, ‘A custom of the house’. Besides, we still weren’t sure we wanted to own Anything. Mainly we were hungry To convert everything to profit. Still nomads-still strangers To our whole possession. The daffodils Were incidental gilding of the deeds, Treasure trove. They simply came, And they kept on coming. As if not from the sod but falling from heaven. Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck. We knew we’d live forever. We had not learned What a fleeting glance of the everlasting Daffodils are. Never identified The nuptial flight of the rarest epherma- Our own days! We thought they were a windfall. Never guessed they were a last blessing. So we sold them. We worked at selling them As if employed on somebody else’s Flower-farm. You bent at it In the rain of that April-your last April. We bent there together, among the soft shrieks Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken Of their girlish dance-frocks- Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy, Opened too early. This house has been far out at sea all night, The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampeding the fields under the window Floundering black astride and blinding wet Till day rose; then under an orange sky The hills had new places, and wind wielded Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, Flexing like the lens of a mad eye. At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as The coal-house door. Once I looked up - Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope, The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace, At any second to bang and vanish with a flap; The wind flung a magpie away and a black- Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house Rang like some fine green goblet in the note That any second would shatter it. Now deep In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought, Or each other. We watch the fire blazing, And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on, Seeing the window tremble to come in, Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons. . I found this jawbone at the sea's edge: There, crabs, dogfish, broken by the breakers or tossed To flap for half an hour and turn to a crust Continue the beginning. The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold. Nothing touches but, clutching, devours. And the jaws, Before they are satisfied or their stretched purpose Slacken, go down jaws; go gnawn bare. Jaws Eat and are finished and the jawbone comes to the beach: This is the sea's achievement; with shells, Verterbrae, claws, carapaces, skulls. Time in the sea eats its tail, thrives, casts these Indigestibles, the spars of purposes That failed far from the surface. None grow rich In the sea. This curved jawbone did not laugh But gripped, gripped and is now a cenotaph. Pike, three inches long, perfect Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold. Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin. They dance on the surface among the flies. Or move, stunned by their own grandeur, Over a bed of emerald, silhouette Of submarine delicacy and horror. A hundred feet long in their world. In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads- Gloom of their stillness: Logged on last year’s black leaves, watching upwards. Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds The jaws’ hooked clamp and fangs Not to be changed at this date: A life subdued to its instrument; The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals. Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death. Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death. Who owns these still-working lungs? Death. Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death. Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death. Who owns these questionable brains? Death. All this messy blood? Death. These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death. This wicked little tongue? Death. This occasional wakefulness? Death. Mother, you sent me to ballet lessons And praised my arabesques and trills Although each teacher found my touch Oddly wooden in spite of scales And the hours of practicing, my ear Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable. I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere, From muses unhired by you, dear mother,. Since Christmas they have lived with us, Guileless and clear, Oval soul-animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk Invisible air drifts, Giving a shriek and pop When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling. Yellow cathead, blue fish--- Such queer moons we live with Instead of dead furniture! Straw mats, white walls And these traveling Globes of thin air, red, green, Delighting The heart like wishes or free Peacocks blessing Old ground with a feather Beaten in starry metals. Your small Brother is making His balloon squeak like a cat. Seeming to see A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it, He bites, Then sits Back, fat jug Contemplating a world clear as water. A red Shred in his little fist. A garden of mouthings. Purple, scarlet-speckled, black The great corollas dilate, peeling back their silks. Their musk encroaches, circle after circle, A well of scents almost too dense to breathe in. Hieratical in your frock coat, maestro of the bees, You move among the many-breasted hives, My heart under your foot, sister of a stone. . You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—— Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—— The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There’s a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through. . I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. . Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. I want to fill it with colors and ducks, The zoo of the new Whose names you meditate – April snowdrop, Indian pipe, Little Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star. . And now with the vistas like Earl Grey’s I look out over life and praise from my unsteady, sea-view plinth each dark turn of the labyrinth, that might like a river suddenly wind its widening banks into the sea and Newcastle is Newcastle is New- castle is Peru! […] Discovery! wart, mole, spot, like outcrops on a snowfield, dot these slopes of flesh my fingers ski with circular dexterity. This moment when my hand strays your body like an endless maze, returning and returning, you, O you; you also are Peru. . The graveyards of Leeds 2 Were hardly love-nests but they had to do – Through clammy mackintosh and winter vest And rumpled jumper for a touch of breast. Stroked nylon crackled over groin and bum Like granny’s wireless stuck on Hilversum. And after love we’d find some epitaph Embossed backwards on your arse and laugh. . How you became a poet's a mystery! Wherever did you get your talent from? I say: I had two uncles, Joe and Harry- one was a stammered, the other dumb. . Bottomless pits. There’s one in Castleton, and stout upholders of our law and order one day thought its depth worth wagering on and borrowed a convict hush-hush from his warder and winched him down; and back, flayed, grey, mad, dumb. Not even a good flogging made him holler! O gentlemen, a better way to plumb the depths of Britain’s dangling a scholar, say, here at the booming shaft at Towanroath, now National Trust, a place where they got tin, those gentlemen who silenced the men’s oath and killed the language that they swore it in. The dumb go down in history and disappear and not one gentleman ’s been brought to book: Mes den hep tavas a-gollas y dyr (Cornish)— ‘the tongueless man gets his land took.’ . Baked the day she suddenly dropped dead we chew it slowly that last apple pie. Shocked into sleeplessness you're scared of bed. We never could talk much, and now don't try. You're like book ends, the pair of you, she'd say, Hog that grate, say nothing, sit, sleep, stare... The 'scholar' me, you, worn out on poor pay, only our silence made us seem a pair. Not as good for staring in, blue gas, too regular each bud, each yellow spike. A night you need my company to pass and she not here to tell us we're alike! Your life's all shattered into smithereens. Back in our silences and sullen looks, for all the Scotch we drink, what's still between 's not the thirty or so years, but books, books, books. . The stone's too full. The wording must be terse. There's scarcely room to carve the FLORENCE on it -- Come on, it's not as if we're wanting verse. It's not as if we're wanting a whole sonnet! After tumblers of neat Johnny Walker (I think that both of us we're on our third) you said you'd always been a clumsy talker and couldn't find another, shorter word for 'beloved' or for 'wife' in the inscription, but not too clumsy that you can't still cut: You're supposed to be the bright boy at description and you can't tell them what the fuck to put! I've got to find the right words on my own. I've got the envelope that he'd been scrawling, mis-spelt, mawkish, stylistically appalling but I can't squeeze more love into their stone. . Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone. He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime. He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief. He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea. I believe life ends with death, and that is all. You haven't both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call. . I thought it made me look more 'working class' (as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!) I did a turn in it before the glass. My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap. (She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair: You're every bit as good as that lot are!) All the pension queue came out to stare. Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR) , his cap turned inside up beside his head, smudged H A H in purple Indian ink and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folks migh think he wanted charity for dropping dead. He never begged. For nowt! Death's reticence crowns his life, and me, I'm opening my trap to busk the class that broke him for the pence that splash like brackish tears into our cap. . When the chilled dough of his flesh went in an oven not unlike those he fuelled all his life, I thought of his cataracts ablaze with Heaven and radiant with the sight of his dead wife, light streaming from his mouth to shape her name, 'not Florence and not Flo but always Florrie.' I thought how his cold tongue burst into flame but only literally, which makes me sorry, sorry for his sake there's no Heaven to reach. I get it all from Earth my daily bread but he hungered for release from mortal speech that kept him down, the tongue that weighed like lead. The baker’s man that no one will see rise and England made to feel like some dull oaf is smoke, enough to sting one person’s eyes and ash (not unlike flour) for one small loaf . Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots Dis poetry is designed fe rantin Dance hall style, Big mouth chanting, Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep Preaching follow me Like yu is blind sheep, Dis poetry is not Party Political Not designed fe dose who are critical. Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed It gets into me Dreadlocks It lingers around me head Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike I’ve tried Shakespeare, Respect due dere But dis is de stuff I like. . I waz whitemailed By a white witch, Wid white magic An white lies, Branded a white sheep I slaved as a whitesmith Near a white spot Where I suffered whitewater fever. Whitelisted as a white leg I waz in de white book As a matter of de white art, It waz like white death. People called me white jack Some hailed me as white wog, So I joined de white watch Trained as a white guard Lived off de white economy. Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts I was condemned to a white mass. Don’t worry, I shall be writing to de Black House. . I’ve seen streets of blood Redda dan red There waz no luv Just bodies dead And I think to myself What a terrible world. I’ve seen pimps and priests Well interfused Denying peace To the kids they abuse And I think to myself What a terrible world. The killer who’s hero The rapist who’s indoors The trade in human cargo And dead poets on tours I’ve seen friends put in jail For not being rich And mass graves made From a football pitch. I’ve seen babies scream Nobody cared Civilians starve Whilst troops are prepared And I think to myself What a terrible world Yes I think to myself What a terrible world. . They put a leather belt around her 13 feet of tape and bound her Handcuffs to secure her And only God knows what else, She’s illegal, so deport her She died, Nobody killed her And she never killed herself. It is our job to make her Return to Jamaica Said the Alien Deporters Who deported her like me It was said she had a warning That the officers were calling On that deadly July morning As her young son watched TV. . Many of the poems in this collection (I have been told) Are not suitable for young people, Strange Because young people keep asking me to read dem. I wonder, Do young people ask me to read dem Because they don’t like dem? Poems in ‘School’s Out’ should be read out, Poems in ‘School’s Out’ don’t care what experts say, They have been tried and tested in the playground, Poems in ‘School’s Out’ should be fun Saying something, but fun, There are too many brain boxes Taking the fun out of poetry, Too many do gooders telling you what’s good. By now you should overstand I, Here are poems dat are bad for you, The rejects My favourites. . one more flight of time one more chime of music one more glimpse of dawn one more walk through open spaces I heard a laughing river streams of consciousness saw your head thrown back in song if you could hear the drumbeats on my mind cries of earth work through my feet touching every nerve some days I think of shooting and settle into words . she doesn’t cry for water she runs rivers deep she doesn’t cry for food she has suckled trees she doesn’t cry for clothing she weaves all that she wears she doesn’t cry for shelter she grows thatch everywhere she doesn’t cry for children she’s got more than she can bear she doesn’t cry for heaven she knows its always there you don’t know why she’s crying when she’s got everything how could you know she’s crying for just one humane being . When you leave I smiling hold this soft furry bouncing tingling tickling I don’t know what to call it ‘thing’ it moves round me all day moves me round all day tickling tingly ‘thing’ waiting to bounce out my eyes my mout my ears my nose my belly my thighs and all those other shy soft places waiting to be named in subtler tones . Me not no Oxford don me a simple immigrant from Clapham Common I didn’t graduate I immigrate But listen Mr Oxford don I’m a man on de run and a man on de run is a dangerous one I ent have no gun I ent have no knife but mugging de Queen’s English is the story of my life I dont need no axe to split / up your syntax I dont need no hammer to mash up yu grammar . My Gran was a Caribbean lady As Caribbean as could be She came across to visit us In Shoreham by the sea. She’d hardly put her suitcase down When she began a digging spree Out in the back garden To see what she could see And she found: That the ground was as groundy That the frogs were as froggy That the earthworms were as worthy […] . Not every skin-teeth is a smile “Massa” if you see me smiling when you pass if you see me bending when you ask Know that I smile know that I bend only the better to rise and strike again (from i is a long memoried woman) . Steatopygous sky Steatopygous sea Steatopygous waves Steatopygous me O how I long to place my foot on the head of anthropology to swig my breasts in the face of history to scrub my back with the dogma of theology to put my soap in the slimming industry’s profitsome spoke Steatopygous sky Steatopygous sea Steatopygous waves Steatopygous me . I leave me people, me land, me home For reasons, I not too sure I forsake de sun And de humming-bird splendour Had big rats in de floorboard So I pick up me new-world-self And come, to this place call England At first I feeling like I in dream – De misty greyness I touching de walls to see if they real They solid to de seam And de people pouring from de underground system Like beans And when I look up to de sky I see Lord Nelson high – too high to lie And is so I sending home photos of myself Among de pigeons and de snow And is so I warding off de cold And is so, little by little I begin to change my calypso ways Never visiting nobody Before giving them clear warning And waiting me turn in queue Now, after all this time I get accustom to de English life But I still miss back-home side To tell you de truth I don’t know really where I belaang Yes, divided to de ocean Divided to de bone Wherever I hang my knickers – that’s my home. . Your letters and parcels take longer And longer to reach us. The authorities Tamper with them (whoever reads this And shouldn’t, I hope jumby spit In dem eye). We are more and more Like another South American dictatorship, And less and less a part of the Caribbean. Now that we import rice (rice that used To grow wild!), we queue for most things: Flour, milk, sugar, barley, and fruits You can’t pick anymore. I join them At 5 a.m. for 9 o’clock opening time, People are stabbing one another for a place And half the queue goes home empty-handed, With money that means next to nothing. […] . Born on a Sunday in the kingdom of Ashante Sold on Monday into slavery Ran away on Tuesday cause she born free Lost a foot on Wednesday when they catch she Worked all Thursday till her head grey Dropped on Friday where they burned she Freed on Saturday in a new century . We are the throwaway people The problem that won’t go away people The blow you away with our stories people The things have got to epidemic proportions people The we have no use for you people The blood we had to have was tainted people The loving we did wasn’t safe people The needles make our arms look like sieves people The they look terrible at the end people The tell them s/he died of cancer people The priests are reluctant to bury people The buried at the edge of cemeteries people The keep your grief private people The world has no love for us People . Writer of "The Prophet's Hair". Writer of "My Son the Fanatic". Writer of "The French Lieutenant". Writer of "Possession". Writer of "Time's Arrow". Writer of "A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters". Novel which is a realistic account of immigrant life in the London of the 70s. Novel which is a vivid portrait of life in colonial Nigeria and of life in Britain in the "ditch" of social marginalization. Novel which focuses on the difficulties stemming from the profound change Britain was undergoing. From a self-enclosed idyosincratic culture, it was becoming a multicultural society. Novel which gives a picture of the dysfunctions of the Western family and the dreary conditions of working or lower middle class uneducated British. Novel which revolves around what it means to be English, directly mocking the seriously moral and self-aggrandizing representations conveyed by the canon. Novel which rewriters the three native characters in "The Tempest". Novel which is a juxtaposition of fragmetns of teh stories of a black slave's children, located in distante spaces and times, and therefore reflecting the African diaspora. Novel which intertwines distant historical times, social backgrounds and countries. A play in which the main theme is the subordination of journalists to the power-hungry media moguls. A play about working women and the challenges they face in the business world, and in society in general, coinciding with the Thatcher era.

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