Week 4 Blog

Here are the 4 poems I found: The following English sonnet was written by William Shakespeare and is number 18: http://examples.yourdictionary.com/sonnet-examples.html 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 dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. VILLANELLE FOR OUR TIME Frank Scott (1899 - 1985)"Villanelle For Our Time" http://www.scribd.com/doc/51599682/Villanelle-for-our-time From bitter searching of the heart,Quickened with passion and with pain We rise to play a greater part. This is the faith from which we start: Men shall know commonwealth again From bitter searching of the heart. We loved the easy and the smart, But now, with keener hand and brain, We rise to play a greater part. The lesser loyalties depart, And neither race nor creed remain From bitter searching of the heart. Not steering by the venal chart That tricked the mass for private gain, We rise to play a greater part. Reshaping narrow law and art Whose symbols are the millions slain, From bitter searching of the heart We rise to play a greater part. Sestina http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sestina/ September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears. She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child, It's time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle's small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove. It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother. But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house. Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house. Elizabeth Bishop September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears. She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child, It's time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle's small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove. It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother. But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house. Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house. Elizabeth Bishop Evening Harmony Pantoum - http://poetry.about.com/gi/o.htm?zi=1/XJ&zTi=1&sdn=poetry&cdn=education&tm=12&f=00&tt=14&bt=0&bts=0&zu=http%3A//fleursdumal.org/poem/142 The season is at hand when swaying on its stem Every flower exhales perfume like a censer; Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air; Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo! Every flower exhales perfume like a censer; The violin quivers like a tormented heart; Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo! The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar. The violin quivers like a tormented heart, A tender heart, that hates the vast, black void! The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar; The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals... A tender heart that hates the vast, black void Gathers up every shred of the luminous past! The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals... Your memory in me glitters like a monstrance! — William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954) About the reading: I am completely uninformed of these types of poetry and am unsure what to make of them without some explanation of the reasons we were reading these and how they pertain to games. They are different from the kinds of poems I would normally read in that they seem to tell a story. I am interested in finding out more about these types of literature so that I can understand more of how they relate to my gaming experience. The last one stood out in my mind as I am being walked through the description of a plant or flower almost as if the point of the poem is to try and get me to guess which plant it is. It seems that the relation to games in this poem may be to play the part of a detective and figure out the riddle. I may be way off base but that is the direction that this poem seems to take with me in my mind. The poem by Elizabeth Bishop it seems like this is some sort of puzzle of words and layer upon layer you find out how each part of the puzzle relates to the other rain to tears to the almanac and everything between forming a sort of relationship of how they are all intertwined. The Shakespeare poem was a little difficult to understand and I am not sure how to interpret it without analyzing what it means in the first place. The VILLANELLE that I found seems like it kind of rhymes but yet it doesn't, and it seems to repeat words in a way that I personally would not do naturally almost as if the poem is circular in motion. All are interesting and I can't wait to learn more about them and how they came to be. About the game: Started playing braid and it has some aspects of something that might be fun but it seems to torment you as you are playing it. The game teases you with finding pieces of a puzzle when at times they seem impossible to get. This game takes a look again at the time aspect which I do like if I wasn't constantly being mocked that I am not doing the game right. I am not sure if that is the point...to frustrate you... but if it was it worked. I will continue to play and find out if the parts of the puzzle I could not figure out how to get are completely necessary or if they are meant to make you spin your wheels for a while. I got to this one part on what seemed to be a cloud bridge and there was a puzzle beneath me that made me fall. I wasn't sure how to get the two pieces of the puzzle or why I kept falling with no way to get them. This kind of frustrated me and made me not want to play. I don't really know the point yet of the game so I will continue because it is an assignment, but not because I like it.