poems that end with a question

Some passengers came back to the airport day after day trying to fly out of Bozeman. Despite a reputation for being coolly reticent with praise, and devoutly more butch with dispraise (he apparently once told a writer that, if torn into small strips, his piece might serve nicely as cat litter), he was an editor writers were eager to please. Just as practically all poet-contributors to New Verse would eventually see their own work savagely debunked in its pages, so Hamilton never shied away from publishing reviews that were critical of the writing of friends or contributors. Somewhere down there are villages, fields, roads and trails, and the war we have returned to cover, but it’s all lost in distance, space and scale in the vastness that is Afghanistan. It became more of a travesty with each day: people showing up with full suitcases and long faces, only to trudge back to the long-term parking lot a couple minutes later, after we had turned them away. “There was no house style at all, but it had the personality of its editor, who was both hugely enthusiastic and encouraging and capable of scowling sardonically at what he thought was phony,” the writer Jonathan Raban recalls. I live alone. Questions better reflect life, which is, after all, nothing but a big question mark. Its offices were just upstairs from the pub, but all the real business was completed bar-side. To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Unlike Donne, the Victorian poet Christina Rossetti (1830-94) here offers us an ending that is final: the loved one is dead and buried in the ground. Let’s hear it for poems that end with a question. For at this point the news was flooded with aerial reconnaissance images of Afghanistan, including the Tora Bora region that looked not so unlike our own Tobacco Root Mountains stretched out across on the western horizon. Seek poems that end with those open, vulnerable moments. A question, then, closes a poem with an opening. When she did, James greeted her enthusiastically at the bar. Good point about questions without question marks. I recall sitting in a discussion circle with 30 freshmen on that day, not really knowing what to say. It is a sad thing to see a man who has been frittered away piecemeal by petty distractions, and who has never done his best. Reason? Analicia Sotelo’s “Ariadne at the Naxos Apartment Complex, 10am” from Virgin begins in what the narrator calls a garden, among “A/C units dripping green-black rivers, // the residue of last night’s rain / sitting in a cheap cherub’s eye.” She ends in ambiguity: “Except the light is blind this morning / like a child at a funeral // asking, What are we all standing here for?”, We don’t have the answer. Their travel clothes became rumpled looking, and they had less confidence on their faces every time they came through the sliding doors of the terminal. McEwan goes on, like practically everyone else who contributed to The New Review, to emphasize the central importance of Hamilton to the magazine. The money was a mixed blessing at best. We all love finding outside excuses for our decor, don’t we? In the meantime, there was a line of skittish passengers to deal with, people who were scheduled on flights that were not going to depart. In 1999, two years before his untimely death at age 63, the Cargo Press published a festschrift, Another Round at the Pillars: Essays, Poems and Reflections, in which many of Hamilton’s old friends and contributors paid homage to the man who took a chance on their work and half-destroyed himself doing so. Your email address will not be published. Come with me. “At the height of his pulling power,” James writes, “he never had to do anything to get a woman he wanted except fight off the ones he didn’t, so as to give her a free run to the target.” Hamilton’s good looks, in collusion with his poetic air and understated cool, caught the attention of more than just a few women. Change ), You are commenting using your Facebook account. Still, he very likely saw himself frittered away piecemeal and, if not exactly as a failure, then as less than he imagined himself. I mean, if I could dream a guitar up out of thin air, what else, over the years, had I imagined? Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. The title of a poem, with a question mark at the end, is not a question. It’s tempting to romanticize this kind of set-up, what with all pub-hub and boozy camaraderie, but it shouldn’t keep us from acknowledging the achievements of the magazine itself. is a contributing editor for The Millions. I’d defy all the glamour and glitz and go to soggy ’70s London. We will never know all of the answers In April 2001, I was offered the most interesting part-time job I’ve ever had. Other poetic questions call me to attention and send me back through the poem to comb and cull. “How, then, could I not answer her life / with mine, she who saved me with Stripped of personal context, whatever private crisis was there has to be inferred by the reader — Hamilton remains stoically silent. Tags: Question 4 . She will push forward through her life, past chair and even through stream and snow, although she is “wet and cold, hunched against the touch / of the flakes.” She perseveres because she is still breathing, because our “lungs are a happiness kit / that we can carry everywhere and assemble / where there’s time and inclination.” She pauses, we imagine, and then ends: “Why not? We sit up, re-read, and become a But no matter. We read each other with close, gossipy attention. She sees her mother’s face; her mother’s wounds. Home Gwendolyn Brooks: Poems Q & A Ask a question and get answers from your fellow students and educators. Question 2 . Poetry Analysis Essay: … And when you put them on committees that give money to other writers, they go madder still. An inheritance? Julian Barnes, for instance, whose go-to drink in those days was a gin and bitter lemon (hardly a pub-drink), recalls that “the first time Ian offered me a drink in the Pillars and I told him what I wanted, he didn’t react, no doubt confident that he had misheard me. All Subjects. It’s as if the poet brings up a problem in life and then hands it off. If you could travel back in time to a particular literary era, like Woody Allen’s characters in Midnight in Paris, where would you prefer to drop in? In the long interview he gave to Dan Jacobsen in the London Review of Books at the end of his life, the same note is struck again and again. My airport job paid the rent all spring and summer, as I covered many of my co-workers’ shifts; within a few months I could practically run the airport by myself. there?”. Change ), You are commenting using your Google account. Along with like-minded poets such as John Fuller, Colin Falck, and the American Michael Fried, The Review established a reputation for its acidity and combativeness. For myself, I could no longer treat the Gallatin Field airport as a simple workspace; I saw it enmeshed in politics and power, territory and populations. ( Log Out /  These passengers didn’t realize, perhaps, the scope of what had occurred the day before, how all the commercial airlines had simply been grounded into the unforeseeable future. Rhetorical or The folds of my belly,

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