Is this Art? by Paul Curtis

Martin Creed or Damien Hirst
Collins, Gormley which one's worst
A pickled sheep in formaldehyde
A light goes on and off inside
The truth about salt and paper crumpled
Painting by numbers and things untitled
A pile of bricks, an unmade bed
Is this art or is art dead?

I chose this poem because it is rather lighthearted as well as short and sweet, and it brings to mind a subject that often irks me, as an artist of sorts, at one time or another. Those pictures hanging on the walls in the Frist, or in the bathroom of McDonald's, that look simply like paint splatters or shredded paper....should they really be considered art, or are they just what the poem states, a sheep in formaldehyde or a crumpled piece of paper? At times the art can be considered satire (I once saw a toilet titled as "water fountain") but when someone makes millions of dollars off of a piece that took them fifteen minutes of smearing paint around with their left foot..... and then they dont even take the time to name it, instead relying on the oh-so-faithful "untitled", it seems a bit unfair no? Is this art, or is art dead?

A Bird by Emily Dickinson

A bird came down the walk,
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
by Emily Dickinson

      This poem reminds me of the first robin of spring, often spotted on my yard searching fervently for earthworms after the morning rain. He is often so caught up in his feeding that he fails to notice me just a few feet away watching him (wow that makes me sound like a creeper).  The poem itself gives off a feeling of serenity, with the morning dew sitting quietly on the grass, birds singing, and the first few junebugs beginning to fly about. The poem also conveys a slight feeling of harmony between the animals stated in it, the bird eats his fill of worms, but does not touch the beetle (another food object),and instead lets him pass  and be on his way instead of killing it out of sport or cold blood like many humans do. People could learn from this sort of poem :D

Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November

Remember, remember, the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot

Guy Fawkes, twas his intent
To blow up the king and parliament.
Three schore barrels were laid below
To prove old England’s overthrow.

By God’s mercy he was catched
With a dark latern and a lighted match.
Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring,
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the King.

    I decided to do this poem because I just recently watched V for Vendetta, and this poem is quoted a multitude of times throughought the movie. The poem itself is about a man named Guy Fawkes who attempted to blow up the House of Lords via a tunnel underneath the building so that the King of England might be killed and instead replaced with a Catholic substitute.  The incident was planned to be on November 5, 1605, but he was soon discovered among the barrels of gunpowder set down in the tunnel and was quickly convicted of treason.  In the movie V for Vendetta, the main conspirator, V, does a thing similar to Fawkes in that he successfully blows up the parliament building in order to start a rebellion against the over controlling government. I especially like this poem, as well as the movie, because as stated in the movie, "a people should not fear their government, the government should fear their people," and I feel that both bring about this idea well.

The Fish by Elizabeth Bishop

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
This poem is about a fisherman who catches an old fish (wow what an astute observation!), and is so awed by the fact that this fish has survived so long that he lets it go. She also seems to be rather humbled by the fact that the fish itself seems to nobly take defeat, instead of flailing around like a fish out of water (mind the pun), it just sits there, accepting the fact that it has finally been overcome. Bishop compares the fish to an old war veteran, the old overgrown hooks in its mouth are said to be "war medals."The author refers to parts of the fish as flowers or other things related to vivid coloration, even though the fish itself is dull and has skin like "ancient wallpaper," and then seems to see the beauty in every part of the fish, down to its entrails and the lice living underneath its scales. The thing that finally seems to make the fisherman let the fish go though, is the fact that she begins to see rainbows everywhere, starting from the oil on the surface of the water and soon spreading to everything she sees. This is probably a metaphorical rainbow however, and instead the author has come to realize something about herself through the fish, and so she lets it go.

Colors by Crossfade

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2S1JnJJ2Rbc

Can you feel it crush you? Does it seem to bring the worst in you out?
There's no running away from these things that hold you down
Do they complicate you because they make you feel like this?
Of all the colors that you've shined this is surely not your best

But you should know these colors that you're shining are...

[Chorus x2:]
Surely not the best colors that you shine

I know you feel alone, yeah, and no one else can figure you out
But don't you ever turn away from the ones that help you down?
Well they'd love to save you. Don't you know they love to see you smile?
But these colors that you've shined are surely not your style

[Chorus x2]

I know you're feeling like you're lost
But you should know these colors that you're shinin are
I know you're feeling like you're lost,
You feel you've drifted way too far
Did you know these colors that you're shinin' are

[Chorus x2]

Surely not the best..
(I know you're feeling like you're lost)
Colors that you shine..
(but you should know these colors that you're shining are)
Surely not the best..
(I know you're feeling like you're lost you feel you`ve drifted way too far)
Did you know these colors that you're shinin' are..

       Honestly, this is one of my (most?) favorite songs I've ever heard simply because of the lyrics. I've sort of grown away from the music itself after hearing it for the first time a few years ago, but I still relate back to it, which doesn't happen often with me and songs. I think the author is talking about how oftentimes people push others away in difficult situations, oftentimes because they feel as if the friends are an encumberance to themselves, or vice versa. People can get vindictive, aggressive, and spiteful if they feel hurt or cornered, which normally gets directed at the people closest to them.  However, these people are there for you to lean on if needed; he says "they'd love to save you, don't you know they love to see you smile?," emphasizing this fact that the people that care for you, really do care for you. I know it makes me happy when I see my friends smile, I mean, heck, I go out of my way half of the time just to make random people I don't even know smile. However, the song also pushes not only to rely on other people to get out of a bad situation, but to rely on yourself as well. Whenever he says "I know........." and then proceeds to beat the listener over the head with the fact that the "colors" he or she is displaying are not the best, the artist is trying to exhort the listener  to try to get themself out of his or her own slump through mostly their own effor.  One of my favorite aspects of the song, as well as probably the most important, is the fact that the artist compares emotions and actions metaporically to "colors," which are just as wide and varied as the spectrums of the rainbow. The artist also uses a bit of contradiction, because usually negative emotions are related to darker colors such as reds or blacks, which cannot really be "shined" unless they are really bright or powerful. The repetition of certain phrases also adds to the overall effect of the song, especially when he states over and over again that "these colors are surely not the best that you've shined."

Sound the Bugle by Bryan Adams/Hans Zimmer

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnS8fMl7yko

Sound the bugle now,

Play it just for me.

As the seasons change,

remember how I used to be.

Now I can't go on,

I can't even start.

I've got nothing left,

Just and empty heart.

I'm a soldier,

Wounded so I must give up the fight.

There's nothing more for me here,

Lead me away.

Or leave me lying here.

Sound the bugle now,

Tell them I don't care.

There's not a road I know,

That leads to anywhere.

Without a light

I fear that I may stumble in the dark.

Lay right down and decide

Not to go on.

Then from on high,

Somewhere in the distance,

There's a voice that calls

"Remember who you are,

If you lose yourself, your courage soon will follow.

So be strong tonight...remember who you are."

Yeah, you're a soldier now.

Fighting in a battle,

To be free once more.

Yeah, that's worth fighting for.

       I had quite the dilemma for this week's response, unlike most poetry response weeks I can't find a poem, and this week I had tons that I thought of doing but couldn't decide! I decided to do this one because its one of my favorite songs from my childhood. I quite like it because its a pick-me-up sort of song; you can't but help to feel better after listening to it if you're down. The song itself (go listen to it!) starts out rather slow and mellow, and then gradually gains a more positive tone as it goes on. The artists (I don't know who specifically wrote the song) start out by telling the listener to "Sound the bugle," which usually signals the end of a battle or retreat from it-showing that he just wants whatever is happening to just to be over. He tries to inspire himself to be strong like he used to be before the "seasons changed," (from the good times of summer to the desolate and cold winter) but fails. The artist then uses metaphor to compare himself to a soldier, carrying the theme of being in a battle of some sort further into the song. He says he is wounded, and does not have the will or the strength to keep fighting; he even goes so far as to say he can just be left where he is to die, shockingly showing that he also believes himself to be worthless. The artist then brings up the symbol of the bugle again, sort of beating the listener over the head with the fact that he doesn't want to struggle any longer. When the song states "Withough a light I fear I may stumble in the dark," the artist then gives a reason as to why he doesn't have the will to go on,  he doesn't know where to go or what to do, and fears that if he goes any farther without spefific direction he will only be injured again. The song then takes a more positive tone (the music itself also gains a more upbeat tune) when a "voice," maybe God, a comrade, or his own conscience, tells him to get up and keep on going, or risk losing himself completely. This then seems to motivate the speaker, making him remember what he is fighting for and what it means to him. The metaphor of being a soldier is brought up again. It is then said that he is fighting "to be free once more," possibly from himself or something else, like he was before.

TheTale of Custard the Dragon by Ogden Nash

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

Once again, I didn't know what poem to respond to this week, so I googled "dragon poem," and this is one of the many poems that popped up. I picked this one because for some reason I recognized it, maybe I read it in a library ages ago, who knows. ANYWAYS, back to the poem. I usually do rather serious poems, but this time I decided to do a more whimsical one, which this one definitely is. It's about a girl named Belinda who is "brave as a barrel full of bears," which doesnt seem very brave to me...since when are barrels brave? But anyways, she also owns a little kitten named "Ink," a yellow dog named "Mustard," and a mouse named "Blink," who all partake in seeminly daredevil activites such as chasing "Lions down stairs." However, her big nasty dragon seems to be as wobbly and squishy as his namesake "Custard," and all he does is "cry for a nice safe cage." This seems to make him the laughingstock of the household, but when push comes to shove and a nasty pirate comes into the house, nobody but Custard stands up to face him (ands up eating him). However, after all is said and done, Custard is still the scaredy cat looking for a nice cage-he's so cute.