Solitude

I would like to start off my review saying that this was a horrendous poem. Never have I been so bored by english literature. The reason I believe this is because we just wrote a poem about sensory experience and this seems like the exact same repetetive poem. What I look for in a poem is creativity of an object or idea I would never come to terms with before reading it. This poem has dull imagery, “How still is it here in the woods.” If I could make one suggestion to the author it is too stop making sentences so tedious and boring. Make it more exiciting, outgoing, and unique. It can also be a little weird ,but that’s what makes a good poem. A good poet is like a car salesman. The audience is not buying the car there buying what you say. This poem could be the greatest poem ever written ,yet it doesn’t appeal to the audience making it a casualty upon my review. Try making a topic about a poem no one has ever heard of before,and are flabbergasted by the idea of it. This is the key of writing a good poem.


Solitude
Archibald Lampman
How still it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from its fixed mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
His five pure notes succeeding pensively.

Campbell’s poem


I would like to say it was a very well written poem. I like how the poet incorporated "I feel something different” because it is very smart and witty to repeat a line across to the readers. Other words such as “Light powder on the beach” are very imaginative that I believe you should include in your poem more. When I hear the word “light powder” it is a sense of imagery which is very forceful. Those two words allows the reader to dive into the poem like diving into a snow bank. Though, the rest of the poem is not entirely descriptive. I don’t understand what the poet is trying to say when they say I feel something different. “But on these cold days the lake shore feels different” You’re not explaining thoroughly your thoughts and ideas. The foundation of the poem is there, but from what I’ve read there doesn’t seem to be a deeper meaning. That is the whole point of a poem the deeper meaning. The end is not entirely strong with grammar mistakes, but the poet will be able to fix that. You should come up with a rhyme that will really catch the reader’s attention to finish off your poem. Whenever someone reads a poem they always remember the end. How it left them feeling at the end. If you have a strong finish at the end of your poem it will greatly increase the satisfaction of the reader. It can make or break a poem. These are just some of my ideas and thoughts and I hope you put them to good use.

As the wind brushed my cold cheeks
And as the snow crunches by each step I take
I feel something different
The Canadian winter is incredible

I have walked there in the summer
But on these cold days the lake shore feels different
Although the winter looks calm the creatures of the forest are still near by
The rabbit’s foot steps are lying in the light powder on the beach.
I feel something different
The forest still feels warm to me

As I walk along the beach I breathe in the fresh air
I feel the cold as the snowflakes fall upon my hair
I can only imagine the warmth of the hot chocolate I will drink later
But for now ill bask in natures great changes
I feel something different
I winter is such a different place
I could stay there forever

Snow Crunching
By: Paul Hudson

The snow outside silently is stepped on
Until all that quiet and tranquillity is gone
The air is heavy but a good breath in
As we all snuggle warmly avoiding the snot coming down our chin
The geese scream loudly as we say shut up you lot
Though through this beautiful and unique landscape we are the ones that need to be taught
Limb through limb we keep out of the cold
Believing if we do not blow on our hands we will turn into mold
Though the landscape is right in front of us and we do not see
That the devil inside of us will leave us to be

Dwarves

Sonnet

The wind is a colored face amongst the faceless faces
Who sees not the Gust he has portrayed by the look of peoples laces
Unlike these minion dwarves the wind keeps blowing long
Some believe napalm him like our fellow Vietcong

For thou is the way the book has been read for many a year
To us a minion dwarf he is just another of our nearest fear
Where has the white rose been picked on top of that far hill
Until we find the secret whose shoes will it fill?

The wind sits on top of us waiting for the smoke to clear
The rain does what it can to stop this maddening cheer
The white rose has been lost over the hill it goes
Minion dwarves on trial pleading this it is not what I chose

At last it comes to the end when all is said and done
The question is will you stand up and let them have all the fun

THE BOOK OF LISTS

Iambic tetrameter

The book of lists tells us
Records that break for us
J.F.K. commands us
Soldiers to die for us
Doctors to inspect us
Mothers to protect us
The book of lists tells us
What you and I discern

Canadian Identity

Canadian Identity

Reminiscing of sunset summers as I tread through the lane
To then Curse and burst about ol’ winters trick
I run to see a bright light coming from afar
Grinning to see the tubes game is on
Mom turns to smile but not hush a word
I turn to think not the worst, not the worst

Canada and my blog

The Lamp of Poor Souls
[In many English churches before the Reformation there was kept a little lamp continually burning, called the Lamp of Poor Souls. People were reminded thereby to pray for the souls of those dead whose kinsfolk were too poor to pay for prayers and masses.]

By: Marjorie Pickthal


ABOVE my head the shields are stained with rust, The wind has taken his spoil, the moth his part;Dust of dead men beneath my knees, and dust, Lord, in my heart.
Lay Thou the hand of faith upon my fears; The priest has prayed, the silver bell has rung,But not for him. O unforgotten tears, He was so young!
Shine, little lamp, nor let thy light grow dim. Into what vast, dread dreams, what lonely lands,Into what griefs hath death delivered him, Far from my hands?
Cradled is he, with half his prayers forgot. I cannot learn the level way he goes.He whom the harvest hath remembered not Sleeps with the rose.
Shine, little lamp, fed with sweet oil of prayers. Shine, little lamp, as God's own eyes may shine,When He treads softly down His starry stairs And whispers, 'Thou art Mine.'
Shine, little lamp, for love hath fed thy gleam. Sleep, little soul, by God's own hands set free.Cling to His arms and sleep, and sleeping, dream, And dreaming, look for me.

Paul Hudson's blog about Canada