Literature Lover

  Keeping Quiet Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the Earth let’s not speak in any language, let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much.   It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines, we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. Fishermen in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victory with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing. What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death. If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the Earth can teach us as...

 Aunt Jennifer's Tigers Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen, Bright topaz denizens of a world of green. They do not fear the men beneath the tree; They pace in sleek chivalric certainty. Aunt Jennifer's finger fluttering through her wool Find even the ivory needle hard to pull. The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by. The tigers in the panel that she made Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid. About Author: Theme of the Poem: The poem "Aunt Jennifer's Tigers" is written by Adrienne Rich and highlights the theme of patriarchy's control over women's lives. The tiger that Aunt Jennifer embroiders is a symbol of strength, courage, and freedom, in contrast to her own oppressed image. The poem reflects the harsh reality of the miserable conditions under which married women live in differen...

A Roadside Stand  The little old house was out with a little new shed In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, A roadside stand that too pathetically pled, It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint. The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead, Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts At having the landscape marred with the artless paint Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts, Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts, Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene, You have the money, but if you want to be mean, Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along. The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid: Here far from the city we make our roadside stand And ask for some city money to feel in hand To try if it wil...