The Sick Rose

The Sick Rose

William Blake

O Rose, thou art sick!

The invisible worm

that flies in the night,

in the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed

of crimson joy,

and his dark secret love

does thy life destroy?

This poem is interesting to me mostly because the worm that makes the rose sick is invisible, and how can a worm fly? Any who, the rose is sick because the worm has found out the roses dar secret. It is almost like the worm is guilt or some feeling that makes you sick but not sick like a cold, but sick like sad or bitter. Is it that the love for the dark secret is what is destroying the rose? Could be possible. The poem is two quatrain stanzas and is only two sentences. The first sentence is stating that the rose is sick, the second is asking if "his dark secret love does thy life destroy?" This is interesting and is something you can answer on your own from personal experience.

this is a photograph of me

this is a photograph of me

Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago

At first it seems to be

a smeared

print: blurred lines and grey flecks

blended with the paper;

then, as you scan

it, you see in the left-hand corner

a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree

(basalm or spruce) emerging

and to the right, halfway up

what ought to be a gentle

slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,

and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken

the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center

of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where

precisely, or to say

how large or small I am:

the effect of water

on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,

eventually

you will be able to see me.)

Wow, there is so much to think about in this poem. Lyndsey and I are presenting this poem to the class. As I read through the poem I started drawing the picture in my mind, then as I read it the second time I drew the picture on paper. It terrifies me thinking about the picture as it sums up as a whole. The beginning is simply a picture that is slightly blurred and possibly in black and white. On the surface of the picture is a lake and hills behind a house. The branch in the left corner (as described) gives the idea that the picture was taken not in the open but almost as a secret. After the picture is described Margaret Atwood ends the last four stanzas in parenthesis which is kind of odd but has deep meaning. The first three stanzas are like you are looking at a picture but the words in the parenthesis make you feel like you are part of the picture and the use of parenthesis are what make words (or those words) fit into the poem or sentence. As depressing as it sounds I can relate to that feeling of being in the picture but not "really" being there. Everyone has those times when you are there but you can't see yourself there or even feel it. The feeling that the water (although it is clear) is covering you up, and it takes time to eventually see you.

Altogether the poem is seven stanzas long, the title is not capitalized and colons and semi-colons are commonly used. The poem doesn't seem like just a poem but a picture, a thought, but mostly a feeling.