الفراشة أصبح فتيات Ftayat.com : يتم تحديث الموقع الآن ولذلك تم غلق النشر والمشاركات لحين الانتهاء من اتمام التحديث
ترقبوا التحديث الجديد مزايا عديدة وخيارات تفاعلية سهلة وسريعه.
فتيات اكبر موقع وتطبيق نسائي في الخليج والوطن العربي يغطي كافة المجالات و المواضيع النسائية مثل الازياء وصفات الطبخ و الديكور و انظمة الحمية و الدايت و المكياج و العناية بالشعر والبشرة وكل ما يتعلق بصحة المرأة.
ملاك بقلب حساس
12-06-2022 - 12:40 am
مرحبا يامنتداي الحبيب خواتي ... ارجوا مساعدتي في بحثي في مادة الشعر محتاجه ليكم والله .. ابي شرح القصيدة من كل النواحي مثل :/ 1- الشاعر في اي عصر عاش واهم أساليبة في الكتابة ومواضيعة
2- مناسبة القصيده 3- الفكرة العامه للقصيده ... وشرح كلماتها ومعناها العميق 4- التعليق على النص وهو اكثر شئ صعب عندي .... بصراحة اني سنه اولى جامعة .. وما افهم كثيرفي الابحاث ... ارجوا مساعدتي .. وهذي القصيده ..
Traveling through the Dark
William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
2- مناسبة القصيده 3- الفكرة العامه للقصيده ... وشرح كلماتها ومعناها العميق 4- التعليق على النص وهو اكثر شئ صعب عندي .... بصراحة اني سنه اولى جامعة .. وما افهم كثيرفي الابحاث ... ارجوا مساعدتي .. وهذي القصيده ..
Traveling through the Dark
William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
التعليقات (7)
Born in 1914, Stafford was drafted in 1940, and severed as a conscientious objector throughout the war (forestry, soil conservation in Arkansas and California); in 1948, Stafford published his master's thesis, a book about conscientious objectors, Down in My Heart (whose title collides meaningfully with that of his first book, West of Your City ), and it was not until he was forty-six that that first book of poems was ready.
********
. Stafford is a poet of ordinary life. His collected poems are the journal of a man recording daily concerns. That is why his daily method of writing is relevant to his life's work. You could say that his poetry is truly quotidian: he writes it every day; it comes out of every day. And the poet of the quotidian did not find it necessary to become maudit, to follow Hart Crane to the waterfront or Baudelaire to the whorehouse or even Lowell to McLean's. He got up at six in the morning in a suburb of Portland and drained the sump.
3. If we attend to chronology, William Stafford is a member of the tragic generation of American poets. Stafford was born in 1914, the same year as Weldon Kees and Randall Jarrell and John Berryman, three suicides; Delmore Schwartz was born in 1913, and Robert Lowell in 1917. How wonderfully the survivor contrasts. What makes him so different? Like Lowell, Stafford was a C. O.
during the Second War. Like Berryman and Kees he came from the Midwest. But Stafford is a low-church Christian far from the rhetorical Catholicism that Lowell and Berryman entertained. I suspect that his survival is related not merely to his Christianity but to his membership in a small, embattled, pacifist sect.
4. The poetic surface is often ordinary (not always: Stafford salutes a lost Cree inside a knife ... ) with famous dead deer in roads, with remembered loves, with fancies about wind and weather. This ordinariness doth tease us out of thought; while we are thoughtless, the second language of poetry speaks to us. Stafford has referred to an unspoken tongue that lives underneath the words of poetry. This second language is beyond the poet's control, but we can define a poet as someone who speaks it. English teachers afflicted with students who lack control over their own language - ignorant, illiterate, wordless - often assume that the best language is the most controlled and the most conscious. Not so, or not always so: poets are literate, poets control, poets command syntax and lexicon - but the best poets also write without knowing everything that they are up to, trusting in the second language's continual present hum of implication
**********
When William Stafford talks or writes about his poems - as he has done in many interviews and in the prose pieces collected in Writing the Australian Crawl (1978) - he almost never views them as finished, analyzable objects of art, preferring instead to concentrate on the process of composition that brought them about. To use a type of analogy Stafford himself often uses, we might view him as an eternal analysand in the psychoanalytic process, one who resolutely refuses to act the role of analyst to any meaningful degree. This cast of mind may seem typical, but in fact the degree to which Stafford insists on it does set him apart from his fellow writers. In the creative process as followed by most poets, there seems to come a time when the writer emphatically wants to understand, dominate, and shape his materials intellectually. The overall process may begin organically, with the poet simply accepting the signals that arrive, but by the time it is finished, the poet knows what is going on and asserts his control in order to be sure things turn out right. Not so with Stafford, one of whose "cherished" beliefs is "that a writer is not trying for a product, but accepting sequential signals toward an always-arriving present."
************
Well, anyway, I am an admirer of William Stafford's poetry. First, for the craft that does not call attention to itself - Stafford admits that he almost flaunts nonsophistication in his work - but which is always there, being necessary and important just by being there; second, though this is never distinct from the craft, for the downright power of what he has to say. Writing of "The Farm on the Great Plains" Stafford said: "plains, farm, home, winter, . . . these command my allegiance in a way that is beyond my power to analyze at the moment." Yes, and his world commands my allegiance. I am caught up in his sense of space and time and of the American Dream, his sense of loss, his sense of joy in the here and now, his feeling for the land and the seasons, his belief (manifested in the poems themselves) that the smallest events in our lives and the smallest feelings that travel our spines are miracles - a puff of air, an extension of muscle and memory as we reach out to turn on a light. In his best work I come away with a sense of myth, and of prophecy, that I had better not try to define here.
********
. Stafford is a poet of ordinary life. His collected poems are the journal of a man recording daily concerns. That is why his daily method of writing is relevant to his life's work. You could say that his poetry is truly quotidian: he writes it every day; it comes out of every day. And the poet of the quotidian did not find it necessary to become maudit, to follow Hart Crane to the waterfront or Baudelaire to the whorehouse or even Lowell to McLean's. He got up at six in the morning in a suburb of Portland and drained the sump.
3. If we attend to chronology, William Stafford is a member of the tragic generation of American poets. Stafford was born in 1914, the same year as Weldon Kees and Randall Jarrell and John Berryman, three suicides; Delmore Schwartz was born in 1913, and Robert Lowell in 1917. How wonderfully the survivor contrasts. What makes him so different? Like Lowell, Stafford was a C. O.
during the Second War. Like Berryman and Kees he came from the Midwest. But Stafford is a low-church Christian far from the rhetorical Catholicism that Lowell and Berryman entertained. I suspect that his survival is related not merely to his Christianity but to his membership in a small, embattled, pacifist sect.
4. The poetic surface is often ordinary (not always: Stafford salutes a lost Cree inside a knife ... ) with famous dead deer in roads, with remembered loves, with fancies about wind and weather. This ordinariness doth tease us out of thought; while we are thoughtless, the second language of poetry speaks to us. Stafford has referred to an unspoken tongue that lives underneath the words of poetry. This second language is beyond the poet's control, but we can define a poet as someone who speaks it. English teachers afflicted with students who lack control over their own language - ignorant, illiterate, wordless - often assume that the best language is the most controlled and the most conscious. Not so, or not always so: poets are literate, poets control, poets command syntax and lexicon - but the best poets also write without knowing everything that they are up to, trusting in the second language's continual present hum of implication
**********
When William Stafford talks or writes about his poems - as he has done in many interviews and in the prose pieces collected in Writing the Australian Crawl (1978) - he almost never views them as finished, analyzable objects of art, preferring instead to concentrate on the process of composition that brought them about. To use a type of analogy Stafford himself often uses, we might view him as an eternal analysand in the psychoanalytic process, one who resolutely refuses to act the role of analyst to any meaningful degree. This cast of mind may seem typical, but in fact the degree to which Stafford insists on it does set him apart from his fellow writers. In the creative process as followed by most poets, there seems to come a time when the writer emphatically wants to understand, dominate, and shape his materials intellectually. The overall process may begin organically, with the poet simply accepting the signals that arrive, but by the time it is finished, the poet knows what is going on and asserts his control in order to be sure things turn out right. Not so with Stafford, one of whose "cherished" beliefs is "that a writer is not trying for a product, but accepting sequential signals toward an always-arriving present."
************
Well, anyway, I am an admirer of William Stafford's poetry. First, for the craft that does not call attention to itself - Stafford admits that he almost flaunts nonsophistication in his work - but which is always there, being necessary and important just by being there; second, though this is never distinct from the craft, for the downright power of what he has to say. Writing of "The Farm on the Great Plains" Stafford said: "plains, farm, home, winter, . . . these command my allegiance in a way that is beyond my power to analyze at the moment." Yes, and his world commands my allegiance. I am caught up in his sense of space and time and of the American Dream, his sense of loss, his sense of joy in the here and now, his feeling for the land and the seasons, his belief (manifested in the poems themselves) that the smallest events in our lives and the smallest feelings that travel our spines are miracles - a puff of air, an extension of muscle and memory as we reach out to turn on a light. In his best work I come away with a sense of myth, and of prophecy, that I had better not try to define here.
On "Traveling Through the Dark
The title poem of the volume deals with the difficulty of finding the right path. The poem's speaker stops his car to push a recently killed doe off the mountain road, where the carcass is a driving hazard, into a canyon. Her belly is still warm: the doe is pregnant, and the fawn inside her is still alive. In this moment, as Dennis Lynch suggests, the poet realizes that everything in the scene--the poet, the deer, the fawn, the car, and the reader--is "traveling through the dark." But although the thoughtless killing seems an ill omen, no despair creeps into the poet's voice, only resolution: "I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--, / then pushed her over the edge into the river." Even in the dark, the search must continue. In "The Poets' Annual Indigence Report," Stafford asks other poets, and readers, to commit themselves to finding the right road: "Our shadows ride over the grass, your shadow, ours:--/ Rich men, wise men, be our contemporaries."
*******
This poem seems a great favorite of Stafford readers; it appears everywhere. I happen not to care for it much, but for irresponsible reasons which I'll state later. Let's say the world is right, I'm wrong, and the poem is a success. If so, one reason is that it transcends the difficulties he had with the earlier Far West poems. The elements of the Pacific Northwest are there: the night-dark limit on vision contrasted to the unlimited views of bright, open Kansas plains (sometimes the Midwest is brighter at night than the Northwest during day), the surprise you can't plan for because you can't see it coming from far off (what road ever curved in Kansas or ran straight in western Oregon?), the dead deer suddenly there, the canyon, the narrow road, and Stafford honestly awkward in the scene: "I stumbled back of the car." His magic is gone.
The title poem of the volume deals with the difficulty of finding the right path. The poem's speaker stops his car to push a recently killed doe off the mountain road, where the carcass is a driving hazard, into a canyon. Her belly is still warm: the doe is pregnant, and the fawn inside her is still alive. In this moment, as Dennis Lynch suggests, the poet realizes that everything in the scene--the poet, the deer, the fawn, the car, and the reader--is "traveling through the dark." But although the thoughtless killing seems an ill omen, no despair creeps into the poet's voice, only resolution: "I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--, / then pushed her over the edge into the river." Even in the dark, the search must continue. In "The Poets' Annual Indigence Report," Stafford asks other poets, and readers, to commit themselves to finding the right road: "Our shadows ride over the grass, your shadow, ours:--/ Rich men, wise men, be our contemporaries."
*******
This poem seems a great favorite of Stafford readers; it appears everywhere. I happen not to care for it much, but for irresponsible reasons which I'll state later. Let's say the world is right, I'm wrong, and the poem is a success. If so, one reason is that it transcends the difficulties he had with the earlier Far West poems. The elements of the Pacific Northwest are there: the night-dark limit on vision contrasted to the unlimited views of bright, open Kansas plains (sometimes the Midwest is brighter at night than the Northwest during day), the surprise you can't plan for because you can't see it coming from far off (what road ever curved in Kansas or ran straight in western Oregon?), the dead deer suddenly there, the canyon, the narrow road, and Stafford honestly awkward in the scene: "I stumbled back of the car." His magic is gone.
In scenery I like flat country.
In life I don't like much to happen.
لا تنسي تدعيلي وكلشي بهاد التعليقات حول القصيدة اختاري يلي يناسبك ويرضيك .
اخت eteacherالله لا يحرمنا من مساعدتك ولا من ذوقك
اخت eteacherالله لا يحرمنا من مساعدتك ولا من ذوقك
الله لا يحرمني منك الله يوفقك والله رح ادعيك كل ادرس الماده اذكرك تسلمي قلبي ...
طلب رساله ضروري→
للرفع ..