toneage

Robert Frost- The Telephone
When I was just as far as I could walk
From here to-day,
There was an hour
All still
When leaning with my head against a flower
I heard you talk.
Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say--
You spoke from that flower on the window sill-
Do you remember what it was you said?'

This poem is confusing for such a short and un-complex poem. Taken literally it would appear to be the poem of a madman who is hearing voices. I looked further into this poem, and believe that in fact this poem is a criticism of the use of the telephone, that the use of telephones are not as special as face to face conversations. Furthermore, there is more room for mis-interpretation when using a telephone, and this piece is the description of one of these such interpretations.
When read in this way the mocking of the telephone users (possibly lovers) becomes almost comical and the madness is less apparent.

John Donne- The flea
MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

This is my favorite poem....EVER.
THe poem begins in a pleading but intelligent manner, instead of convincing his girlfriend to have sex with him by wooing her, he has decided to use logic to convince her that it is not only what he wants, but it is actually the morally right thing to do. He speaks of how the tick has already shared their fluids, as they would in sex, and so it is not big deal. The situational iron is unmistakeable in the poem, used to create a hilarious masterpiece. Yet in the end, he is almost frustrated at his determined advances rejection. The speaker begins to use words like "cruel" and "guilty" i believe in a desperate attempt to satisfy himself through guilt-tripping his girlfriend. the poem descends from the light teasing and nagging comical boyfriend, to the jealous, angry, frustrated, future ex-boyfriend.

John Wakeman- Love in Brooklyn
"I love you, Horowitz," he said, and blew his nose.
She splashed her drink. "The hell you say," she said.
"Not love. You don't love me. You like my legs,
and how I make your letters nice and all.
You drank your drink too fast. You don't love me."
"You wanna bet?" he asked. "You wanna bet?
I loved you from the day they moved you up
from Payroll, last July. I watched you, right?
You sat there on that typing chair you have
and swung round like a kid. It made me shake.
Like once, in World War II, I saw a tank
slide through some trees at dawn like it was a god.
That's how you make me feel. I don't know why."
She turned towards him, then sat back and grinned,
and on the bar stool swung full circle round.
"You think I'm like a tank, you mean?" she asked.
"Some fellers tell me nicer things than that."
But then she saw his face and touched his arm
and softly said, "I'm only kidding you."
He ordered drinks, the same again, and paid.
A fat man, wordless, staring at the floor.
She took his hand in hers and pressed it hard.
And his plump fingers trembled in her lap.

Love In Brooklyn, this poem describes a couple going through hard times. The woman jests that her man does not love him, but the man in fact does. To prove his love describes her in a way that only a man who loved her could but instead of taking such wonderful flattery, she pokes fun at him again. He trembles then at the thought of her leaving him.
The poem changes tone again. Originating with a sense of nasty uncivilized fighting (naturally in brooklyn) but then leading up to an almost sad sweetness. As the man relates his girlfriend to a tank, he seems completely taken with her, absolutely helpless, even though she accuses him of only wanting her for sex. yet in the end, she holds his hand and they order drinks, it appears that the couple will work their problems out, a story of making up. THis was at great contrast with the flea and its tale of the couple breaking up.