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Whitman's use of death is unlike any other poets.

Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own,

But catch the spreading Notion of the Town;

They reason and conclude by Precedent,

And own stale Nonsense which they ne'er invent.

Some judge of Authors' Names, not Works, and then

Nor praise nor blame the Writings, but the Men.

Of all this Servile Herd the worst is He

That in proud Dulness joins with Quality,

A constant Critick at the Great-man's Board,

To fetch and carry Nonsense for my Lord.

What woful stuff this Madrigal wou'd be,

To some starv'd Hackny Sonneteer, or me?

But let a Lord once own the happy Lines,

How the Wit brightens! How the Style refines!

Before his sacred Name flies ev'ry Fault,

And each exalted Stanza teems with Thought!

He draws upon his own experiences with death and this makes his poetry real.

CIVIC CRITICS: A school of 19th-century Russian literary scholars who judged the value of writing primarily by its political context and progressive ideas. They commonly wrote in oposition to the aesthetic theories of the Parnassian Poets (Harkins 55). Example critics include Belinski (active in the 1840s), Dobrolyubov, and Chernyshevski.

donne-death be not proud | EServer Poetry

If the rhyme scheme and form begin to feel forced, then you must assert the poem's content.

Wittgenstein wrote that what we cannot speak about must be passed over in silence. Or maybe what we cannot speak about can only be conjured in poetry through the mechanism of negation, saying no. This existential negation is only possible when one chooses to write poetry: saying no to all other purposes, to bring us up as close as possible to silence, absence, nothingness, so that we can start to feel what it means to live our lives so close to the abyss. It is, paradoxically, only when we truly start to feel that nothingness, that absence, that the meaning particular to poetry can emerge.

The form of the poem—its pervasive white spaces, refusals or withdrawals at the ends of lines and between the stanzas—reminds us of nothingness. There is silence too in the leaps of metaphor and symbol and rhyme and association that remind us of gaps in thought, all the ways poetry sometimes behaves like all other forms of writing but can at any moment say “no” to all the usual functions of language, its association and movement as a form of content, the way it refuses to do what it is supposed to do.

The Theme of Death in Poetry Essay - 819 Words | …

The death that he saw during this time provided him with inspiration in his poetry and ideas and thoughts about death.

Poems are, as Federico García Lorca writes, “drawn to the edge of things,” and the greatest edge is, of course, our mortality. This edge of things for Lorca was the line between life and death, what he calls the duende. The reason we can find the most powerful energy of duende in poetry, even more powerful than in more dramatic forms of art like dance or theatre or music, is because of the palpable silence that surrounds a poem.

In a poem, we feel what is there, but also what is not. What is not there is brought so close to us that it makes us all the more alive. This is something akin to (but far darker and more dangerous than) the beautiful insufficiency of prayer, the pleasurable ache of being brought as close as possible to the divine, and always falling short.

Death, trauma, mental illness, sexuality, and numerous other topics flowed through the works of the poetry from this movement.
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Death of a naturalist poetry analysis essay

This seems to me to miss the point on a grand scale. There are facts we need to look at. First, Emily Dickinson did not marry. And her non-marrying was neither a pathological retreat as John Cody sees it, nor probably even a conscious decision; it was a fact in her life as in her contemporary Christina Rosetti’s; both women had more primary needs. Second: unlike Rosetti, Dickinson did not become a religiously dedicated woman; she was heretical, heterodox, in her religious opinions, and stayed away from church and dogma. What, in fact, did she allow to “put the Belt around her Life”—what did wholly occupy her mature years and possess her? For “Whom” did she decline the invitations of other lives? The writing of poetry. Nearly two thousand poems. Three hundred and sixty-six poems in the year of her fullest power. What it was like to be writing poetry you knew (and I am sure she did know) was of a class by itself—to be fuelled by the energy it took first to confront, then to condense that range of psychic experience into that language; then to copy out the poems and lay them in a trunk, or send a few here and there to friends or relatives as occasional verse or as gestures of confidence? I am sure she knew who she was, as she indicates in this poem:

Death and Thoughtlessness in Poetry

Some foreign Writers, some our own despise;

The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize:

(Thus Wit, like Faith by each Man is apply'd

To one small Sect, and All are damn'd beside.)

Meanly they seek the Blessing to confine,

And force that Sun but on a Part to Shine;

Which not alone the Southern Wit sublimes,

But ripens Spirits in cold Northern Climes;

Which from the first has shone on Ages past,

Enlights the present, and shall warm the last:

(Tho' each may feel Increases and Decays,

And see now clearer and now darker Days)

Regard not then if Wit be Old or New,

But blame the False, and value still the True.

The Theme of Death And Time in Emily Dickinson’s Poetry

But most by Numbers judge a Poet's Song,

And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong;

In the bright Muse tho' thousand Charms conspire,

Her Voice is all these tuneful Fools admire,

Who haunt Parnassus but to please their Ear,

Not mend their Minds; as some to Church repair,

Not for the Doctrine, but the Musick there.

These Equal Syllables alone require,

Tho' oft the Ear the open Vowels tire,

While Expletives their feeble Aid do join,

And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line,

While they ring round the same unvary'd Chimes,

With sure Returns of still expected Rhymes.

Where-e'er you find the cooling Western Breeze,

In the next Line, it whispers thro' the Trees;

If Chrystal Streams with pleasing Murmurs creep,

The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with Sleep.

Then, at the last, and only Couplet fraught

With some unmeaning Thing they call a Thought,

A needless Alexandrine ends the Song,

That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull Rhimes, and know

What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;

And praise the Easie Vigor of a Line,

Where Denham's Strength, and Waller's Sweetness join.

True Ease in Writing comes from Art, not Chance,

As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance,

'Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence,

The Sound must seem an Eccho to the Sense.

Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows,

And the smooth Stream in smoother Numbers flows;

But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore,

The hoarse, rough Verse shou'd like the Torrent roar.

When Ajax strives, some Rocks' vast Weight to throw,

The Line too labours, and the Words move slow;

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the Plain,

Flies o'er th'unbending Corn, and skims along the Main.

Hear how Timotheus' vary'd Lays surprize,

And bid Alternate Passions fall and rise!

While, at each Change, the Son of Lybian Jove

Now burns with Glory, and then melts with Love;

Now his fierce Eyes with sparkling Fury glow;

Now Sighs steal out, and Tears begin to flow:

Persians and Greeks like Turns of Nature found,

And the World's Victor stood subdu'd by Sound!

The Pow'rs of Musick all our Hearts allow;

And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

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