His achievement is hard to pin down, and criticism, which runs on fashion, hasn't caught up with him. He had an idiosyncratic voice—forthright, nervous, intimate, self-questioning. I would call him a confessional poet except he kept emptying out and interrogating the self that is the basis of that mode, which he felt was misunderstood. He demanded utter authenticity in art—individuality of feeling, depth of sincerity.
I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth and whoever finds me will kill me. I shot my brother when I was six. Luckily, it was a BB gun. But to this day, my older brother Jonathan does not know who shot him. And I have finally promised myself to confess this eleven year old secret to him after I write this essay.
The truth is, I was always jealous of my brother. Our grandparents, with whom we lived as children in Daegu, a rural city in South Korea, showered my brother with endless accolades: To me, Jon was just cocky.
Deep down I knew I had to get the chip off my shoulder. That is, until March 11th, The Korean War game was simple: Once we situated ourselves, our captain blew the pinkie whistle and the war began. My friend Min-young and I hid behind a willow tree, eagerly awaiting our orders.
To tip the tide of the war, I had to kill their captain.
We infiltrated the enemy lines, narrowly dodging each attack. I quickly pulled my clueless friend back into the bush. Hearing us, the alarmed captain turned around: It was my brother.
Startled, the Captain and his generals abandoned their post.
Vengeance replaced my wish for heroism and I took off after the fleeing perpetrator. Streams of sweat ran down my face and I pursued him for several minutes until suddenly I was arrested by a small, yellow sign that read in Korean: My eyes just gazed at the fleeing object; what should I do?
I looked on as my shivering hand reached for the canister of BBs. The next second, I heard two shots followed by a cry.
I opened my eyes just enough to see two village men carrying my brother away from the warning sign. My brother and I did not talk about the incident. That night when my brother was gone I went to a local store and bought a piece of chocolate taffy, his favorite.
Then, other things began to change. I ate dinner with him. I even ate fishcakes, which he loved but I hated. Today, my brother is one of my closest friends. Every week I accompany him to Carlson Hospital where he receives treatment for his obsessive compulsive disorder and schizophrenia.The Life of Poetry, Chapter 1 - In her book of essays, The Life of Poetry, Muriel Rukeyser embraces poetry as an essential agent of change.
The book begins with an exploration of resistance, most notably in an essay on "The Fear of Poetry." In the Foreword, Jane Cooper writes: "Why is poetry feared? Because it demands full consciousness; it asks us to feel and it asks us to respond.
Although as many as 7 in 10 of us will experience a one-night stand at some point in our lives, new research from Norway suggests how women and men feel about it the morning after can vary greatly.
That night, at the Defarge’s wine shop, Carton overhears Madame Defarge plotting to have Lucie and her daughter (also Darnay’s daughter) executed as well; Madame Defarge, it turns out, is the surviving sibling of the man and woman killed by the Evrémondes.
Macbeth: Gender and Lady Macbeth Essay called Macbeth there is a lot of gender stereotypes demonstrated throughout the play. The characters of Macbeth, especially Lady Macbeth herself, are hostile to what it means to be a woman, and laud instead the strength and power of a man.
Most hook ups becomes one-night stands. If we were to ask those individuals if they regret their past encounters many would say yes because drugs or alcohol were involved.
Drugs and and alcohol play an important role in sex. It’s mostly a trail of intense but short-lived relationships, with a few regrettable one-night stands sprinkled here and there.
A boy I met in grad school lasted a year, but we were too hot.