rssenglishworld, The English Literature and Grammar Digest

  A Work of Artifice   by Marge Piercy  The bonsai tree in the attractive pot could have grown eighty feet tall on the side of a mountain till split by lightning. But a gardener carefully pruned it. It is nine inches high. Every day as he whittles back the branches the gardener croons, It is your nature to be small and cozy, domestic and weak; how lucky, little tree, to have a pot to grow in. With living creatures one must begin very early to dwarf their growth: the bound feet, the crippled brain, the hair in curlers, the hands you love to touch. A Work of Artifice by Marge Piercy — Line-by-Line Explanation This poem uses the image of a bonsai tree to discuss how society, especially men in positions of power, often limit the growth and potential of women. The title A Work of Artifice means something artificial, deliberately created, or manipulated, suggesting that women's limitations are not natural but imposed by society. The bonsai tree Explanation: The poem begins...

Why I Like the Hospital  by Tony Hoagland: Detailed Summary Tony Hoagland’s poem “Why I Like the Hospital” presents a reflective and honest exploration of human emotions within the hospital setting. The poet does not glorify hospitals in a superficial way; instead, he appreciates them for the emotional truth and self-awareness they allow. The poem begins with the speaker describing how the hospital permits people to be in a bad mood without guilt. In everyday life, individuals are expected to behave cheerfully and remain composed, but in a hospital, sadness and fatigue are natural. People move slowly through underground garages, stand silently in elevators, and stare blankly at closed doors. The comparison of these doors to a “prison wall” suggests both physical confinement and emotional heaviness. The poet then explains that he likes the hospital because it allows pathos, or deep emotional expression. He presents powerful images: a mother suffering from cancer who must decide how ...

A Considerable Speck by Robert Frost A speck that would have been beneath my sight On any but a paper sheet so white Set off across what I had written there. And I had idly poised my pen in air To stop it with a period of ink When something strange about it made me think, This was no dust speck by my breathing blown, But unmistakably a living mite With inclinations it could call its own. It paused as with suspicion of my pen, And then came racing wildly on again To where my manuscript was not yet dry; Then paused again and either drank or smelt— With loathing, for again it turned to fly. Plainly with an intelligence I dealt. It seemed too tiny to have room for feet, Yet must have had a set of them complete To express how much it didn't want to die. It ran with terror and with cunning crept. It faltered: I could see it hesitate; Then in the middle of the open sheet Cower down in desperation to accept Whatever I accorded it of fate. I have none of the tenderer-than-thou Collectivisti...