Dodiya Meghana's personal

  About Poem:     When the speaker of the poem gazes at the Grecian urn, he meditates on the nature of truth and beauty. Each of the three scenes depicted on the urn moves him in a different way, and he describes them in detail, marveling at their artistry. In the first stanza of the poem, the speaker starts describing an ancient Grecian urn of the kind used to hold ashes. It depicts three scenes: a wild party, the playing of instruments, and a ritual slaughter. In the second to fourth stanzas, the speaker describes the scenes in detail, envying all the beautiful figures. He lingers particularly on the scene of the party, where several amorous men chase after women. In the final stanza, the speaker boldly states that if the urn could speak for itself, it would declare, "Beauty is truth, and truth beauty

  Poem: Daddy You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew.

  Morning Song by Sylvia plath Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.   Analysis of the poem:       In the first stanza of the poem "Morning Song" by Sylvia Plath, the mother and the narrator narrates the birth of the child. She also hints at how the fetus gr