regarding your e-mails

yes there is a number of stuff that you have to study for. BUT DO NOT FREAK OUT.
I just want to know your opinion rather than detail.
good luck
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TO IST-BİLGİ: FINAL EXAMS 2018

Dear Students,

You are going to have your Final Exams for ELT 202 on 30.05.2018.
Please be prepared to know the differences and definitions of:
Modernism (Gertrude Stein)
Imagism (Ezra Pound)
Confessional Poetry (Sylvia Plath- Ted Hughes).

You should also have some general knowledge of the themes, symbols and plot for:


Alice in Wonderland- Caroll
Turn of the Screw- James
The Great Gatsby - Fitzgerald
The Awakening- Chopin


Please be aware I am going to focus more on thought and ideas rather than details. So please use your opinion and their "reasons" while answering the questions.

Modernism

Gertrude Stein Poetry

Red faces

By Gertrude Stein

Red flags the reason for pretty flags.
And ribbons.
Ribbons of flags
And wearing material
Reason for wearing material.
Give pleasure.
Can you give me the regions.
The regions and the land.
The regions and wheels.
All wheels are perfect.
Enthusiasm.

Daughter

By Gertrude Stein

Why is the world at peace.
This may astonish you a little but when you realise how
easily Mrs. Charles Bianco sells the work of American
painters to American millionaires you will recognize that
authorities are constrained to be relieved. Let me tell you a
story. A painter loved a woman. A musician did not sing.
A South African loved books. An American was a woman
and needed help. Are Americans the same as incubators.
But this is the rest of the story. He became an authority. 

Gertrude Stein Bio

Kate Chopin Part 3

Announcement

Dear Ist Bilgi Students,

I have entered your grades into the system, please check them.
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part 2

part 1

TO IST-BİLGİ

Dear Students

Please Finish the book Kate Chopin's The Awakening.

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Imagism

An early 20th-century poetic movement that relied on the resonance of concrete images drawn in precise, colloquial language rather than traditional poetic diction and meter. T.E. Hulme, H.D., and William Carlos Williams were practitioners of the imagist principles as laid out by Ezra Pound in the March 1913 issue of Poetry(see “A Retrospect” and “A Few Don'ts”). Amy Lowell built a strain of imagism that used some of Pound's principles and rejected others in her Preface to the 1916 anthology, Some Imagist Poets. 

Confessional Poetry

Confessional poetry is the poetry of the personal or “I.” This style of writing emerged in the late 1950s and early 1960s and is associated with poets such as Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and W. D. Snodgrass. Lowell’s book Life Studies was a highly personal account of his life and familial ties and had a significant impact on American poetry. Plath and Sexton were both students of Lowell and noted that his work influenced their own writing.

The confessional poetry of the mid-twentieth century dealt with subject matter that previously had not been openly discussed in American poetry. Private experiences with and feelings about death, trauma, depression and relationships were addressed in this type of poetry, often in an autobiographical manner. Sexton in particular was interested in the psychological aspect of poetry, having started writing at the suggestion of her therapist.

The confessional poets were not merely recording their emotions on paper; craft and construction were extremely important to their work. While their treatment of the poetic self may have been groundbreaking and shocking to some readers, these poets maintained a high level of craftsmanship through their careful attention to and use of prosody.

One of the most well-known poems by a confessional poet is "Daddy" by Plath. Addressed to her father, the poem contains references to the Holocaust but uses a sing-song rhythm that echoes the nursery rhymes of childhood:

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

Another confessional poet of this generation was John Berryman. His major work was The Dream Songs, which consists of 385 poems about a character named Henry and his friend Mr. Bones. Many of the poems contain elements of Berryman’s own life and traumas, such as his father’s suicide. Below is an excerpt from "Dream Song 1":

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry’s side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don’t see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

The confessional poets of the 1950s and 1960s pioneered a type of writing that forever changed the landscape of American poetry. The tradition of confessional poetry has been a major influence on generations of writers and continues to this day; Marie Howe and Sharon Olds are two contemporary poets whose writing largely draws upon their personal experience.

poem by Ezra Pound

Ezra Pound, Short Bio

Ezra Pound, The Return

Announcement

Since it is really tiring to prepare new quizzes. I recommend you to attend the quiz on 16.05.2018.
there will be NO back up quiz.

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To Ist Bilgi Students: ATTENTION

I might give you a mini Quiz next week. So please do not forget to read Kate Chopin's The Awakening until page 79.

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http://www.bosonbooks.com/boson/oldies/Awakening.pdf

Poetry was his voice

Ted Hughes a Poet Laureate

Ted Hughes poetry

View Of A Pig

The pig lay on a barrow dead.

It weighed, they said, as much as three men.

Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes.

Its trotters stuck straight out.

Such weight and thick pink bulk

Set in death seemed not just dead.

It was less than lifeless, further off.

It was like a sack of wheat.

I thumped it without feeling remorse.

One feels guilty insulting the dead,

Walking on graves. But this pig

Did not seem able to accuse.

It was too dead. Just so much

A poundage of lard and pork.

Its last dignity had entirely gone.

It was not a figure of fun.

Too dead now to pity.

To remember its life, din, stronghold

Of earthly pleasure as it had been,

Seemed a false effort, and off the point.

Too deadly factual. Its weight

Oppressed me—how could it be moved?

And the trouble of cutting it up!

The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.

Once I ran at a fair in the noise

To catch a greased piglet

That was faster and nimbler than a cat,

Its squeal was the rending of metal.

Pigs must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.

Their bite is worse than a horse’s—

They chop a half-moon clean out.

They eat cinders, dead cats.

Distinctions and admirations such

As this one was long finished with.

I stared at it a long time. They were going to scald it,

Scald it and scour it like a doorstep.

The drowned woman

Millionly-whored, without womb,

Her heart already rubbish,

Watching the garret death come,

This thirty year old miss

Walked in park pastoral

With bird and bee but no man

Where children were catching armsful

Of the untouched sun.

With plastic handbag, with mink fur,

A face sleep-haggard and sleep-puffed

Fresh-floured and daubed “whore,”

This puppet was stuffed

With rags of beds and strangers’

Cast-offs, one cracked cup, a cough

That smoked and malingered.

But put a coin in her slot

This worn public lady

Would fountain a monologue,

Would statuesque and goddess a body,

Ladder Jacob a leg.

She plucked men’s eyes from happy homes;

Hands grew in the empty dark

And hung like jewellery on her limbs,

Yet she came to this park

Not for the sun’s forgetful look

Nor children running here and there;

On the mud bed of the lake

She found her comforter.

thanks for sharing, a little skizze by Saro Hybardian

"It would be a grave mistake to dismiss Chopin as "a feminist" writer. She was a first-class writer and her ability to raise life from a blank page knows few equals. 
Prepare your heart and your brain before reading Kate Chopin, she demands both."

https://americanliterature.com/author/kate-chopin

Homework for Ist Bilgi

Dear Students,

Please read the first 51 pages of Kate Chopin's "The Awakening".

http://www.bosonbooks.com/boson/oldies/Awakening.pdf

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To Ist Bilgi

I have announced your grades for Quiz 2, pls check them and e-mail me in case of a problem.
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A turkish documentary on Sylva Plath

Sylva Plath Poems

CUT
By Sylvia Plath

What a thrill ---
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.




Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ---

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ---
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.



Lady Lazarus
By Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.   
One year in every ten   
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine   
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin   
O my enemy.   
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be   
At home on me




And I a smiling woman.   
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.   
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.   
The peanut-crunching crowd   
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.   
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands   
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   
The first time it happened I was ten.   
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.   
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.   
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute   
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.   
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.


And there is a charge, a very large charge   
For a word or a touch   
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   
So, so, Herr Doktor.   
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,   
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   
A wedding ring,   
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   
Beware
Beware.


Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair   
And I eat men like air.

Daddy
BY SYLVIA PLATH
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.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna   
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck   
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.



I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.   
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.   
Every woman adores a Fascist,   
The boot in the face, the brute   
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,   
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot   
But no less a devil for that, no not   
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.   
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,   
And they stuck me together with glue.   
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.   
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,   
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you   
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart   
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.   
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Sylvia Plath interview