Works to be discussed on Theory "Final"
Be prepared to discuss these four (4)
works listed below, using appropriate perspectives from the theoretical
readings this semester; bring copies of these works to
class.
Charlottle Perkins Gilman
"The
Yellow Wall Paper"
(click on the link above to read the story; you'll need to be
able to read a pdf file)
Jack
London
"The
Night Born"
(click on the link above to read the story)
Louise
Bogan (1897-1970)
Women
Women have no wilderness in them,
They are
provident instead,
Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts
To eat
dusty bread.
They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,
They do not hear
Snow water
going down under culverts
Shallow and clear.
They wait, when they should turn to journeys,
They stiffen, when they should bend.
They use against themselves that benevolence
To which no
man is friend.
They cannot think of so many crops to a field
Or of clean
wood cleft by an axe.
Their love
is an eager meaninglessness
Too tense,
or too lax.
They hear in every whisper that speaks to them
A shout and
a cry.
As like as
not, when they take life over their door-sills
They should
let it go by.
Lynn Crosbie (1963-)
Jesus the Low Rider
take a little trip
take a little trip with me
I see him through the keyhole,
swaying below the porchlight and his halo of moths,
I smell the wine on his breath and I feel
weak in the knees: this is my blood.
I release the chain and fall into his arms,
again. his cheeks are comely with rows of
jewels, his neck with chains of gold.
S
he wears an iron cross, a confederate
bandanna and his chain whips clamour,
they sting my fingers when I undress him.
the soles of his motorcycle boots are
the cartography of his absences, each run,
each time he leaves I swear it is the last time.
as the door slams and I sweep the glass and
splinters, his temper is epic and desperate:
I love an outlaw
who talks about betrayal in his sleep,
his hands rake the sheets and I cleanse
them, with tears. in the morning
I hear the Apostles circling, their
high raked mufflers are stormclouds
that portend my loss, my loneliness.
Christ, I am desolate without him.
he bakes loaves of bread in high
spirits and I remove the oilcloth –
my shroud of Turin -- and polish the
bike. its suicide clutch and chrome rails
shine with water and vinegar, there
is a prophetic grammar in their
dagger design. I see the crash that
kills him, the rain soaked road,
his stillness. I see myself
in shadow, resurrecting him. I
have the gospel lettered on my
forearms, in gold and green.
I have learned to live with sorrow,
and I am a believer. Jesus kisses
me, hard on each cheek, before he
turns, and rides away.