Tommy Orange’s There, There Presentations:
Author:
Introduction:
Aidan Doane (G2)
Gio Lofranco (H2)
Reception:
There There Reception Zachary Hines.[3647]
Gavin Benofsky (G2)
Michael Kovacevic (H2)
Characters:
Kenneth Donnolly (G2)
Wyatt Evers (H2)
Literary Devices:
Gary Bullard (G2)
Zachary Evenson (H1)
Max Hwang (H2)
Critical Essay:
Brandon Alderman (G1)
Mark Rockefeller (H2)
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Toni Morrison’s “Black Matters” from Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination
Presentations:
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Liam O’Flaherty’s “The Sniper”
Presentations:
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Sherman Alexie’s “What You Pawn I Will Redeem”
Presentations:
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Presentations:
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Presentations:
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Some scholarly articles related to themes and contexts of Richard III:
Slotkin, “Honeyed Toads: Sinister Aesthetics in Shakespeare’s Richard III” 2002
Sheriff, “The Grotesque Comedy of Richard III” 1972
Percec, “Failed Mothers, Monster Sons: Reading Shakespeare’s Richard III as a Fairy Tale” Fairy 2014
Venning, “Richard III in the Era of Trump” 2018
Packard, “Richard III’s Baby Teeth” 2013
Olson, “Richard III‘s Animalistic Criminal Body” 2003
Fretz, “Dreams and Tragedy in Shakespeare’s Richard III” 2017
Colley, “Richard III and Herod” 1986
Lopez, “Time and Talk in Richard III Liv” 2005
Moulton, “‘A Monster Great Deformed”: The Unruly Masculinity of Richard III” 1996
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Washington Irving’s “Stratford on Avon”
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For the Confederate Dead by Kevin Young
I go with the team also.
—Whitman
These are the last days
my television says. Tornadoes, more
rain, overcast, a chance
of sun but I do not
trust weathermen,
never have. In my fridge only
the milk makes sense—
expires. No one, much less
my parents, can tell me why
my middle name is Lowell,
and from my table
across from the Confederate
Monument to the dead (that pale
finger bone) a plaque
declares war—not Civil,
or Between
the States, but for Southern
Independence. In this café, below sea-
and eye-level a mural runs
the wall, flaking, a plantation
scene most do not see—
it’s too much
around the knees, height
of a child. In its fields Negroes bend
to pick the endless white.
In livery a few drive carriages
like slaves, whipping the horses, faces
blank and peeling. The old hotel
lobby this once was no longer
welcomes guests—maroon ledger,
bellboys gone but
for this. Like an inheritance
the owner found it
stripping hundred years
(at least) of paint
and plaster. More leaves each day.
In my movie there are no
horses, no heroes,
only draftees fleeing
into the pines, some few
who survive, gravely
wounded, lying
burrowed beneath the dead—
silent until the enemy
bayonets what is believed
to be the last
of the breathing. It is getting later.
We prepare
for wars no longer
there. The weather
inevitable, unusual—
more this time of year
than anyone ever seed. The earth
shudders, the air—
if I did not know
better, I would think
we were living all along
a fault. How late
it has gotten…
Forget the weatherman
whose maps move, blink,
but stay crossed
with lines none has seen. Race
instead against the almost
rain, digging beside the monument
(that giant anchor)
till we strike
water, sweat
fighting the sleepwalking air.
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Ode to the Midwest by Kevin Young
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
—Bob Dylan
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Eddie Priest’s Barber Shop & Notary by Kevin Young
Closed Mondays
is music is men
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Bling Bling Blues by Kevin Young
Once hunger
was my dance partner —
Now my diamond shoes
hurting my feet
& that my wallet won’t
fit my 50s
are my chief complaints.
I’d like to thank
God, my agent.
My teeth went
platinum last week.
My ride’s seats
golden fleece.
My greeting: Dog,
Black, Homey,
Money.
Once every stranger
was my father —
I went out & got my scars
insured.
I got more rocks
than the clink —
bought a goldplated house
for my mama
& all my trophies.
Cheddar, green,
cabbage, cream.
My leaving:
Peace, a pound
of fist.
Once hunger —
Still, danger taps
me on the shoulder
wanting to cut in.
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Elegy for the Forgotten Oldsmobile by Adrian C. Louis
July 4th and all is Hell.
Outside my shuttered breath the streets bubble
with flame-loined kids in designer jeans
looking for people to rape or razor.
A madman covered with running sores
is on the street corner singing:
O beautiful for spacious skies…
This landscape is far too convenient
to be either real or metaphor.
In an alley behind a 7-11
a Black pimp dressed in Harris tweed
preaches fidelity to two pimply whores
whose skin is white though they aren’t quite.
And crosstown in the sane precincts
of Brown University where I added rage
to Cliff Notes and got two degrees
bearded scientists are stringing words
outside the language inside the guts of atoms
and I don’t know why I’ve come back to visit.
O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind.
Chicken bones in a cardboard casket
meditate upon the linoleum floor.
Outside my flophouse door stewed
and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.
The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother.
Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge
ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud
though this is summer I don’t know why or where
the souls of Indian sinners fly.
Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis.
I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock
letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms—
first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.
But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of
my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts
thread by thread asserting insectival lust.
I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene.
What are my options? Why am I back in this city?
When I sing of the American night my lungs billow
Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation.
My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941”
explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam
and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see
this mad fag nation is dying.
Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess
I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project
my regret to my long-lost high school honey
but history has carried me to a place
where she has a daughter older than we were
when we first shared flesh.
She is the one who could not marry me
because of the dark-skin ways in my blood.
Love like that needs no elegy but because
of the baked-prick possibility of the flame lakes of Hell
I will give one last supper and sacrament
to the dying beast of need disguised as love
on deathrow inside my ribcage.
I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger
when I could see how the past had guided me
and I cried and held the pillow, muddled
in the melodrama of the quite immature
but anyway, Uncle Adrian…
Here I am in the reservation of my mind
and silence settles forever
the vacancy of this cheap city room.
In the wine darkness my cigarette coal
tints my face with Geronimo’s rage
and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester
waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools
who taught me to live-think in English.
Uncle Adrian…
to make a long night story short,
you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962.
How come you didn’t?
I could have had some really good times in high school.
Sonnet by Billy Collins
All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love’s storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here wile we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.
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Elements of Poetry cheat sheat
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Sound and Sense by Alexander Pope (from An Essay on Criticism)
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
‘Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar;
When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
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Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
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Winter by William Shakespeare
When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
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