Poetry

But work grew scarce, while bread grew dear,

And wages lessened, too;

For Irish hordes were bidders here,

Our half-paid work to do.

~Corn Law Rhymes                                  

    This poem fits so well into the story or North and South. It gives depth to how the peasants would have felt in such times. It explains how they would go mad: from starvation.
     It's lovely how Gaskell has a poem, even if it is merely a line, starting each of her chapters. I too write poetry every once in a while, mostly thoughts and questions on what to do in this life.

Lost for words. Lost for a sound.

What to do when on the bottom rung?

Is there hope when this low on the ground?

Here where a cursed world left me strung.

If I should die today,

Die, die, die and decay,

Would you turn to my body and say,

Now there someone important lay?

How does one leave a mark on the world?

That is, one worth being reheard.

A story, a gift to the world re-herald,

So it's noticed, and hearts are stirred.

Being the worst you seems to make a mark.

People remember you as "the one with a blackened heart."

But is that where my story must end... or start?

What to do? What to do? But suffer silent in the dark.

 ~Alayna Michelle                                

We Wear the Mask

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myraid subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!



Need anything be said?
This poem is grand.
Almost as much as the poet.

But to where has it led?
This story doth stand
On more than just one moment.

Truth be told
These words like gold
Created by Paul Dunbar,

Are more than just cold
Truths randomly pulled
That shine like a sky with no star.

Our culture hath made
Us hide all emotion
As though we should be ashamed,

So silently we stayed
Not to make a commotion
But box ourselves to be tamed.

But what is the use
Of standing this abuse
When it only makes us ill?

We must let them loose
There is no excuse
Our feeling must no longer be stilled.

My Misstress' eyes

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
     And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
     As any she belied with false compare.




    Oh William Shakespeare, is there any sort of sonnet you cannot compose? Well, none now because you are dead, but in your lifetime you made ones with beauty and ones with insult. This is of course my favorite. It reminds me a bit of the Taming of the Shrew, one of your plays. Here the lady is harsh and not so beautiful, but there is respect and love found between the husband and wife. I wish I could mimic your poem, but it would only appear as though I mocked, when in fact, I am in love. What can I compare this to, a summer's day? Thank you. Thank you Shakespeare for this piece of priceless humor and depth.