Gender Blending: Guess the Sex of the Poet10 Questions I 19 Attempts I Created By davec521 1213 days ago
In the best of all possible worlds, I would use entire poems, but because of copyright considerations, I must limit the choices to lines and or stanzas.
Instructions: Read the passage and using all your powers of deduction and/or gut instinct, identify the writer of the passage as either male or female.
I will publish the results in a future blog post at www.hcpl.net/Read/Poetry
To thee, pure sprite, to thee alone’s addressed spirit
This coupled work, by double int’rest thine:
First raised by thy blessed hand, and what is mine
Inspired by thee, thy secret power impressed.
So dared my Muse with thine itself combine,
As mortal stuff with that which is divine.
Thy light’ning beams give luster to the rest,
I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found
A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers,
Which I to wear about mine arm was bound,
That each of us might know that all was ours:
Must I now lead an idle life in wishes,
And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
Everything contains some
silence. Noise gets
its zest from the
of rest angledin it.
I, with a shift
of my skin, divest my self
to become the rock
that shadows it.
Think of when
your reading eyes momentarily drift,
and in that instant
How is it that you hold such influence over me:
your practiced slouch, your porkpie hat at rakish angle,
commending the dumpling-shaped lump atop your pelvis—
as if we’ve one more thing to consider amidst
the striptease of all your stanzas and all your lines—
Reader unmov’d and Reader unshaken, Reader unseduc’d
and unterrified, through the long-loud and the sweet-still
I creep toward you. Toward you, I thistle and I climb.
I crawl, Reader, servile and cervine, through this blank
season, counting—I sleep and I sleep. I sleep,
Reader, toward you, loud as a cloud and deaf, Reader, deaf
Then the gun men come and then
The one in blond fox
Clutching the Book of Ruin
In his clean, white hands.
From the barn I could see the star
Of his horse as it galloped toward us.
Mothers of America
let your kids go to the movies!
get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to
it’s true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Can we believe—by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each patterned alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.
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