Instructions: Read the following poems by a modern-day poet who shall remain nameless. You should read these works with an eye to the writers from the time periods and literary movements covered in this class--for your task is to discern what type of writer this mystery poet is: is he/she a student of Realism or Modernism?
Build a persuasive essay based upon your individual, original reading of these poems, claiming the connection you see between the poetry of our mystery poet and the writers covered in this class. In your paper, you will quote from both the mystery poet (several different poems) and from works from the class, showing where you see comparisons, and using those comparisons to conclude whether this poet is more of a Realism writer or a Modernism writer.

I don't want superficial similarities (ideas such as "the mystery poet talks about getting a haircut, so he's realistic" isn't really in-depth enough. You have to state WHY he/she is realistic or modernistic). Look deeply into the makeup of these mystery poet's works and see where his/her soul has gotten poetic nourishment. Pick apart the words and phrases and images and themes to see where he/she got the writing tools made use of in these poems.

FIRST POEM

Pigeons

Smog-grey they travel to and from the “s”

above a nearly nameless corner store

bearing human scraps to furnish a nest.

Below, teh waste of pigeons covers the door.

The sign reads only “d” and “r” apart

from that “s.” No one remembers what it means.

As air further thickens from passing cars,

these birds, unnoticed, weave their way between

shoes on the move, eat what they can of fallen fries,

and pick at cigarette butts. Some hags toss

stale bread, and so they live. When they die,

Pigeons fall into littered corners. Their loss

does not affect those streets: clouds still rain

dirty water; hobos request loose change.



SECOND POEM

Cursing the Darkness & What’s It To You


A lot of trains come through this town all night,

and the kids are experimenting

with expressions again. As in how things are,

or are manifest--and what things do--for the first time

in the history of the world. It’s almost comforting.



And we’re popping the old antibiotics again.

The clanging of a lot of trains continues for some time,

as Tad and Nancy practice for the rest of their lives.

You look big and strong, says Nancy.

You have expressive eyes, says Tad.



They’ve great testimonials. They’ve wonderful,

bright smiles. It’s important we remain clear

on this, how sometimes it’s just train after train

after train. Cyclical even, as the pipes freeze.

And with the weeds making for the window box,



where somehow it’s all gone terribly wrong.

Maybe some crucial details somewhere.

And we wanted each other to have more than that.

So many things, really. While all night

the lights blink, and the crossbars go up and down.



THIRD POEM

October


and the room smells more and more

like something sweet


going slowly rotten. Mornings they arrive

as a unit, wait alongside the building and scream

every profanity they can think of


into each other’s faces. It is a great purging.

The bell rings and, silent, they file in, a veritable


line of monks. O god I pray, O god

of the single file line I pray. And always,

always someone needs something


almost immediately.


FOURTH POEM

Rope


Who was it who first believed

each strand of our experience

is coiled into the long ropes

of the brain, that no matter

how many dawns break their waves

of light over the eye, we manage

to hoard it, all of it, and if

only we could wire some charge

into the right place, we are there,

born across the frightened

sheets of a mother’s blood,

entire, having broken the water

of our denial, without the current

sweetness of memory and loss;

and to test our faith, we will live

our whole lives over, and burn

both ends of this fuse to the center,

remembering and not remembering,

and bearing in mind the difference,

and not bearing, until we come

to the moment the wire dreams

its own descent, that little

charge of pure illusion,

and its laying down of ropes--

who can blame us after all--

in the phantom ropes we are, we are.

Sure, but first - what textbook(s) are you using? What are the definitions of modernism and realism I mean? Example poets would be nice, such as Eliot or Stevens for modernistic and/or Edgar Lee Masters as realistic. Is Carl Sandburg modern or realistic? If someone is Postmodern, has s/he not yet been born?