The Rain Horse

Hello friend!

I have brought you a new blog post today which is about a dark story titled “The Rain Horse”. Happy reading!
                                     

[WARNING: This contains MAJOR spoilers]

The Rain Horse is a short story by famous children’s writer Ted Hughes. The story was written in 1947 [oh my god, that’s really old, right?].  It’s a very dark, sorta morbid story, but I really like it because it talks about overcoming one’s fears and struggles; the unnamed protagonist and narrator is depicted as a very paranoid twenty-five-year-old man who clearly carries a whole lot of pain and guilt in his heart. However, the reader is never told what the man’s burden is; that’s intentionally left open to interpretation by us, the honoured recipients of this chilling and fascinating story. The title refers to a hostile black horse who constantly attacks the man, but eventually leaves him alone [after being pelted with stones. Ha, take that, horse! Role reversal!] I don’t think that horse is real; more like it’s a figment of his imagination. As I said before, the man is paranoid, and his [apparently] unpleasant association with the valley where he saw the horse caused him to hallucinate; when he is bold enough to face the horse, the animal suddenly lowers its head and disappears. This is symbolic of the man subjugating his fears. The cat-and-mouse game that this story depicts is really thrilling—when you read it, you’ll be holding your breath and thinking “what next? What next?” Trust me on this—I know. If you’ve read it already, I wonder if you agree with me! I will now give you a brief summary of The Rain Horse.

The setting, according to the demands of the story, is super gloomy. The story begins on a miserable, cloudy day; it’s raining excessively.  A young man is trudging through all the mud and rain, trying to find some place where he can get warm and dry; when he gets to a familiar place, he looks down into the valley and notices, to his unpleasant surprise, that this the valley which he left twelve years ago [he had no intention of returning. Ever.] He remembers this place extremely well; when he left, it was a flourishing little valley, but now he can only see terribly barren fields, filled with muddy water. This mirrors his state of mind.

He had thought that he’d experience a flurry of inexplicable emotions were he to return; surprisingly, he feels nothing. He keeps waiting for some emotion to wash over him, but there is no sensation—nothing except anger. [From what I can gather, he was the one at fault and is now trying to live his guilt down, but he’s mad at the inhabitants of the valley! That’s just my deduction, though.] His anger continues to rise to boiling point; he’s frustrated because the rain is ruining his new suit and shoes, and he’s furious because he just wants to run away and never think of this place again. While these thoughts are running through his head, he notices something from the corner of his eye: “over to his right a thin, black horse was running across the ploughland towards the hill, its head down, neck stretched out. It seemed to be running on its toes like a cat, like a dog up to no good.” The horse is demonstrating unusually hostile behaviour, right? Horses don’t normally lower their heads until one provokes them; the poor [maybe it so poor] man did nothing to anger the horse—he didn’t even notice it before! Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, the man turns away from the horse and retreats into the woods, seeking some kind of shelter from the rain [ he is also trying to protect himself from the freakish horse. His attempts are in vain.] The horse follows him into the woods; when the man opens his mouth to scream in terror, it disappears [talk about uncanny…]. Understandably shaken, the man somehow manages to pull himself together and makes his way to the farmhouse located over the hill when he sees the horse again; this time, it’s been waiting for him. Its sharp white teeth are bared in what seems to be a savage grin; however, the man is not so scared anymore, and is determined to fight the horse should the brute dare to attack him. He picks up several stones and keeps walking.

The horse tosses its proud, beautiful black head and stamps its mighty hooves; it seems to have every intention of attacking him. The man assumes that something must be wrong with the animal, as normal horses’ behaviour is very friendly and gentle; perhaps the horse is sick, or skittish because of the never-ending downpour. Nevertheless, it is hellbent on stalking him [yeah, stalking.]  Seems like it eventually got impatient, because it ends up attacking its quarry; the man is determined to win this battle, so he pelts it with stones until the horse relents and stops its onslaught. He commands it to stay where it is if it doesn’t want to get hurt; the horse complies, and the man hurries on to the farm where he sits in quiet contemplation, his head in his hands, trying to recover from the trauma of what he just experienced. The swift, but chilling, encounter with the horse leaves our dear protagonist and narrator shaken; he is not in a hurry to come back here. The story ends on this note.

So, I believe that the horse was just a manifestation of the man’s [very strong] negative emotions-- after all, horses are not normally hostile creatures; they’re not supernatural beings to be able to appear and disappear at their will and wish; they’re not savage [and, as far as I know, they don’t grin.] What do you think? I’ve given you my opinion; please do give me yours! That’s all for now. See you next time!

I hope you liked my article!

Thank you!

She Walks in Beauty

Hello friend! 

I have brought you a new and extremely interesting blog post today. Happy reading!

She Walks in Beauty is a short lyrical poem by famous English poet George Gordon Byron, better known simply as Lord Byron [the poem was penned in 1813]. He was one of the leading figures of the Romantic Movement, and is still widely remembered, loved, and hailed as one of the greatest poets of the 19^th century [I completely agree! I’ve always loved Byron’s poems; his simple, yet descriptive and eloquent style of writing always made me feel happy and dreamy]. I read “She Walks in Beauty” when I was only thirteen, and it made a lasting impression on me. Interestingly, Byron uses both dark and light metaphors to accentuate the subject’s beauty [we don’t know who “she” is, because he never gives us a name]. However, from the barely contained emotions in the poem, it’s obvious that he had a Muse. That’s right, he wrote this poem after setting eyes on a magnificent beauty: while at a ball, he came across Mrs Anne Beatrix Wilmot, the wife of his cousin, Robert Wilmot. He was struck by her unusual beauty, and the next morning the poem was written. Without further ado, I shall give you a brief summary of the poem. I hope you like it!

The poet is talking about how incredibly lovely “she” is; he compares her beauty to that of a cloudless, starry night sky, introducing a previously frowned-upon concept—that darkness can also be associated with beauty. [Byron was a trendsetter!] Her eyes are described as being dark and expressive, filled with a light that is tender but strong; even daylight pales before her radiance. The poet suggests that her radiance is divine and not something humans can comprehend. She moves with effortless grace, and darkness and light fall over her face in turns [curiously, this enhances her beauty.] In this sense, I think that the poet is using light and darkness to describe her magnificence as a way of depicting her balance between all things dark and light [that’s just my opinion, though.] He uses the prettiest words for her hair [“raven tress”. Black is beautiful!] The next two lines confirm that, though she has consistently been associated with darkness, her soul is extremely pure and unsullied; her eyes prove that. Her thoughts are serene and sweet [the poet says this very gently and lovingly; this poem contains very strong emotions, but he has taken care to express himself as simply and sincerely as possible.]

In the next [and last] stanza, the poet comments on how simple, yet eloquent, her beauty is; her skin glows, and her smiles are extremely compelling, winning the hearts of all who behold her. She is just too regal for our poor human eyes—she is like an otherworldly being who has graciously deigned to grace us all with her beauty […the last part is my own addition, hehe… however, that’s certainly the feeling that this poem gives off.] Her entire being gives off vibes of unparalleled serenity and innocence. Though she is so immeasurably superior to all of us, her mind is at peace with everyone, and she does not flaunt her superiority; in fact, I wonder if she is even aware of her superiority. The poet declares that she has the capacity to love innocently and tenderly [quite a rare occurrence, as most people’s love is fierce and way too strong—stronger than needed, sometimes; yeah, I’m talking about Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff from “Wuthering Heights”.] The poem ends on this sweet, lingering note; do you understand why this poem made me fall in love with it instantly? I know it’s a short poem, but I’ve tried to elaborate as much as I could, and I worked hard at it; I hope I’ve done this poem the justice it needs. I love Byron’s style of writing—it’s so soft, so understated, so sweet—yet, at the same time, so passionate, so strong, so powerful; I just couldn’t get the words out of my head [I even set a tune to the poem and then sang it to myself whenever I was bored.] Those words are imprinted on my heart! This is just a matter of opinion, but I think that this poem is a sheer stroke of genius [coming from me, that’s really, really high praise, as I’m super picky when it comes to poems, and I’m not always so generous with praise…]. It makes sense that Byron still lives on in our hearts! He perfectly blends the contrasting elements of light and darkness to create a poem rich in metaphorical language; honestly, the way he strings words together, you’d think he commanded the English language. This poem is like multi-coloured threads entwined together, drawing the reader deeper and deeper. Do you agree with me??

…I think I’ve rambled on long enough. I’ll say goodbye right now! Stay tuned!

See you next week!

Thank you!

Birches

Hello friend! 

I have brought you a new blog post today. Happy reading!

Birches is a marvellous poem by Robert Frost [I’m on a roll! I’ve been writing a lot about Frost’s poems, right? That’s because I simply love his poems!] Like “After Apple-Picking”, Birches is not very well-known; however, I love this poem because it revolves around duty, responsibility and the connection between heaven and earth. This poem is set in a tiny New England village—Frost really liked setting his poems in small, seemingly nondescript places. The poem is written in blank verse [meaning there are no rhyming words]; Frost often wrote in this style. Also, the title was initially “Swinging Birches”, which is perhaps more appropriate, as kids in New England villages are fond of swinging on branches of birches—and that, my friend, is exactly what the poet is trying to convey to the readers. The speaker vehemently believes that birches make better companions and playmates than humans, and describes himself as an “avid swinger of birches”.  [Frost’s daughter was fond of birches, too. The little miss inspired him to write this exquisitely worded and quietly expressive poem].

The speaker often sees a row of bent birches in contrast to straight trees. At such times, he likes to imagine that some feisty little boy has been swinging them; however, he quickly [and sadly] states that he knows what the truth is: ice storms have bent the birches. [Truth is harsh… boo hoo!] On a winter morning, freezing rain covers the branches with ice, which then cracks and falls to the ground. The sunlight refracts on the ice crystals, making an indescribably dazzling display [the beginning is really beautiful, right?! I love Winter!] The speaker is unable to accept this harsh reality, and continues dreaming of a boy swinging on and bending the birches; he wistfully insinuates that he wishes he could swing on the birches as he used to when he was a little brat [haha, I often imagine Frost as a whiny kid]. He has grown weary of his earthly responsibilities, and wishes to escape into a realm where he can fulfil his desires [i.e. heaven]. He wants to leave the rough and tumble of rationality or “Truth” behind him, and desperately wants to experience the guileless bliss and seemingly insignificant [but actually meaningful] joys of childhood. I mentioned a connection between heaven and earth before, right? Let me explain in detail: when the boy climbs up the tree, he is journeying towards “heaven”, a place where scary things like duties can’t catch up to him; however, dear reader, Frost doesn’t really intend to let him get away. The speaker explains that the birch tree connects earth and heaven, which are depicted as polar opposite realms; climbing a birch is an opportunity to cool one’s head while climbing higher and higher, before coming back to earth and starting over. A swinger can let his imagination fly, but he is still bound to the earth through the roots of the tree. It is vital to note that the speaker’s desire to escape from his mundane life is inconclusive; he deeply regrets the fact that he cannot find pleasure in swinging on birches anymore, but acknowledges the fact that he has loads of stuff to do here, and he’d really rather fulfil his obligations than indulge in fantasies. However, the poem highlights the fact that it’s not wrong to dream about escaping… right? The poem is not easy to analyse, as it’s full of ambiguity; I’m glad! This is why I love Birches!

Conclusively, the speaker is depicted as a rather vague, indecisive person who doesn’t really know what he wants [when you have to make choices, I only ask that you not be this indecisive. Seriously.] I really like how the poem unravels slowly but steadily [it’s a pretty long poem—59 lines] and holds the readers until the end; I was completely enthralled when I read it. I can’t say that Birches is my favourite—Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening bags that spot—but I can definitely say that it’s an incredible poem.

I had soooo much fun writing this post! I hope you have fun reading it!

That’s all for now. See you next time!

Thank you!

After Apple-Picking

Hello friend!

 I have brought you a new blog post today. Happy reading!

After Apple-Picking is a beautiful poem by my favourite poet, Robert Frost. It isn’t a very well-known poem—at least, it’s definitely not as famous as Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening or The Road Not Taken—but that doesn’t mean it lacks in power and beauty. Despite the innocent and sweet [and mouth-watering] title, After Apple-Picking is a very sombre poem; it revolves around sleep, hard work and dreaming—but not in a sweet way. The speaker gets so exhausted by the time he’s done picking those apples that he simply drops right where he is, and the end is left ambiguous as he wonders whether he’s really just falling asleep [he asks himself: “is this some mere human sleep, or a longer sleep coming on?”]. This poem is also set during winter [undoubtedly Frost’s favourite season. Winter seems to have held a deep significance for him].

As with all of Frost’s poems, After Apple-Picking appears to be a simple poem about the speaker’s hard work; he spent all day picking apples and, though he’s done now, he still sees apples floating before his eyes [large, juicy, red apples… slurp], still feels the ache in his foot as if he is standing on a ladder, still laments the fact that the flawless apples which tumble to the ground have to be consigned to the cider press. Simple. But… what about the deeper meaning of this poem? The speaker does not explicitly tell us when the poem takes place, but it is clearly winter, as he states that the grass is frosty, the water in the trough has become a sheet of ice, and the “presence” of Lady Winter hangs in the air [like sharp icicles]. Winter symbolises death; which means that death is coming for the speaker, and—what’s more—he knows it’s coming, and accepts it with quiet resignation. Also, because of the loose style and the varying rhythms and tenses of the poem, the reader doesn’t even know if the speaker is awake; there is a possibility that he is dreaming [so the entire poem takes place in a dream—his dream—and he’s palmed it off on us.] He was so engrossed in his work that he’s now reliving the day. Throughout the poem, the speaker complains of exhaustion, and asserts that he “was well upon my way to sleep”, even before he’d finished picking all the apples. [That’s some exhaustion he’s got there… please make sure you don’t overwork yourself to this extent.]

There’s a deeper, darker explanation for this poem—as I said before, Winter represents death. I know I said that death is creeping up on the speaker, but I’m going to explain in detail over here; the speaker’s distracted musings on apple picking are the feverish hallucinations of a man on Death’s doorstep. He states that he is “done with apple-picking now”—he has completed his work, satisfied himself, and fulfilled his obligations to Mother Nature. Even as he begins to sink into the abyss of a deep, long slumber, he quietly wonders if he is dying, and not just sleeping. To him, sleep and death don’t seem much different—especially during Winter. The end is left open for interpretation by the reader; personally, I think that the speaker really did pass into the other world, as he was quite weak and cold; it seems like he was only soldiering on for that one day, and felt that he was ready to die after he’d finished his task. However, that’s just my interpretation. The best thing about this poem is that it doesn’t have a decisive conclusion; I rather like ambiguous endings.  What do you think?

Conclusively, I understand that this poem is kinda confusing [haha. It’s meant to be. It twists and turns and randomly leaps from one topic to another, but I’m glad it’s not very easy to analyse—I like challenges. It took me some time to figure it out. I like the way the poet draws a thin line between sleep and death; even I believe that there is a very fine and brittle connection between life, sleep and death—people are likely to pass away in their sleep. The connection is like a thread of a spider’s web; one main thread holds the web together, supported by smaller threads. When the main strand snaps, the web will be destroyed, right? Because the one holding it together is no longer there. It’s the same with a human life. When the thread which we call “life” breaks, our soul quietly passes on.

…Enough with the philosophical thoughts. I fulfilled my promise—I wrote on After Apple-Picking!!! I hope you liked this article. I know it’s not a very long post, but I’ve done my best to comment on this exquisite poem. I tried hard—and here is the result!  Please let me know your thoughts on this post!

That’s all for now. I’ll write on Birches [another poem by Robert Frost. It’s one of my favourites] next week! See you next time…

Thank you!