3 Written Response need in 12 hours

Read the poems “Ode of Girls’ Things,”

Ode of Girls’ ThingsSharon OldsI loved the things that were ours—pink gloves,hankies with a pastoral scene in one corner.There was a lot we were not allowed to do,but what we were allowed to do was ours,dolls you carry by the leg, and dolls’ clothes you would put on or take off—someone who was yours, who did nothave the rights of her own nakedness,and who had a smooth body, with itsuntouchable place, which you would never touch, even on her, you had been cured of that.And some of the dolls had hard-rubber hands, withdimples, and though you were not supposed to, you couldbite off the ends of the fingers when you could not stand it.And though you’d never be allowed to, say, drive a bus,or do anything that had to be done right, there was ateeny carton, in you, of eggsso tiny they were invisible.And there would be milk, in you, too—realmilk! And you could wear a skirt, you could be a bellflower—up under itscone the little shape like a closedbuckle, intricate groove and tongue,where something like God’s power over you lived. And it turned outyou shared some things with boys—the alphabet was not just theirs—and you could make forays over into their territory,you could have what you could have because it was yours,and a little of what was theirs, becauseyou took it. Much later, you’d have to give thingsup, too, to make it fair—longhair, skirts, even breasts, a pairof raspberry colored pumps which a friendwanted to put on, if they would fit his foot, and they did.

“Praying Tree,”

The Praying TreeTen years of driving the same highway, past the same tree, the picture isat last complete. The eucalyptus tree and narrow birds above a blessedsteel sea with no thoughts of yesterday, today, or tomorrow.Black cormorants on bare branches spread their wings as if in prayer.A sunny day in Summerland and the tree, visible only from the highway,hides its penitent perch from cars racing by too fast.Four wheels swerve to avoid a sheer cliff, southbound on the 101.The fat sun slides its yolk into the glass ocean. Slow down, seean empty nest of woven round sticks in the praying tree.Birds soak in rays without fear of melanoma or the natureof forgiveness. Slick imperfections, wet wingsopen and close in Morse code for goodbye.- Melinda Palacio

and “Mud Season.”

Mud SeasonTess TaylorWe unstave the winter’s tangle.Sad tomatoes, sullen sky.We unplay the summer’s blight.Rotted on the vine, black fruitswings free of strings that bound it.In the compost, ghost melon; in the fieldsgrotesque extruded peppers.We prod half-thawed mucky things. In the sky, starlings eddying.Tomorrow, snow again, old silence.Today, the creaking icy puller.Last night I woketo wild unfrozen prattle.Rain on the roof—a foreign liquid tongue.

Identify as many different examples of musical language within these poems as you can. This stuff can be tricky as it focuses very closely on the sound of language, so take your time and read carefully. In addition, identify what you would describe as the central image in each poem—if you had to boil each poem down into a single image, what would it be?