The relationship between father and son in the poem a story by li young lee

Li young lee to hold

Bodies eating bodies, heads eating heads, we are nothing eating nothing, and though we feast, are filled, overfilled, we go famished. Was it me in the Other I prayed to when I prayed? You know how looking at a math problem similar to the one you're stuck on can help you get unstuck? A few words about the poet before we get to the poem appreciation. Such a sorrowful Chinese face, nomad, Gobi, Northern in its boniness clear from the high warlike forehead to the sheer edge of the jaw. He could be my grandfather; come to America to get a Western education in , but too homesick to study, he sits in the park all day, reading poems and writing letters to his mother. All of the body's revisions end in death.

Let me tell it, the dialogue shows not only the fathers desperation to tell the story but serves to show the father attempting to exert his control over the son, demanding the son to allow him to tell his story. That is, out deaths are fed that we may continue our daily dying, our bodies going down, while the plates-soon-empty are passed around, that true direction of our true prayers, while the butcher spells his message, manifold, in the mortal air.

A few words about the poet before we get to the poem appreciation. You love the spider story. What then may I do but cleave to what cleaves me. I would eat this head, glazed in pepper-speckled sauce, the cooked eyes opaque in their sockets.

The poem is written in 3rd person, allowing the reader to look in rather place themselves in the roles of the father or the son, the choosing to write in the 3 rd person allows the reader to better develop their own opinions or feelings toward the characters rather than thinking from the mind of a desperate father or a disappointed son.

But the needle pierces clean through with each stroke of his hand.

behind my eyes li young lee

And I would eat Emerson, his transparent soul, his soporific transcendence. We are reminded that this emotional connection between a father and a son is an earthly one that cannot be entirely explained or understood by means of logic or theology.

The relationship between father and son in the poem a story by li young lee

What is it in me would devour the world to utter it? Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches? Or, when the fear of the future impending or imagined disappointments and sadnesses fills that space within us where, once, there was just the pleasure of connecting with each other through our stories? What makes you cringe? My father keeps a light on by our bed and readies for our journey. Is he too bland to create a tale that would amuse the child, out of thin air? And, while his poetry is greatly shaped by Chinese classical poets like Li Bo and Tu Fu, who he first heard being recited by his father, Lee is also said to have been influenced by Keats, Rilke, Roethke, Eliot, et al. Brothers and sisters by blood and design, who sit in separate bodies of varied shapes, we constitute a many-membered body of love. His love for me is like sewing: various colors and too much thread, the stitching uneven. In a room full of books in a world of stories, he can recall not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy will give up on his father.

He coaxes, cleaves, brings change before our very eyes, and at every moment of our being. The noise the body makes when the body meets the soul over the soul's ocean and penumbra is the old sound of up-and-down, in-and-out, a lump of muscle chug-chugging blood into the ear; a lover's heart-shaped tongue; flesh rocking flesh until flesh comes; the butcher working at his block and blade to marry their shapes by violence and time; an engine crossing, re-crossing salt water, hauling immigrants and the junk of the poor.

Was it me in the other I loved when I loved another?

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Change resides in the embrace of the effaced and the effacer, in the covenant of the opened and the opener; the axe accomplishes it on the soul's axis. What is it in me would devour the world to utter it?

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Weekend Poem: A Story by Li