Mankind’s Work
It is often said that nature’s fine work
Vastly outdo those composed by man;
But alas, sometimes where Nature does not lurk
What nature cannot do, man sometimes can.
An oboe, playing a sole, solemn tune
Our Mother Nature’s chimes can’t replicate;
Breathtaking city view at highest noon
No amount of flowers shares the same fate.
That is not to say flowers do not please!
Mother Nature claims vict’ry at times;
She made her work before man skinned his knees,
She gave her muse to poetry and rhymes.
However, in our attempts to beach her,
It seems the student has passed the teacher.
Sonnet Analysis
A sonnet is a poem, often celebrating love or nature and their virtues. But before I get into actually analyzing, I have to ask you a question: Is love writing this poem, reading this analysis, or sitting in this English class right now? Is nature? No, you are, and you deserve credit for it. Artsy types are often first to denounce mankind and proclaim nature far superior, but they themselves are of mankind, and mankind has produced more than we give it credit for.
Actually, I lied. I was analyzing then. Couldn't tell, could you? But if you would refer to the first two lines of the sonnet, you'd see it was right on topic. Nature is given a lot of credit, and for good reason, but do we ever get any credit? It may be immodest to pat ourselves on the back for once, but since when is anybody ever completely modest?
Going back to the title, I chose “Mankind’s Work” for somewhat obvious reasons. The entire poem is about mankind and how sometimes we need credit too, despite Nature getting all of the poetic praise. We take so much for granted; did Nature make TVs, or computers? Could we be getting through school without pencils and paper, products of our processing trees and stone? There are many little things we don’t even notice that we would have a much harder time without.
The soft, gentle sound (or loud and triumphant in the case of some) could only be created by humans, nature can only do similar with the wind whistling through trees, and you can't play Rule Britannia with wind and trees. The saying, "Music soothes the savage beast" would not have come about without whoever invented music thousands of years ago. Not to mention, we have four (possibly soon five) bands, four choirs, and three orchestras here at Punahou. You can't say music isn't important in our lives, especially since most students own an iPod of some kind.
I use the oboe as an example of music one, because of is difficulty to play and master, and two, because of the beautiful, articulate tone it produces. I, myself, don’t have the patience to learn to play it, but I’ve always admired the way it sounds. At least, the way it sounds when played well. We sometimes hear the whistle of the wind, but do we ever attribute it to music? No, those were the first composers, back before the classical and baroque periods, who made their instruments and an entire world of music just for us humans.
Have you ever frolicked in a field of flowers? It can be fun…for about five seconds. Then it's just boring. But a view of an entire city, the sun shining brilliantly off every pane of glass and metal, coupled with the feeling of being huge, toy-sized cars traveling at slow, slow speeds below you, is a feeling totally irreplaceable. Nothing else in the world is quite like that view.
The first two lines of the third stanza are written in such a way to contrast the rest of the poem, not only in content, but in writing style. They use a more classical, Shakespearean tone in them, with words like “vic’try”, contractions not used since long, long ago.
Flowers can be breathtaking as well, and I'm not trying to discredit nature and all its fans, I'm just trying to say we deserve some credit too. Nature was around a long, long time before any of us, we couldn’t exist without it, and I acknowledge that.
Instead of the traditional sonnet turn-around at the last two lines, I made my turn-around in the third stanza, and then flipped back to normal in the last two. Besides needing it to rhyme, the use of the word “beach” is interesting there, as it shows come-uppance.
Overall, my sonnet was there to pose an antithesis to the poems that were once “revolutionary”, praising Nature for what she has done for us. While I don’t say she has done nothing for us(much as her fans don’t say we’ve done nothing), I do say we should get a bit of credit for thinking up the impossible, fulfilling all our wildest dreams through hard work and persistence, and being unlike any other race on this entire planet.
Monday, April 16
Monday, April 2
Sonnet
It is often said that nature’s fine works
Vastly outdo those composed by a man;
But alas, at times, nature has its quirks
What nature cannot do, man sometimes can.
An oboe, playing a sole, solemn tune
Our Mother Nature’s chimes can’t replicate;
Breathtaking city view at highest noon
No amount of flowers shares the same fate.
That is not to say flowers do not please!
Mother Nature claims vict’ry at times;
She made her work before man skinned his knees,
She gave her muse to poetry and rhymes.
However, in our attempts to beach her,
It seems the student has passed the teacher.
Vastly outdo those composed by a man;
But alas, at times, nature has its quirks
What nature cannot do, man sometimes can.
An oboe, playing a sole, solemn tune
Our Mother Nature’s chimes can’t replicate;
Breathtaking city view at highest noon
No amount of flowers shares the same fate.
That is not to say flowers do not please!
Mother Nature claims vict’ry at times;
She made her work before man skinned his knees,
She gave her muse to poetry and rhymes.
However, in our attempts to beach her,
It seems the student has passed the teacher.
Monday, March 19
Heritage Paper
They sit, eternally preserved in their dancing forms. Adorned in dresses of yellow and white, ranging from a cheerful little girl to an elderly woman, their porcelain sheen is enough to mesmerize. One curtsies, one sits with tea, and yet another partakes in a slow dance with an imaginary man. What manner of things are these? The Royal Daltons, treasures of the Giles family. I had often wondered about them, sitting so still and happy, allegedly at a formal ball. What is their relation to my family, and why do they sit on our shelf today? Why have they for generations, dating back to my great-grandmother’s family in Scotland?
Here we switch scenes to a young woman, perhaps eighteen years of age, lifting the front of her golden-coloured gown high enough for one in front of her to see her petticoats. But she was not concerned with petty matters of petticoats. She was sprinting through the halls of a manor gaily, followed by a red-haired nursemaid. If one was to look at this young woman closely, one would see she held a pearl necklace dangling from her left hand, though her fingers were too busy with holding her gown up to clutch it as hard as she should have. The room she had dashed from, you ask? Why, her sister’s, of course.
But what of the nursemaid? She followed our dashing(in more ways than one) heroine, a broom in one hand and the tray of fruit she was serving guests in the other. Her ginger-red hair trailed behind her as she chased the young lady, and yet, simply couldn’t keep up. Her gown, unable to be hitched up due to her burdens, slowed her down enough for the young lady she was targeting to be able to turn a corner and disappear from view.
All of this scene is well and humourous, but you must be asking yourself a question by now: Why? The answer, of course, is simple. Our friend the red-haired nursemaid was charged with seeing that our heroine refrained from taking her sister’s belongings, and likewise, her sister hers. Unfortunately, she bit off more than she could chew, to abuse a saying, with these two girls.
Since I’m tired of referring to the yellow dress-wearing girl as “our heroine”, I’ll now expose the fact that her name is Anabeth. Anabeth Dalton, to be exact. Her and her elder sister, the three-year older Jeanne, were indeed the belles of seventeenth-century Camden, England. And today was a seemingly normal day, this little theft being an occurrence far too regular for the household’s good name. A normal day, that is, until the ring upon the door sounded. Anabeth, always the cheeky one, was still in hiding from the famly nursemaid, so said nursemaid, Rosary Hartshire(affectionately called ‘Rosie’ by the two sisters) was forced to answer the door. And how surprised was she to see not the father of the house, but visitors!
Visitors were a rarity to the Dalton house, and especially visitors so strange as these. They were two men, of their early to mid-twenties, in suit coats and…Scottish kilts? It was all poor Rosie could do to not burst out in mirth at the very sight of them. She never could understand why the men of Scotland wore such silly things. They looked like skirts to her! Then again, as far as the propaganda told the English, all Scotsmen were frightening, bearded men who carried liquor with them wherever they went. These two were dashing in their own way, she supposed, though not in hers.
“Would this be the Dalton household, lass?” One spoke up, the taller of the two. His accent rung clear through the air, a certain throaty quality to it. Rosie affirmed that it was, indeed, the Daltons’, and escorted the two in. According to the two of them, they traveled all the way from Scotland at Mister Dalton’s request, though for what reason they would not say.
Dear Anabeth, black hair falling over her shoulders, peeked out from a corner at the two, nearly swooning at the shorter one and his gentle features. Though, Anabeth swooned over stable boys if they were attractive enough. One side effect of being cooped up in a manor all day and having one’s father forbid men from seeing one. Jeanne, as well, poked her head out her door, marveling at the two foreign men and pondering their intention in the Dalton manor.
Within minutes the two had introduced themselves as James and Wilson Giles, off a branch of the famous(rather, infamous) Scottish Campbell clan. Even the English heard of the Campbells. Mostly propaganda and brutal murder stories. These two, however, had never seen war of any kind, raised like noblemen, and were brothers, to tell the truth. The girls’ mother, Nicolette, ushered the men out for some tea in the garden, to their delight.
The girls followed, and following an awkward tea session where neither party could understand the other’s accent, the family’s fiddler began to play a happy tune, the hired flutist joining in. A request, a bow, a curtsy, and a dance later, both girls were in heaven, as were both men.
Unfortunately, within the week, the two young men Giles were forced to leave, having only come for business with the girls’ father and not being welcome to fraternize any more with them. To show they cared, the girls spent their pocket money, saved up for weeks, pence upon pence, on a craftsman to create porcelain figurines of they and their family. The gifts were accepted graciously, and taken home to Scotland.
Several generations later, the figurines now sit on a shelf in Hawaii, handed down from James to his son, and from his son to the next daughter, until four hundred years later. They now sit, eternally locked in their archaic dancing, clothes, and positions.
June of last year, my grandmother, the rightful owner of these dazzling figures, kept in pristine condition for many long years, passed away. A few months later my family received her will, seeing what was left to each of us. Among other things, both of my sisters and I inherited one Royal Dalton statue each. My sisters inherited Jeanne, the older sister, and Rosie, the nursemaid. I, myself, inherited Anabeth, mischevious belle of Camden, England. I’m not quite sure if her personality quite fits me, but I’m glad to have an heirloom of our family just the same. She wears a yellow dress, eternally locked in a happy sprint, a pearl necklace still clutched in her fingers.
Here we switch scenes to a young woman, perhaps eighteen years of age, lifting the front of her golden-coloured gown high enough for one in front of her to see her petticoats. But she was not concerned with petty matters of petticoats. She was sprinting through the halls of a manor gaily, followed by a red-haired nursemaid. If one was to look at this young woman closely, one would see she held a pearl necklace dangling from her left hand, though her fingers were too busy with holding her gown up to clutch it as hard as she should have. The room she had dashed from, you ask? Why, her sister’s, of course.
But what of the nursemaid? She followed our dashing(in more ways than one) heroine, a broom in one hand and the tray of fruit she was serving guests in the other. Her ginger-red hair trailed behind her as she chased the young lady, and yet, simply couldn’t keep up. Her gown, unable to be hitched up due to her burdens, slowed her down enough for the young lady she was targeting to be able to turn a corner and disappear from view.
All of this scene is well and humourous, but you must be asking yourself a question by now: Why? The answer, of course, is simple. Our friend the red-haired nursemaid was charged with seeing that our heroine refrained from taking her sister’s belongings, and likewise, her sister hers. Unfortunately, she bit off more than she could chew, to abuse a saying, with these two girls.
Since I’m tired of referring to the yellow dress-wearing girl as “our heroine”, I’ll now expose the fact that her name is Anabeth. Anabeth Dalton, to be exact. Her and her elder sister, the three-year older Jeanne, were indeed the belles of seventeenth-century Camden, England. And today was a seemingly normal day, this little theft being an occurrence far too regular for the household’s good name. A normal day, that is, until the ring upon the door sounded. Anabeth, always the cheeky one, was still in hiding from the famly nursemaid, so said nursemaid, Rosary Hartshire(affectionately called ‘Rosie’ by the two sisters) was forced to answer the door. And how surprised was she to see not the father of the house, but visitors!
Visitors were a rarity to the Dalton house, and especially visitors so strange as these. They were two men, of their early to mid-twenties, in suit coats and…Scottish kilts? It was all poor Rosie could do to not burst out in mirth at the very sight of them. She never could understand why the men of Scotland wore such silly things. They looked like skirts to her! Then again, as far as the propaganda told the English, all Scotsmen were frightening, bearded men who carried liquor with them wherever they went. These two were dashing in their own way, she supposed, though not in hers.
“Would this be the Dalton household, lass?” One spoke up, the taller of the two. His accent rung clear through the air, a certain throaty quality to it. Rosie affirmed that it was, indeed, the Daltons’, and escorted the two in. According to the two of them, they traveled all the way from Scotland at Mister Dalton’s request, though for what reason they would not say.
Dear Anabeth, black hair falling over her shoulders, peeked out from a corner at the two, nearly swooning at the shorter one and his gentle features. Though, Anabeth swooned over stable boys if they were attractive enough. One side effect of being cooped up in a manor all day and having one’s father forbid men from seeing one. Jeanne, as well, poked her head out her door, marveling at the two foreign men and pondering their intention in the Dalton manor.
Within minutes the two had introduced themselves as James and Wilson Giles, off a branch of the famous(rather, infamous) Scottish Campbell clan. Even the English heard of the Campbells. Mostly propaganda and brutal murder stories. These two, however, had never seen war of any kind, raised like noblemen, and were brothers, to tell the truth. The girls’ mother, Nicolette, ushered the men out for some tea in the garden, to their delight.
The girls followed, and following an awkward tea session where neither party could understand the other’s accent, the family’s fiddler began to play a happy tune, the hired flutist joining in. A request, a bow, a curtsy, and a dance later, both girls were in heaven, as were both men.
Unfortunately, within the week, the two young men Giles were forced to leave, having only come for business with the girls’ father and not being welcome to fraternize any more with them. To show they cared, the girls spent their pocket money, saved up for weeks, pence upon pence, on a craftsman to create porcelain figurines of they and their family. The gifts were accepted graciously, and taken home to Scotland.
Several generations later, the figurines now sit on a shelf in Hawaii, handed down from James to his son, and from his son to the next daughter, until four hundred years later. They now sit, eternally locked in their archaic dancing, clothes, and positions.
June of last year, my grandmother, the rightful owner of these dazzling figures, kept in pristine condition for many long years, passed away. A few months later my family received her will, seeing what was left to each of us. Among other things, both of my sisters and I inherited one Royal Dalton statue each. My sisters inherited Jeanne, the older sister, and Rosie, the nursemaid. I, myself, inherited Anabeth, mischevious belle of Camden, England. I’m not quite sure if her personality quite fits me, but I’m glad to have an heirloom of our family just the same. She wears a yellow dress, eternally locked in a happy sprint, a pearl necklace still clutched in her fingers.
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