Poem Analysis: Nude Descending a Staircase by X.J. Kennedy

Nude Descending a Staircase

X. J. Kennedy

Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,
A gold of lemon, root and rind,
She sifts in sunlight down the stairs
With nothing on. Nor on her mind.

We spy beneath the banister
A constant thresh of thigh on thigh--
Her lips imprint the swinging air
That parts to let her parts go by.

One-woman waterfall, she wears
Her slow descent like a long cape
And pausing, on the final stair
Collects her motions into shape.

In “Nude Descending the Staircase”, the language used really describes the image in motion. Utilizing the phrases “one-woman waterfall”, “long cape”, and “collects her motions into shape”, the poet creates the idea that the woman is moving through space.  Another aspect that the poet takes full advantage of from the painting is how he describes the woman. He doesn’t just say that she is naked; he uses phrases, “a snowing flesh” (describing the paleness of her skin), “A constant thresh of thigh on thigh” (rather big, especially in the thighs), and “a gold of lemon” (stating that she has a glow to her, probably because of the sun shining on her).  Lastly, I enjoyed the poem’s length—rather than being this really long poem, the artist managed to skim the words down to the most necessary.

Poem Analysis: A Hand by Jane Hirschfield

A Hand

Jane Hirshfield

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.

A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,
not on the page,
not on the ecstatic body. 

Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping—
not sponge of rising yeast-bread,
not rotor pin's smoothness,
not ink. 

The maple's green hands do not cup
the proliferant rain.
What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question. 

Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs.

I really liked Jane Hirschfield’s poem, A Hand, for many reasons. First off, I love her use of repetition in the poem with the words “A hand…” usually followed by the word “not”. It really helps create a rhythm within the poem, and helps to drive the point about what really is a hand. I also enjoyed how the poem spoke of what a hand isn’t by actually saying what most people consider a hand. It really makes the reader think—if what has been said isn’t a hand, then what exactly is a hand? What is the scope beyond it? Lastly, I really enjoyed how some the stanzas within the poem are just one line. This really creates emphasis on just what the poem wants to emphasis, as well as forces the reader to really take in the line.  

Poem--Free-Verse

The Question of the Tale

Where is the fairness?
Blushing in the muscles
Of the maiden's cheeks?
Melting in the carcass
Of a freshly killed unicorn?
Sprayed upon the armor
Of a knight abandoning the war?

Or is it in the pages,
Well-worn, but less read.

Original Poem-- Free Verse

PLEASE--

Lick my wounds,
shake my spirit...
Let me hold you,
fragile figure,
against my rain-soaked blazer.

Let me be held,
by you.
Engulf me in your leather
jacket, which reminds me
so much
of my father.

Let the patchwork green
riddled red, lined interior
bleed into the reflection
of my cheeks.

Let your beat-keeper
bruise my eardrums,
worm its steady pace,
Into my cerebral.

Let the world go warm--
Let the world go dark inside.

Original Poem- Free Verse

If You See Me, Tell Me to Come Home

Somewhere in L.A.

my ghost waits in a glass box

on the corner of Spring and 4^th.

Confined by the crystal,

it leans tipped against a garbage can,

where the beggar woman

with the hunched back,

knitted sweaters, ruddy shoes

finds her late, evening supper.

It's the same place where,

the Skid Row rascals, flying rats

reside, picking their teeth

masticating on the city carcasses

left decaying just beyond

the subway gates

and public park entrances.

And somewhere in L.A.,

a man labors towards a goal left dangling

on a string,

just out of reach
of these demons.

He works hard, hardly talks

except to the one who dreams

of his phantom,

laying still, breathing silence

holding his ghost

on the Eastern Shore.

Now, somewhere here

I’m left wondering...

The other piece of me,

sobbing, crying out for the man

whose ghost I’m not holding.

Gallery Poem

PRISCILLA PUG

She hangs crooked slightly
On a wall,
Eyes beady, bold.

She's staring
Curls primped, proper,
Just above shoulders.

She hears
The photographer
Say "Treat!"

With a tilt,
Twist of head,
Flash of bulb,

She's captured,
Developed,
Caged,
Trapped.

-Rachel Doda

Original Poem-- Imagist Poem #2

THE RABBIT IN THE BELLY

In the prison of the smiling serpent
the seventh of furry princes,
sleeps gnawing, gestating.

-Rachel Doda