Poems for Studying Marxist Criticism

“My Papa’s Waltz,” by Theodore Roethke

The whiskey on your breath 
Could make a small boy dizzy; 
But I hung on like death: 
Such waltzing was not easy. 

We romped until the pans 
Slid from the kitchen shelf; 
My mother’s countenance 
Could not unfrown itself. 

The hand that held my wrist 
Was battered on one knuckle; 
At every step you missed 
My right ear scraped a buckle. 

You beat time on my head 
With a palm caked hard by dirt, 
Then waltzed me off to bed 
Still clinging to your shirt.
_____

“My Last Duchess,” by Robert Browning

That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
"Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
"Must never hope to reproduce the faint
"Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace--all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men--good! but thanked
Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech--which I have not--to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
"Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
_____

“Uphill,” by Christina Rossetti
   
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?   
  Yes, to the very end.   
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?   
  From morn to night, my friend.   
  
But is there for the night a resting-place?     
  A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.   
May not the darkness hide it from my face?   
  You cannot miss that inn.   
  
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?   
  Those who have gone before.   
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?   
  They will not keep you waiting at that door.   
  
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?   
  Of labour you shall find the sum.   
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?  
  Yea, beds for all who come.   
_____

“The River,” by Bruce Springsteen

I come from down in the valley
where mister when you're young
They bring you up to do like your daddy done
Me and Mary we met in high school
when she was just seventeen
We'd ride out of that valley down to where the fields were green

We'd go down to the river
And into the river we'd dive
Oh down to the river we'd ride

Then I got Mary pregnant
and man that was all she wrote
And for my nineteenth birthday I got a union card and a wedding coat
We went down to the courthouse
and the judge put it all to rest
No wedding day smiles no walk down the aisle
No flowers no wedding dress

That night we went down to the river
And into the river we'd dive
Oh down to the river we did ride

I got a job working construction for the Johnstown Company
But lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy
Now all them things that seemed so important
Well mister they vanished right into the air
Now I just act like I don't remember
Mary acts like she don't care

But I remember us riding in my brother's car
Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir
At night on them banks I'd lie awake
And pull her close just to feel each breath she'd take
Now those memories come back to haunt me
they haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse
that sends me down to the river
though I know the river is dry
That sends me down to the river tonight
Down to the river
my baby and I
Oh down to the river we ride 
_____

“Common People,” by Jarvis Cocker

She came from Greece she had a thirst for knowledge,
she studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College,
that's where I,
caught her eye.
She told me that her Dad was loaded,
I said "In that case I'll have a rum and coca-cola."
She said "Fine."
and in thirty seconds time she said,

"I want to live like common people,
I want to do whatever common people do,
I want to sleep with common people,
I want to sleep with common people,
like you."

Well what else could I do -
I said "I'll see what I can do."
I took her to a supermarket,
I don't know why but I had to start it somewhere,
so it started there.
I said pretend you've got no money,
she just laughed and said,
"Oh you're so funny."
I said "yeah?
Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here.
Are you sure you want to live like common people,
you want to see whatever common people see,
you want to sleep with common people,
you want to sleep with common people,
like me."
But she didn't understand,
she just smiled and held my hand.
Rent a flat above a shop,
cut your hair and get a job.
Smoke some fags and play some pool,
pretend you never went to school.
But still you'll never get it right,
cos when you're laid in bed at night,
watching roaches climb the wall,
if you call your Dad he could stop it all.

You'll never live like common people,
you'll never do what common people do,
you'll never fail like common people,
you'll never watch your life slide out of view,
and dance and drink and screw,
because there's nothing else to do.

Sing along with the common people,
sing along and it might just get you through,
laugh along with the common people,
laugh along even though they're laughing at you,
and the stupid things that you do.
Because you think that poor is cool.

I want to live with common people,
I want to live with common people etc... 
_____

“The Homes of England,” by Felicia Hemans 

"Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land?"-- MARMION.

THE stately homes of England, 
How beautiful they stand, 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 
O'er all the pleasant land! 

The deer across their greensward bound, 
Through shade and sunny gleam; 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England! 
Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 
Meet in the ruddy light! 

There woman's voice flows forth in song, 
Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England! 
How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 
That breathes from Sabbath hours! 

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 
Floats through their woods at morn; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England! 
By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 
And round the hamlet fanes. 

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 
Each from its nook of leaves; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England! 
Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 
To guard each hallowed wall! 

And green for ever be the groves, 
And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 
Its country and its God! 
_____

Sonnet XVII , by Pablo Neruda 
 
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. 
_____

“You thought I was that type,” by Anna Akhmatova

You thought I was that type:
that you could forget me,
and that I'd plead and weep and throw myself
under the hooves of a bay mare,

or that I'd ask the sorcerers 
for some magic potion made from roots
and send you a terrible gift:
my precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant
your cursed soul vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working ikon,
and by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.
_____

“Departure,” by Anna Akhmatova

Although this land is not my own, 
I will remember its inland sea 
and the waters that are so cold 

the sand as white 
as old bones, the pine trees 
strangely red where the sun comes down. 

I cannot say if it is our love, 
or the day, that is ending. 
_____

“You will hear thunder,” by Anna Akhmatova

You will hear thunder and remember me, 
And think: she wanted storms. The rim 
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, 
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. 

That day in Moscow, it will all come true, 
when, for the last time, I take my leave, 
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, 
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.