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In this poem, the speaker recalls getting lost as a child in the woods near their grandfather's cottage. On a foggy night, the woods became disorienting and strange. The speaker remembers feeling afraid, not knowing which way was home. In the present, the speaker has again gotten lost in the woods and feels afraid, searching but finding only themselves "caught between the grapes and the thorns."
In this poem, the speaker recalls getting lost as a child in the woods near their grandfather's cottage. On a foggy night, the woods became disorienting and strange. The speaker remembers feeling afraid, not knowing which way was home. In the present, the speaker has again gotten lost in the woods and feels afraid, searching but finding only themselves "caught between the grapes and the thorns."
In this poem, the speaker recalls getting lost as a child in the woods near their grandfather's cottage. On a foggy night, the woods became disorienting and strange. The speaker remembers feeling afraid, not knowing which way was home. In the present, the speaker has again gotten lost in the woods and feels afraid, searching but finding only themselves "caught between the grapes and the thorns."
that we played when we were eight and ten. Sometimes on The Island, in down Maine, in late August, when the cold fog blew in off the ocean, the forest between Dingley Dell and grandfather's cottage grew white and strange. It was as if every pine tree were a brown pole we did not know; as if day had rearranged into night and bats flew in sun. It was a trick to turn around once and know you were lost; knowing the crow's horn was crying in the dark, knowing that supper would never come, that the coast's cry of doom from that far away bell buoy's bell said your nursemaid is gone . O Mademoiselle, the rowboat rocked over. Then you were dead. Turn around once, eyes tight, the thought in your head. Kind Sir: Lost and of your same kind I have turned around twice with my eyes sealed and the woods were white and my night mind saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal. And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course to look-this inward look that society scornsStill, I search these woods and find nothing worse than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns.
Music swims back to me by Ann Sexton
Wait Mister. Which way is home? They turned the light out and the dark is moving in the corner. There are no sign posts in this room, four ladies, over eighty, in diapers every one of them. La la la, Oh music swims back to me and I can feel the tune they played the night they left me in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy. I liked it and danced in a circle. Music pours over the sense and in a funny way music sees more than I. I mean it remembers better; remembers the first night here. It was the strangled cold of November; even the stars were strapped in the sky and that moon too bright forking through the bars to stick me with a singing in the head. I have forgotten all the rest. They lock me in this chair at eight a.m. and there are no signs to tell the way, just the radio beating to itself and the song that remembers more than I. Oh, la la la, this music swims back to me. The night I came I danced a circle and was not afraid. Mister?