2d:null 2e:["$","title",null,{"children":"Assignment 5: Code & Creative Writing | KarlieDoesNotExist | Observable"}] 33:T721,md` The first half of the poem seems to be a passage of the poet complaining about his father, however, sometimes it also seems that he is explaining for his father. He portrayed his father from the side, as a nuisance, cruel and hard-hearted figure. But I love the way he wrote the lines, in a calm and nearly impassive tone, with strong irony and struggle. “There is a limit to what one man can endure… So I suppose I am the reason he left, actually.” On one hand, for sure, no one with a clear mind would believe that it is a young child (infant?)’s fault that causes the breakdown of a family. But the poet wrote: “then, of course, I came along.” So it seems he was the straw that broke the camel’s back after his father’s failing marriage with that “raving bitch”. On the other hand, however, it is exactly how the children would think when all they received from parents were just indifference and pain. "I am the one to blame." Especially when they grow up to a certain age, when they are sensitive enough to realise something. The latter half, starting with a sentence repeatedly written by James Wrights to his son, takes a sharp turn into a more serious and painful reflection on both his father and FW himself. "The blizzard I visit your city disguised as will never be over and never arrive." A father who say such clever and deep and cold things to his son. It must have been a very complicated and ambiguous emotional connection between Franz Wrights and his father James Wrights. "The cold will make you what I am today." What I can read from it is the similar, enormous pain that the poet is going through, and that his father has experienced but never get rid of; and the inner coldness, sense of isolation, as well as the genius, the poet inherited from a distant father.
`34:T506,md` ## REWRITE *Below is a clumsy imitation of Franz Wright's Postcard 2.*
Incomprehensible fate that distanced my father from me.
I can’t blame him, I would have estranged from this dreary home myself, and devote myself to the beloved career, day and night.
I remember him teaching me to clean the room. *Sweep up the hairs, brush off the dust, mop away the dirt.* Other kids bond with their dads chatting or travelling. We do through cleaning.
There is a limit to what one man can endure. So I suppose it is my fault to make him mad, for having tried so many times but still can’t meet his basic standard. I am the reason that makes the home so dreary that he wouldn’t stay for a moment. I deserved all of his ceaseless anger and insults. And yet, he is a great father; he did all that he was capable of doing, and placed the highest hope on me, even without much physical attendance in my growing up.
“Look at that dirt,” again and again he said. At some point I found myself isolated on an invisible island, got stiffen in the crowd, choking in the burning sunlight, and I stepped into his room, a room that has been waiting emptily for long.
Look at all the dirt. I thought.
`35:T507,md` ## WRITE *Below is a clumsy original poem of mine.*
That man, crossing from the grassland to desert, from dawn to twilight, was surprised to find the vast, scarlet rose bushes growing on the surface of a hill, thick cobwebs covered.
No, that is not a hill.
Beneath the cobwebs, silently lay the wagons in the ages of turbulence. Next to it is the transporter cart used in the Plague Era, the white shroud rotting over the years and giving off a faint stench of fungus.
The commemorative bronze statues people set up after the Great Revolution. They are now lying randomly, one of them with a recognizable face, his finger pointing skyward. And I can still hear the insistent honking of the horn on the day the statues were built, blown at four o’clock in the morning, repeated at the harbour fort, the garrison from far away, in barracks all over the country.
I can also see the empty, crumbled shells with the dusty stuffing of people who froze to death in the Quantum Era.
And they are all lying down there, silently.
The man swayed and fell.
He knows that he has crossed the strait, snowfields and deserts. He knows that he can never make it to the other side of this hill.
`36:T66d,md` ### A few other stuffs...
In addition to my Chinese cultural background, I feel that I'm also influenced and inspired by lots of Latin American writers. Here I listed some of their works that I especially like, and you may check them out if interested. Hope you enjoy the journey to the magical realistic world :) - **The Circular Ruins** and **The Book of Sand**, by Jorge Luis Borges.
- **The Autumn of the Patriarch**, by García Márquez;
(Well this is a relatively long piece and pretty difficult to read...but it's really amazing.) - **The Doll Queen** by Carlos Fuentes Macías; And some other lines of poem/prose poem/play - whatever you call them - that came up to my mind while I was preparing for this assignment. Just want to share with you 👇🏻
"Yet I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould."
**The Coming of the Ship** by Kahlil Gibran; "But in the meanwhile, in this most precious meanwhile, there it is. The trees in Faelled Park. Gammertingen and Biberach and Mindelheim. Our children and our children's children. Preserved, just possibly, by that one short moment in Copenhagen. By some event that will never quite be located or defined. By that short moment in Copenhagen. By some event that will never quite be located or defined. By that final core of uncertainty at the heart of things."
[**Copenhagen**](https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/read/46588717/copenhagen-a-play-by-michael-frayn), a play by Michael Frayn.
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\n## READ\n\n## [Postcard 2](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/55544/postcard-2)
\nBY [FRANZ WRIGHT](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/franz-wright)
\n
\n`","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":37,"value":"$33","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":49,"value":"$34","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":85,"value":"$35","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":102,"value":"$36","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":111,"value":"md`\n## IMPORTS\n`","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":113,"value":"import { select } from \"@jashkenas/inputs\"","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":124,"value":"style = html`\n\n\n\n\n\nFonts are imported here.\n\n\n`","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"},{"id":118,"value":"parseFont = selectedFont.split(\" \").join(\"+\")","pinned":false,"hidden":false,"mode":"ojs","author":"$undefined","summary":"$undefined","output":"$undefined","database":"$undefined"}],"files":"$W37","stdlib":"1","titling":"auto"}} 32:"$31:body"