Poem analysis essay "The Oxen"

UnJi Nam

Mrs. Elliott

AP English Literature

19 February 2009

“The Oxen” analysis

“The Oxen” was written by Thomas Hardy in a turbulent time of England’s history, published during the First World War near Christmastime. At first glance, the poem seems to reaffirm faith in the noble and spiritual, and most readers and publishers interpret the piece as the tale of a speaker’s journey back into the ideals and joys of Christmas that he encountered as a child; the triumph and immortality of these principles inherent in his desire to return. "If someone said on Christmas Eve, / Come; see the oxen kneel, / In the lonely barton by yonder comb/ Our childhood used to know/ I should go with him in the gloom, / Hoping it might be so.” However, while that may be one facet of the poem’s meaning, pigeonholing this work as just a life-affirming Christmas product is doing it great injustice. By use of diction in some parts of the poem and allusions, Hardy makes it clear that he is quite alienated from the faith and innocence of his early days, one that included a faith in the goodness and redemptive qualities of mankind. However, should a reader be tempted to paint the poem as a two-dimensional work with only an interplay of supposed belief and actual rejection of ideals, the structure of the poem emphasizes the emotion and inner struggle of the speaker who wants to believe. Lastly, Hardy polishes off the inner complexity of the poem with the symbolism of the imagery used, standing for various things that affected post turn of the century Western Society.
By analyzing the diction of the beginning part of the poem, one can see that Hardy uses comfortable, cozy words such as “hearthside” “embers” “meek” “elder” and “elder” to paint the innocence of the speaker’s early years as imbued with community and definite structures. This is used to delineate the rift the speaker has later on in life, as revealed by the phrase “Nor did it occur to one of us there / To doubt they were kneeling then.” With the advent of this phrase sneaks in a more reserved and disbelieving voice, as shown by the phrase “So fair a fancy few would weave / In these years!” in referring to the legend he accepted as truth so long ago, along with the words “lonely” and “gloom”. This rift the speaker has is significant to the poem—it can be interpreted as a loss of faith in a benevolent God, or a loss of faith in humanity’s goodness, particularly interesting when noting the major event of the time of the poem’s creation. With the advent of a war that was increasingly more impersonal, horrific and ultimately a waste of lives, people began to lose faith in the old traditions and institutions, and the speaker is a reflection of society as a whole. The average reader’s interpretation of the poem is turned on its head as one faces the question of whether the speaker’s depression and loss of faith is truly justifiable, and whether it is innocence and blind belief that is evil that should not be returned to. After all, such qualities in Western society led to the First World War: a blind belief in one’s rulers and religion to always be right no matter the action taken; innocence in the perception of war as glorious.
With the symbolism of the imagery used, particularly for the legend of the kneeling oxen, Hardy emphasizes the aspect of lost innocence but also ties the oxen to the soldiers of the war, who are much like the “meek mild creatures” and of the people who “[sit] in a flock”. At a time when Britain was manipulating its media extensively to raise public support and outrage against the Germans, Hardy was voicing his dissent and lack of trust in the ideals of civilization that Britain held itself to be the sole protector of, thus making him and the speaker of the poem alienated from the common herd. A herd that was being herded with lies and distortions to a pointless death on the battlefield for a few feet of ground, and suffering deprivations of war, not to protect religion or human virtue, but for a power play between the aristocracy of Europe. It is also interesting to note what the meaning of the line “I should go with him in the gloom, / Hoping it might be so.” could be. Is the gloom representative of the future the speaker foresees, as humanity continues on its downward path, always to be blinded by illusions of human virtues and optimism? Or is the gloom a passing “dark night of the soul” to be conquered?
With the use of structure and changing diction in the third stanza, Hardy captures a third layer to his poem—the emotional state of the individual forever torn by the question of whether humanity is really a force for good in the universe, or just a bestial species in an uncaring world.
The first two stanzas of the poem are structured neatly and rhythmically, almost in a sing-song way, tying the themes of belief in the good of humanity with childishness and of a drone. With the third stanza where the speaker notes his loss of faith, “So fair a fancy few would weave in these years!” the poem’s rhythm abruptly shifts, and loses its continuity with the previous stanzas, paralleling the speaker’s break with old beliefs. It is with the tone of the next line, “Yet I feel, if someone said on Christmas Eve, come; see the oxen kneel,” that the poem re-establishes a new cadence, and the hesitant hope of the speaker finds voice. The speaker dances between hope and loss of faith, something that he continues to do for the rest of the poem, by juxtapositioning words such as “childhood” and “hoping” with words like “gloom” and “used to”.
Overall, the message of the poem centers on the journey of the speaker, an individual who has been affected by war, lies, and a rapidly changing world to see the truth underneath the veneer of politeness and virtue of society. He has lost the ideals and beliefs that masked his vision, but at the same time, the individual is left to wonder who is truly right in the end: the optimistic view of his childhood in the universe, or the more pessimistic view of a rational, unmysterious universe without guiding principles or moral consequences to evil. This speaker’s journey underlines the dilemma of all individuals in modern day society faced all around by evil deeds and ignorance—what is humanity in this universe? A force to pursue good, or a species that rationalizes its selfish actions? And what is the correct reaction? Is it to keep hope in humanity, as the speaker is tempted to do by believing once again in the legend of the kneeling oxen? Or is it to accept that man is not the improving, orderly, and moral force of the Victorian’s ideal (The “meek mild” oxen) but an animal driven by selfish desires and ignorance? (The bestial animal that innocently takes itself to the slaughterhouse) Ultimately, as is the fate of all individuals, the speaker may ask the question, but does not know the answer—“I should go with him in the gloom, hoping it might be so.” It is a question every individual reader must ask, and then answer for themselves.

Revised 1st semester essay Explanation

The things I decided to change in my essay included: sentence structure; organization of paragraphs; imagery and details; and more inclusion of the poem “To the Virgins”. I changed sentence structure to be a bit more varied and less lengthy. I also tried to cut out excessive repetition of details packaged in threes. I split off some sentences to be separate paragraphs in order to highlight specific points in the essay. I definitely added more details and imagery as to the hospital stay to emphasize the life-changing aspect of it, cutting out the original ending anecdote as too sentimental and unorganized for the essay’s message. Lastly, I tried to include more text from the poem I quoted in order to strengthen the message of my essay.

Revised 1st Semester Essay

When I was seven, I was seriously ill. It started with my legs first. Tiny red dots sprinkled liberally on my ankles, inching up to the knee caps. It was a pointillism painting on my skin, and my mother couldn’t read it at all. She furrowed her eyebrows at my explanation that her freckles were contagious. She took me to the hospital when the icy green of winter was thawing into spring, where the walls were eternally pea-green soup frosted slick. I studied them intently in boredom as I sat in the waiting room, not knowing just how familiar they would become. The doctors ordered tests, smiled brightly at me, and told me that I would be out in no time. Indeed, time in the hospital follows no rules of the universe. It is a limbo outside of a bustling world. At first, I thought it fun, lying on a bed all day, exempt from the bustle of outside life. Then it got to be monotonous, having resting all the time, always being warned to be careful. And the faces of the regulars were always guarded and strained.
Though I didn’t realize it, this was a purgatory of sorts, where the soul was purged not of sins but of disease. And with both Dante’s and modern civilization’s creation, both were characterized by the unknown. Why was this happening? I was fairly healthy before. Maybe too fond of junk food but not a sickly child. And I wasn’t a very bad person in my opinion. On the whole, I thought I was too interesting to be cooped up in a building with needles constantly jabbed in me when I could be proving to the world my talents. So if it wasn’t really my fault, then why was I here? It didn’t make any sense to be here with the other pale children.
A child of seven isn’t really aware of death. Injections, spinal taps and pills were nuisances, not life lines. I wanted to know why I couldn’t handle community books, or go outside to see the roses bloom in summer. But you’re not completely unchanged. You would have bedmates that would help you make a Lego castle, and the next day, their beds would be empty, the sheets folded into a small, neat roll at the foot of their bed. You’re aware that your condition hurts your family, though you’re not exactly sure why. While I lay there, in boredom, aware of my parents hurt, aware that my life meant so much to them, I slowly formed a few resolutions, for when I got out of limbo. I wanted to get better, for them. For myself. There was a rose garden in the hospital grounds on the seventh floor, a hanging Eden of sorts that bloomed through the two wintry springs that I stayed there. I was rarely allowed to go and look, much less pick a flower to bring back. If I got better, I promised myself. I’ll grow my own rose garden and pick them all. Fill the house to bursting of pink and red blooms. That was something simple to do. Easy and simple things in health: walking down to the grocery store to buy an ice-cream. Petting a stray cat. Things that weren’t all that unusual in the past were now something to aspire to, to hope for.
I did get better eventually. Now real life presses in my head far more than the simple things of life. Studies hover like a bad dream, textbooks need to be read and colleges have to be wooed. But still. When things get too pressing, one has to put things in perspective. Yes, there’s a lot at stake for the future in terms of preparation, but at least one still has health. The ability to enjoy a summer’s walk. To breathe in crisp autumn air on the way to school. Robert Herrick probably encapsulates it best with his poem “To the Virgins, to make much of time.” To “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”. Life is precious, and it is short as a rose bloom. Herrick, writing the poem during a turbulent time of war and tension, knew about life’s inherent chaos. Life isn’t always fair. Hence war, hence disease. But Herrick also knew of the importance of the good, simple pleasures of life. How they can make life worthwhile, despite their transience. Hence, one should live life to the utmost. For “The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he’s a-getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he’s to setting.”

Bibliography #1

Bronte, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Evanston: McDougal Littell, 1847. Byron, Glennis. Introduction. Dracula: a Victorian novel. By Bram Stoker. New York: Broadside, 1998. 16-25.Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. New York: Bantam Dell. 1910.Melville, Herman. Moby-Dick. New York: Signet Classic. 1851.Shelly, Mary. Frankenstein. New York: Broadview, 1818.Stoker, Bram. Dracula. New York: Broadview, 1897. Welter, Barbara. “The Cult of True Womanhood.” The Cult of True Womanhood. (1966) 24 24 October 2008.

Introduction #1

What should a portfolio represent? Well, a good start would be to look in the standards. Which thus states that the theme for the class and hence a starting point for the portfolio is “The monsters we create.” Pleasant, really. Immediately, literary and scholarly tradition states that one must create a portfolio of angst and depth, following in the traditions of Melville’s “thought-divers” to bring up dark pearls of strange luster. There are plenty of tried and celebrated answers to that statement in literature, but many of them follow dark roads and darker endings, and of course, yours should too. One must follow in the footsteps of greater writers, repeating in different cadences, that man cannot escape from inner darkness. Then mouth in centuries-old tradition, thank the deities that there is an end to this life of suffering. The she-wolf, the horror, and the white whale awaits, don’t they? Thus, pessimism and dourness eventually sweeps over and swallows the portfolio, anarchy rules, and life ends with depressing metaphor, then soliloquy and the much awaited, period. That would be an established way to answer the theme of the class, and as good as any way to earn a grade. But would that really say anything about the writer, other than the fact that he or she is well-versed in literary traditions, from Thebes to America? “The Monsters we create.” The reaction to that statement is generally downcast and thoughtful agreement that humanity makes most of its demons. But the words of someone shouldn’t be of the general reaction or opinion, but of their own truth. Everyone has their own unique slant, their own story to tell regarding a universal statement. If the literary audience wanted a general consensus, they’d read surveys. The individual experiences make up the community, and hence society’s collective response to the theme. There are some darker answers from authors regarding the theme of man-made monsters, and some of them are more celebrated than others. And they certainly are not the worse for their pessimism. But in no way should they replace one’s own personal view, even if it should conflict with the opinions of established literature. If they do. I don’t know what to say. The monsters we create. I know they come from dark places, as fairytales state, from under the bridge, over the mountains, the secret fears in the huddling corner. They come from good intentions and evil wishes alike. They come from apathy and zealousness. They haunt the noble and the poor alike. But what are monsters anyways? Are they our fears and desires never mentioned, or too well known? Is the self-driven businessman who worked his way up from poverty driven by monsters? Is it just initiative then? Or are monsters giant affairs, like a repressive society? Is it really a monster then, or just a tradeoff between freedom and security, a tool of humanity? Are monsters controllable? Can one have a good relationship with monsters, dancing with them ‘til the wee of night, then getting up at dawn to step once more? I know what I see monsters as. Monsters to me can be voices in your head, furrowing fear and compulsion wherever they go. I'm not very well accquainted kind of monster that physically binds you, like alcohol or penury. But I know fear. Fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, fear of a meaningless future with no passion, no dreams--just existence. Fear that weighs down your wrists until the hands lay passively in the lap, too afraid to do anything for fear of mediocrity, the kind accompanied by the incredulous voices and unpleasantly suprised faces of an invisible, watching crowd. And thus a compulsion, to stay up late until morning, to revise once over again, crafting minor things painstakingly until just right, all to stave off the invisible crowd. Monsters can also be the fear and pain that drive other people, sometimes so maddened that they tear and inflict hurt on others to ignore their own selves. Monsters have evil in them, but sometimes hold a little good. They can be the ugly truth behind the facade or the trial that makes heroes and saints. We need them in a way, perhaps as much as they need us to exist. I don’t know much. But I hope to find out for myself, rather than trusting the bywords of others on what the truth of things are, what they look like, why they matter. A journey then. My portfolio should then represent my very own quest over faraway hills under foreign stars, using literature as my compass, and my own head for the direction taken.