#asyndeton

Asyndeton verse Asyndeton verse is poetry that deliberately omits conjunctions (such as: and, but, or) to create a fast-paced, impactful, or dramatic effect. It often gives the verse a sense of urgency, rhythm, or intensity. I Forgot to Shop I wake, I yawn, I groan, I rise—No coffee, no hope, no will to try.

A- ALLUSION- Her ability to look past appearances and recognize inner beauty was a really Belle-like trait.

N- ANASTROPHE- Her unconditional love for her family can't be compared to anything.

G- ASYNDETON- As she sees the beast, she screams, she curses, she runs, she hides because of what she saw.

E- ANASTROPHE- Backwards, upon her slowly walking, she tripped and fell, which caught his attention.

παύσομαι κατηγορῶν. ἀκηκόατε, ἑοράκατε, πεπόνθατε, ἔχετε· δικάζετε.

「告発はここでやめよう。諸君は聞いた。見た。被った。持っている。判決を下せ。」

Lysias, 12, 100

τελευτὴ δὲ τῆς λέξεως ἁρμόττει ἡ ἀσύνδετος, ὅπως ἐπίλογος ἀλλὰ μὴ λόγος ᾖ· “εἴρηκα, ἀκηκόατε, ἔχετε, κρίνατε”.

「弁論の結びとしては、接続詞のないものが似つかわしい。それがまとめの言葉であって、本論の一部とはならないためである。例えば、「私は語った。諸君は聞いた。持っている。判定せよ。」というように。」

Robert Hayden was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. He lived a tough childhood with his parents and dealt with impaired vision. Hayden studied at both Wayne State University and at the University of Michigan. He was honored with the Academy of American Poet Fellowship and was later named as the first African American Poet Laureate in 1976.

“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

 Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

     In “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden, the readers are presented with a vivid description of a father’s morning routine as explained by his son. The majority of the poem is written with long sentences and with only one telegraphic sentence. This shows that talking about his father’s routine is something common for the narrator and he can rant on about it. When listening to this poem, the reader feels a sense of sorrow for both the father, because of the work he has done, but also for the son, because of the pain he suffers when thinking about his father.

    The first and second stanzas explain the actions the narrator’s father does before heading out to begin his Sundays work. The use of the telegraphic sentence, “No one ever thanked him”, establishes the tone of regret present in the remainder of the poem. Very often others help us in some way and yet we never end up showing our appreciation. In this case it seems that the narrator himself never thanked his father either and he regrets his lack of gratitude. The first two stanzas also establish a bitter tone. The line “...fearing the chronic angers of that house…” and “I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking” highlight both types of bitter: the narrators regret and the description of the cold weather.

The boy looked on in terror as he saw two pig-men drag his parents down the metal grate stairs towards the black, red, and yellow glow of the unknown depths. Another pig-man held the boy’s hand and assured him that everything would be just fine now. The boy looked up at the pig-man. He didn’t really look like a pig, but the mask and breather he wore over his face certainly made him look like a pig.

The boy stared down at the abyss. He no longer heard the screams of his parents. He wasn’t scared anymore. He just stared.

After some time, the pig-man escorted the boy up the stairs and into a small, brightly lit room. The pig-man instructed the boy to sleep. And so the boy did.

Eyes open.

The boy awoke back in his room. Cold. He peered into the darkness of his shabbily furnished room. He saw that it was still dark outside from his curtain-less windows. He lifted himself off of the mattress and quietly entered the hallway. It was cold. He walked carefully through the darkness to the main room of the house to find reprieve from the bitter chill near the fireplace. To no avail.

When the boy entered the room, the fire had already gone out. The black metal of the stove containing the fire still glowed red from the intense heat from before, so the boy sat down next to the black and red box. He felt wetness at his eyes. He didn’t know if it was because of the heat or because of what he saw, but he continued to sit there. Unmoving.

Eyes open.

The boy stared down at the abyss. He saw the pig-men dragging his mother down the metal stairs towards the darkness. She screamed in pain and struggled to free herself from their large, leather-bound hands, but the pig-men continued their march. Going down each step with a heavy clung, the pig-men yanked on her hair. Sometimes ripping large swaths of it from her skull. The blood flowed. The screaming faded.

Eyes open.

It was so cold. He felt his hands and feet and nose and ears grow numb and heavy. That electric feeling as the peripheral limbs go to sleep. The room was dark. There were no noises. No people. No animals. No furniture. Just him and the stove, which had grown cold.

He thought he should move. He wanted to escape from that place, but he couldn’t. His body frozen. His thoughts paralyzed. His fear dissipating.

Eyes open.

The boy stared down at the abyss. He saw the pig-men dragging his father down the rusted metal stairs towards the red, yellow, black crepuscule below. His father screamed and kicked and clawed at the pig-men, but he was too weak, too frail, to resist their might. The pig-men continued their descent. Each step echoed above and below. The light flickered against the rough walls of the cylindrical Gehenna. The cracking and snapping of his father’s body resonated throughout the metal and stone. Then silence. The screaming faded.

Eyes open.

His icicle body hardly moved. The stove provided no solace. He couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing. He just sat there naked and cold.

Eyes open.

I looked down at the boy. He appeared relaxed, calm, free. I thought to myself, “Good. He’s grown a lot from this experience. I guess it was worth it after all.”

“Shall we leave, son?”