‘A piece of paper’ – Julia Briggs

A piece of paper

I saw this black piece of paper
And it looked
Kind of lonely,
Like it needed someone
To talk to.

So I started to talk.
I told it about
School and trivial things,
And my need
For someone to talk to,

And in return
It told me about trees
And Autumn
And where it had come from.

The paper looked sad
When it told me about the
Wind in the trees
And the coming of man
Who had felled the tree,
And I felt ashamed.

Then I got angry.
I had problems enough
Without
Guilt.

I tore up the paper.
I tore up myself.

Julia Briggs (1943 - 2007)

From Wikipedia – Julia Ruth Briggs was an academic, literary critic and biographer who wrote about Virginia Woolfchildren’s literature and English Renaissance theatre.

Julia Briggs

I found this poem in an anthology on poetic creation and how such a simple poem engenders thought by taking a simple object as the subject. In this case the irony is that the poem is all about not being able to write.

My immediate thoughts …

What kind of thinking does a simple object invoke?

If a simple object becomes personified does that engender more interest?

How does the colour of the object affect thought?

If a writer is unable to write, is he or she not full filling a role?

When a writer cannot write but should, or feels a must, is guilt the reaction?

When a great effort, or sacrifice, is made in order to produce something for us how do we feel when we fail to use it?

How do we deal with anger when we can’t do what we want to do?

Below is a detailed 10-point analysis using AI to explore these thought-provoking questions in relation to the text of the poem …

1. The Paper as a Mirror of the Self

The “conversation” is not really between a person and paper—it’s internal. The speaker projects onto the paper, then receives something back that feels external but is actually a deeper layer of awareness.

  • The paper first reflects loneliness (“it needed someone to talk to”)
  • Then becomes a listener
  • Then a moral witness (telling the story of the tree)

By the end, the paper is almost indistinguishable from the speaker’s conscience.

👉 This raises: Is creativity just a structured way of talking to oneself?


2. Writing as an Ethical Act

The shift in the poem is striking: from casual chatter → ecological awareness → guilt → anger → destruction.

The paper reminds the speaker:

  • It was a tree
  • It was taken, transformed, sacrificed

So writing is no longer neutral—it carries:

  • environmental cost
  • human intervention
  • transformation of nature into expression

👉 This adds a layer to your question:

When effort or sacrifice produces something for us, how do we feel when we fail to use it?

The poem suggests: we feel complicit.


3. Guilt vs. Avoidance

The emotional pivot is crucial:

“And I felt ashamed.
Then I got angry.”

This is psychologically sharp. The speaker:

  1. Feels guilt
  2. Rejects it (“I had problems enough”)
  3. Converts it into anger
  4. Destroys the source of guilt

👉 A classic defense mechanism:

  • guilt → discomfort → anger → destruction

So the act of tearing the paper is not random—it’s avoidance of responsibility.


4. Creative Block Reframed

Your question about writers who “cannot write but should” fits perfectly.

The poem suggests:

  • The block is not emptiness
  • It may be over-awareness
  • Or even ethical paralysis

The speaker can write—but what emerges is uncomfortable truth.

👉 So perhaps:

  • Writer’s block is sometimes not lack of ideas
  • But resistance to what we know we might uncover

5. Personification as a Moral Trigger

You asked whether personification increases engagement—here it does more than that.

By giving the paper a voice:

  • It becomes harder to ignore
  • It becomes a victim
  • It forces empathy

If the poem simply stated “paper comes from trees,” it wouldn’t land emotionally.

👉 Personification transforms:

  • fact → relationship
  • object → witness
  • material → moral presence

6. The Violence of the Ending

The final line is powerful:

“I tore up the paper.
I tore up myself.”

This equates:

  • destruction of the page
  • destruction of identity

Why?

Because the paper had become:

  • a listener
  • a conscience
  • a creative outlet

Destroying it = rejecting:

  • expression
  • responsibility
  • self-awareness

👉 It suggests: to silence truth, we damage ourselves.


7. The Color “Black”

You noted the color—this is subtle but meaningful.

“Black piece of paper” is unusual (we expect white). It might imply:

  • emptiness inverted
  • something already “marked” or heavy
  • emotional weight from the start

It sets a tone of:

  • melancholy
  • seriousness
  • perhaps even foreboding

8. Simplicity vs. Depth

The poem uses very simple language, almost childlike:

  • short lines
  • everyday vocabulary

Yet it deals with:

  • environmental ethics
  • guilt
  • identity
  • creative struggle

👉 This contrast mirrors the idea that:

profound realisations often arise from ordinary moments


9. The Role of Anger

Your final question is key:

How do we deal with anger when we can’t do what we want to do?

The poem shows one unhealthy path:

  • redirect anger toward something symbolic
  • destroy the medium
  • avoid the underlying issue

But it also implies an alternative (unstated):

  • stay with the discomfort
  • continue the “conversation”

10. A Final Thought

The poem might ultimately be about this tension:

To create is to confront truth.
To avoid truth is to destroy creation.

And the speaker chooses, momentarily, destruction.

I wanted to be surprised – Jane Hirschfield

I wanted to be surprised

To such a request, the world is obliging.

In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,
who seemed equally startled by me.

The man who swallowed a tiny microphone
to record the sounds of his body,
not considering beforehand how he might remove it.

A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.

How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup
surprised even them.

I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.
Or each time anew fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.
Or that one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly—

What should have not been so surprising:
my error after error, recognised when appearing on the faces of others.

What did not surprise enough:
my daily expectation that anything would continue,
and the that so much did continue, when so much did not.

small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.
A sister’s birthday.

Also, the stubborn, courteous persistence.
That even today please means please,
good morning is still understood as good morning,

and that when I wake up,
the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,
the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing.

Its alleys and markets, offices of dentists,
drug store, liquor store, Chevron.
Its library that charges— a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books:
Borges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy.

Jane Hirschfield (1953 -

If we are looking for surprises … being prepared is important … so come on surprise I am waiting. This is the opening ask – a want for a surprise – I wanted to be surprised. But it is wanted not want which means that JH gives a lot of ambiguity in what this might imply. We don’t know if she has had a pleasant surprise, for example something she thought would never happen like peace in the Middle East, or something very personal and quite unpleasant in nature – like a bill through the Post long forgotten.

But let’s face it we never quite know what is going to happen in life. Whether we look for surprise or not life is full of variety in the unknown happenings of daily life whether trivial or monumental in their arrival.

The poem is a list of some surprises that have manifested. Nature always surprises when we least expect as in the first example. I am always surprised in summer when a snake crosses the path. I know it is likely to happen, but infrequently – but when it does it gives a shock.

Next in the list warns us not to do stupid things on the spur of the moment without due thought on the repercussions. Here is another clear event. The spying by Southampton Football Club was such a needless stupid thing to do. I guess they didn’t realise the implications on being found out and the cost of not playing in the Championship Play-Off final.

And it is not surprising how easy it is to do things – if you know the best way (thankyou Google) … like how best to catch a spider.

And as for love well no surprise … there are always associated surprises … and I do like to surprise when giving presents.

But there is no surprise in that we are prone to mistakes … we give surprises away in that way … especially to the listen when we inadvertently use the wrong word … and don’t realise at the time … and we have to be so careful now with electronic help when the wrong word is put in for us …

And it is surprising that so much continues in life with no change … marketeers use this to advantage … saying the same old quality product since early inception … it will be packaged differently, and you are sure to pay more – no surprises there! …

… of course habit keeps us anchored to the same things each day … like always walking round the lake clockwise … and surprise, surprise I have a friend who has been doing this for many years … the other day I met up with her again for lunch … she wanted to tell me that last week she walked anti-clockwise, and told me it was so different (incidentally Jane Hirstfield has another list type poem Habit – personifying Habit which controls our life)

… and some common words have the same intent as they’re always had … and we understand the person immediately – like please

… and interesting that the city viewed from the window is a borrowed city … it may be reclaimed … but it is still there with all the usual elements including a library that doesn’t charge for overdue books … but plenty of cities in the middle east that change dramatically

… but in relation to words and books they have a permanency not like the electronic equivalent which may be lost at the touch of a finger

… a friend recommended a book to me and surprise, surprise it was such a marvel I must mention it … quite often what another finds endearing is not exactly to your taste … but this time it was much appreciated – the book – ‘ All Before Me’ by Esther Rutter … the story of a personal recovery while working as an assistant at Dove Cottage in the Lake District, interwoven with detailed research in connection with the person lives of William and Dorothy Wordsworth and that important relationship with Coleridge.

… in relation to books I must mention ‘Surprised by Joy’ by C. S. Lewis … joy quite often comes as a surprise … so may you find joy from some of the surprises that happen to you!

… another thought that comes to mind … how do we deal with all the surprises that happens in our daily life in relation to providence

I will close by wanting a surprise … and it will be a surprise if it happens … I’m looking for 3 comments on this Post … follow the list-poem-creation-technique as shown by JH … list three things that come to mind in association with your reading of the above … just three very short sentences will suffice.

Jane Hirshfield is a highly respected poet, translator, essayist, and editor.

Here is her Facebook page.

Jane Hirshfield on Wikipedia

The Old Stoic – Emily Bronte

The Old Stoic

Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
'Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.

Emily Bronte (1818 - 1848)

Stoic = one who tends to endure the trials and tribulations of life without complaint

When a person reaches the later stages of life there are many challenges in daily life due to age the most common concern health rather than finance – but lack of finance may obviate the ability to deal adequately with any health issues.

However, Emily Bronte never reached old age and died young … but had her miseries nevertheless to endure in that dire home life in Haworth. She may have been writing these words in association with an old gentleman that she knew. Assuming male.

Incidentally, I have just watched the latest ‘Wuthering Heights’ movie. A complete imaginary representation and a lot of violence. Revenge never reached such heights – excuse the pun. And when Catherine married into the Linton family against her heart it reminded me of Thomas Hardy’s poem ‘The Ruined Maid’. If you like Margot Robbie go to see it, she is quite brilliant as Catherine. I would give it a 3.5 rating. I liked the scenery of course especially as I lived in Ikley for a while when attending Uni.

And what is important for this old man …

… not riches … seems he is adequately prepared for his daily needs
… not love … well … laughter and scorn = no respect, mockery … as he reflects back with a smile …
… not fame … this was an unrealised dream … something sought in youth perhaps

… but the most important thing, the one prayer … for courage to endure all that is going on in his life … in life and death … as he reaches final days … as he seeks liberty … freedom from the body …

If those reading this poem who are in a similar state … with arthritis and more serious body concerns and medical issues – never give up take courage and endure, persist, and keep going despite … and find some joy out of the shadow of such concerns.

… And of course the young may need such courage too!

This is a Photograph of Me – Margaret Atwood

This is a Photograph of Me

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Margaret Atwood (1939 –

From AI – Margaret Atwood’s “This Is a Photograph of Me” is a haunting, deceptively simple poem that uses the metaphor of a blurry, old photo to explore themes of death, memory, and the marginalization of women. The speaker describes a landscape, only revealing in a chilling, parenthetical stanza that she has drowned and is submerged in the lake, appearing almost invisible to the viewer. 
… And is marginalization an issue?

A poem in two distinct parts … on the life of a person defined in words …

Plenty below the surface to consider, these are my words to invoke thinking   –

 
… the importance of nature to self
… on becoming water and light
… on being absorbed/lost in nature
… on being unrecognised as a woman
… on being a forgotten entity
… on history distorting, not knowing people
… on being identified with place
… on the emphasis of the importance of home
… on being there but unseen
… on wanting recognition
… on having a spiritual existence
… on connection

Do you ever see another person no matter how hard you look … and what does a person leave behind … what does the viewer conjure in the mind.

Endimyion – opening lines – analysis

Endimyion – opening lines

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways.

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

John Keats (1795 – 1821)

Beauty as distraction, … or perhaps better to be seen as a resistance?

Beauty in Endymion can feel like a distraction from suffering, especially given Keats’s own life: illness, financial precarity, political unrest, and looming death. Yet for Keats, beauty is rarely mere escapism. Rather, it functions as a counterforce to pain. For beauty does not erase “the inhuman dearth / Of noble natures” or “the gloomy days” — those woes are explicitly acknowledged. Beauty exists alongside suffering, not in ignorance of it. In that sense, beauty becomes an act of resistance: something that binds us to the earth even when the world is harsh.

So instead of distraction, we might think of beauty as temporary shelter — a pause that allows endurance.

And if beauty were only a longing for elsewhere, it might increase restlessness. But if beauty is seen as a comfort, it becomes grounding like the flowery band binding us to the earth by the use of the wreath analogy. Keeping us earth orientated rather than pulling us away from our situation.

Beauty does not save the world,
but it saves our willingness to remain in it.

Hoping beauty is evident in your life in some way when seen as a living aid exemplified in a flower.

Now looking at beauty after death and the philosophy of John Keats … the spiritual side to this poem …

An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.


An endless fountain of immortal drink … suggests the creator of the world is continuing in love.

This isn’t a single gift given long ago, nor a distant act of creation now complete. A fountain pours continuously. If there is a creator implied here, it’s not a withdrawn clock-maker God, but one still actively giving — still leaning toward the world.

It is loving rather than judgmental. What flows from heaven is not law, command, or punishment, but drink — sustenance, pleasure, life. It’s intimate and generous. You don’t earn a drink; you receive it because you are thirsty.

Keats keeps the theology deliberately indirect. He doesn’t name God. He avoids doctrine. Instead, he gives us an image that feels halfway between Christian grace, classical nectar, and pure poetic imagination. That ambiguity allows the line to carry love without dogma — creation as an ongoing act of care rather than a finished decree. A spiritual force still in use in shaping our troubled world.

There is a longing beneath that for a place where beauty would no longer need defending, gathering, wreathing. Whether that place is art, memory, myth, or some imagined place beyond death, Keats leaves this unresolved.

It is up to us to consider the nature of heaven and any afterlife.

The Pebble – Zbigniew Herbert – comments

The Pebble

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

--Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

Zbigniew Herbert (1924 - 1998)

A pebble …
… evolved over many years to become what it is today
… rejoices in the fact that it is
… mindful of its limits and is not pretentious in any way
… it is itself and that is sufficient
… it can’t be converted to something else, it is true to itself
… it does not try to adjust, amend, advise, colour, favour, frighten, desire…
… when others try to alter it … this is false to itself … remorse = feel guilty in trying
… it cannot be tamed, manipulated …

So be yourself who you are … who you are meant to be … and rejoice in that fact. Become like a pebble – well, something to think about from this concrete poem.

From Wikipedia … Zbigniew Herbert was a Polish poetessayistdrama writer and moralist. He is one of the best known and the most translated post-war Polish writers.


Edgar Allan Poe – Female connectivity

 
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809, the same year as Tennyson.  He was a poet, editor, and literary critic who is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales involving mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as one of the central figures of Romanticism and Gothic fiction in the United States and of early American literature. And he was the first American to rely entirely on his literary writing to make a living.

“Annabel Lee” was Edgar Allan Poe’s last poem and unpublished at the time of his death. He regarded it as his most significant poem and made pains to ensure that it would be published. It is thought that it is in connection with his first childhood love a cousin, Virginnia Eliza Clemn who he married when he was 26 and she 13. The marriage lasted eleven years ending when Virginia died of tuberculosis in 1847.

Here is the poem …

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee; —
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love —
I and my Annabel Lee —
With a love that the wingéd seraphs in Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre,
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me —
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we —
Of many far wiser than we —
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea —
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

The angels in heaven were jealous of her, so she was quite an earth angel – metaphorically speaking.

The locked forever connection with beloved “Annabel Lee” suggests a spiritual afterlife association. So many people express deeper connectivity with a beloved partner after he or she dies. In regard to poetry Thomas Hardy comes to mind.

Edgar Allan Poe on Wikipedia … https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe

England in 1819 – Shelley – Comments

England in 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,
But leechlike to their fainting country cling
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.
A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field;
An army, whom liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)

Shelley sent this sonnet to Leigh Hunt from Florence on 23 December 1819. Mary Shelley first published this sonnet in her edition of Shelley’s Poetical Works in 1839.

King George III had reigned since 1860 and he was acknowledged as violently insane in 1811. He died in January 1820. King George’s granddaughter Victoria took the throne in 1837 at the age of eighteen, so it was not published in the Georgian period.

The sons of George III had among them sired numerous illegitimate children and only two legitimate ones. In addition, they had engaged in such diverse activities as gluttony, gambling, incest with a sister, and selling army commands to those who bribed a favourite mistress.

An illusion to the Peterloo Massacre A people starved and stabbed in th’ untilled field;
The killing of liberty!

The Peterloo Massacre took place at St Peter’s Field, Manchester, England, on Monday 16 August 1819. Eighteen people were killed and 400–700 were injured when the cavalry of the Yeomen charged into a crowd of around 60,000 people who had gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation.

Gold and Blood are recurring emblems of the twin roots and forms of anarchy in much of Shelley’s work (for example, Queen Mab IV.195) – Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Shelley objected at Parliament being unrepresentative of the people refer to his (Philosophical View of Reform) – A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—

Well, Shelley’s sonnet took to task in no uncertain way the disgraceful behaviour of Royalty that existed when he was alive. And added to that the unrepresentative nature of Parliament.

The behaviour of Prince Andrew equally reprehensible.

Percy Bysshe Shelley on Wikipedia