NAMA : Titus Ardityo D.

NIM : 200222608435

 PUISI

Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Sumber: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/death-is-nothing-at-all-by-henry-
scott-holland

Penulis: Henry Scott-Holland

  Comment

In my opinion, this poem talks a lot about the writer’s perspective on death. He thinks that death is
only a minor accident. He thinks that live will go on as it was before. He only thinks death is like going
over to the room next door. He thinks that after death there will be more waiting on the other side. I
find this way of thinking is really unique. I never thought death as a small thing. I always think that death
is an ending to someone’s life. I always think that death is an inevitable event. That we will be judged
upon our past action. But this poem gives me a new perspective. To look up upon death and instead of
being scared by it, we embrace it. Only thinking it’s a mere transition to what lies beyond.

 Non-fiction Essay

My favorite photo of my mother and me features a car accident. We are walking down a
sidewalk, holding hands, wearing long cotton dresses. Ahead of us, a sedan has crashed through
the window display of a clothing store. We look purposeful and resolute, my mother and I, as though
we might motion for the driver to move out of the way. The photo was printed in the local paper of a
southern town in the US, small enough for such occurrences to be newsworthy. I recall the
interaction with a level of detail that almost casts doubt on the entire memory: Our quickened pace
when we noticed the man crouching in the street with a camera, his bald pate leaping up to catch the
sun’s gleam, asking us if we wouldn’t mind being in the newspaper, if we could walk towards the car
again, slowly, “to give the photo life.” When the story ran, I snipped the photo out with blunted
scissors and had the cutout laminated at Kinko’s.

It didn’t seem unusual for strangers to photograph my mother and me. One of my earliest
memories was a man asking my mother if I wanted to be a child model; it was the only time my
mother seemed angered by a photo request. While we walked through the woods or ate drippy
cones of ice cream, people would surreptitiously snap photos on disposables meant to capture their
own family outings. Art students would request permission in hesitant tones while clutching
expensive cameras. Maybe we were eye-catching in small-town Georgia, my mother a gorgeous,
bold-faced immigrant, her daughter with improbably light hair and dark eyes, features that danced
between familiar and “exotic,” that word that has come to say far more about the speaker than the
described object. I am sure the intrigue was heightened when I would lean against my mother and
ask in our secret language if we could leave yet.
 My first word was umma, mom in Korean. But I called my father Dad. He was an early pioneer of
the English teaching craze, the handsome American teacher on a morning public access TV show.
My mother and her family woke up early to watch the show and recite useful English phrases to
each other. He said he wanted to be a cook. She said he should become an English professor
instead. Together, they enrolled in graduate school in the United States, two bewildering new worlds
converging on my mother at once. She poured her emotions into painting, and her language into me.
We walked often through the woods, holding hands, pointing out butterflies, leaves, flowers. Nabi,
Ip, Kott. After every word I said correctly, she would clap, momentarily as giddy as the child I was. I
would delight in her delight. We sang Korean folk songs while pinching off honeysuckle blossoms to
taste the minute sweetness. I glowed with her love, basked in the warm security of what I thought
was a language between us. Perhaps this is why strangers asked for our photos, in an attempt to
capture a secret world between two people.

 Comment

This non-fiction essay talks about the relationship between a mother and a daughter with a little
twist. The family from the mother side is actually an immigrant. Which resulted in a mix blood of the
daughter which is the writer in this little quote from the essay. The writer’s mother came from Korea
which at the time the writer has problem understanding the words that spoken by his mother. But
slowly but surely the writer can keep up with her mother’s language. And also because of the difference
in language, they both have a special treat, they called it secret language. Since only a minority of people
in the US that spoke Korean. Because of this, they both can communicate securely without anybody
noticing things.

The father of the writer is an American. He is a teacher that teaches in TV shows, educating people
through their screens. Because the writer’s mother’s family is all from Korea, they can’t speak English at
all. That’s why every morning they tune into their TV to see the writer’s father teaching English in one of
the morning TV shows. At the same time, the writer’s mother is teaching her some Korean words to
keep up with the family. I think this little bit of essay that I took from a longer one is a good example of
difference. No matter where you came from, you will always need to adapt to situations. In this essay
the writers is faced with a problem that many people won’t even got to experience. A different culture
between family members.