Poetry-Other [NTA-NET (UGC-NET) English Literature(30)]: Questions 1 - 6 of 42
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Passage
Dead Fox
We pretended to know nothing about it.
I withdrew to my childhood training: stay out
of swampy undergrowth, choked edges.
This was around the time
we were too cruel to kill the mice we caught,
leaving them in the Have-a-Heart trap
under the sun-burning bramble of rugosa.
But moving up the trail, we caught a glimpse
right at the start: the fox just over the hillock
on the dune-side slope, spoiling
the grass-inscribed sand. Neither of us looked –
it seemed best to back away.
On the dune՚s steep side
we surveyed what we՚d come for: ocean՚s
snaking blue beyond the meadow, the silvered
blade-like wands lying down. Lovely enough
to hold ourselves to that view.
But the currents of an odor wafted in and out,
until the sweep of smell grew wider, wilder.
The heat compounded, and ugliness
settled its cloud over us, profound as human speech,
although by then we were not speaking. (January paper 3)
Question 4 (3 of 4 Based on Passage)
Appeared in Year: 2017
Question MCQ▾
The reaction evoked in response to a glimpse of the dead fox is best described as
I. Evasive
II. Angry
III. Bizarre
IV. Muted
The right combination according to the code is
Choices
Choice (4) | Response | |
---|---|---|
a. | I and IV | |
b. | III and IV | |
c. | I and II | |
d. | II and III |
Passage
Read the following poem and answer questions:
Bored
Margaret Atwood
All those times I was bored out of my mind.
Holding the log while he sawed it.
Holding the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored) weeded.
Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel he drove, steered, paddled.
It wasn՚t even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small details Myopia.
The worn gunwales, the intricate twill of the seat cover.
The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying the wood, drying the dishes.
Such minutiae.
it՚s what the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn՚t be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know. (November Paper 3)