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Understanding Poetry - 2

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He just doesn't seem to learn a lesson. In his talks every now and then there is a talk about poop. He just doesn't seem to stop.


Ignore it. Don't make any comments man, it's not worth it.

Tbh I think most people get more offended at others, everyone has different level of tolerance - some people genuinely find him funny, some people find him annoying. But if you don't like it I think it's best to just ignore it. If someone doesn't learn or care for other peoples opinion then you just step aside innit, screwing at em ain't gonna make a difference.

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The Land Of Dreams


Awake, awake my little Boy!

Thou wast thy Mother’s only joy:

Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?

Awake! thy Father does thee keep.


“O, what land is the Land of Dreams?

What are its mountains, and what are its streams?

O Father, I saw my Mother there,

Among the lillies by waters fair.


Among the lambs clothed in white

She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.

I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn—

O when shall I return again?”


Dear child, I also by pleasant streams

Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;

But though calm and warm the waters wide,

I could not get to the other side.


“Father, O Father, what do we here,

In this land of unbelief and fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far

Above the light of the Morning Star.”

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Because I could not stop for Death




BECAUSE I could not stop for Death--

He kindly stopped for me--

The Carriage held but just Ourselves--

And Immortality.


We slowly drove--He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labour and my leisure too,

For His Civility--


We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess--in the Ring--

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--

We passed the Setting Sun--


Or rather--He passed Us--

The Dews drew quivering and chill--

For only Gossamer, my Gown--

My Tippet--only Tulle--


We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground--

The Roof was scarcely visible--

The Cornice--in the Ground--


Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses Heads

Were toward Eternity--


Emily Dickinson

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Funeral blues


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.


Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.


He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.


The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story

told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows

begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—

to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did

for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,

the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light

breathing color into stained glass windows,

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth

onto the steps of our museums and park benches

as mothers watch children slide into the day.


One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands

as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane

so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains

mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it

through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,

the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,

or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open

for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,

buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días

in the language my mother taught me—in every language

spoken into one wind carrying our lives

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed

their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report

for the boss on time, stitching another wound

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower

jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother

who knew how to give, or forgiving a father

who couldn't give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight

of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop

and every window, of one country—all of us—

facing the stars

hope—a new constellation

waiting for us to map it,

waiting for us to name it—together.







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One of my favourites:


On Another’s Sorrow


Can I see another's woe,

And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another's grief,

And not seek for kind relief?


Can I see a falling tear,

And not feel my sorrow's share?

Can a father see his child

Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd?


Can a mother sit and hear

An infant groan an infant fear?

No, no! never can it be!

Never, never can it be!


And can he who smiles on all

Hear the wren with sorrows small,

Hear the small bird's grief & care,

Hear the woes that infants bear,


And not sit beside the nest,

Pouring pity in their breast;

And not sit the cradle near,

Weeping tear on infant's tear;


And not sit both night & day,

Wiping all our tears away?

O, no! never can it be!

Never, never can it be!


Think not thou canst sigh a sigh

And thy maker is not by;

Think not thou canst weep a tear

And thy maker is not near.


O! he gives to us his joy

That our grief he may destroy;

Till our grief is fled & gone

He doth sit by us and moan.

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maybe. your interpretation is as good as mine.

Here is mine:


To me this sounds like a complaint by a lover who is tired and hurt waiting for his or her lover.


I should not have waited.

It would have been better

To have slept and dreamed,

Than to have watched night pass,

And this slow moon sink.



The poet have obviously waited the entire night and is now feeling betrayed. In her anger, she exclaims "I should have not waited. It would have been better if I just went to sleep!". The slowly sinking moon could be a reflection of her slowly sinking mood and hope.


Again this poem draws vivid pictures in mind. It is as if we are watching the night pass by and moon is sinking. And underneath her anger, we clearly see her sadness - and we empathize - with a smile.



That poem about waiting for a person. Has a personal meaning to an event in my life years and years ago. I think it would have been better to have slept than to wait from midnight to morning for nothing.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.


My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.


He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.


The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.



Robert Frost





PS> When I read this, I felt that Robert Frost was depressed. He longed for dead, but no, he had to go on, or at least that's how he felt when writing this piece. Then I went to his bio.





Personal life

Robert Frost's personal life was plagued with grief and loss. In 1885 when Frost was 11, his father died of tuberculosis, leaving the family with just eight dollars. Frost's mother died of cancer in 1900. In 1920, Frost had to commit his younger sister Jeanie to a mental hospital, where she died nine years later. Mental illness apparently ran in Frost's family, as both he and his mother suffered from depression, and his daughter Irma was committed to a mental hospital in 1947. Frost's wife, Elinor, also experienced bouts of depression.[10]

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Some good Haiku by masters


  • From time to time

    The clouds give rest
    To the moon-beholders.

    - Bashō


  • Over-ripe sushi,
    The Master
    Is full of regret.

    - Buson


  • Winter seclusion -
    Listening, that evening,
    To the rain in the mountain.

    - Issa

  • My life, -
    How much more of it remains?
    The night is brief.

    - Shiki


  • An old silent pond...
    A frog jumps into the pond,
    splash! Silence again.

    - Bashō


  • I kill an ant
    and realize my three children
    have been watching.

    - Kato Shuson


  • Don’t weep, insects –
    Lovers, stars themselves,
    Must part.

    - Issa

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You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time—
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

12 October 1962



Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963

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