Poem Question. Im so Confused!?

Question by ILoveYouGaGa_: Poem Question. Im so Confused!?
1.In a response of no fewer than two paragraphs, discuss the mood and theme of James Stephens’s poem as it compares to the mood and theme of Walter de la Mare’s “The Storm.” In your answer, be sure to discuss the impact of each poet’s language and use of poetic devices such as personification and figurative language.

The Storm”
by Walter de la Mare

First there were two of us, then there were three of us,
Then there was one bird more,
Four of us–wild white sea-birds,
Treading the ocean floor;
And the wind rose, and the sea rose,
To the angry billows? roar–
With one of us–two of us–three of us–four of us
Sea-birds on the shore.

Soon there were five of us, soon there were nine of us,
And lo! in a trice sixteen!
And the yeasty surf curdled over the sands,
The gaunt grey rocks between;
And the tempest raved, and the lightning?s fire
Struck blue on the spindrift hoar–
And on four of us–ay, and on four times four of us
Sea-birds on the shore.

And our sixteen waxed to thirty-two,
And they to past three score–
A wild, white welter of winnowing wings,
And ever more and more;
And the winds lulled, and the sea went down,
And the sun streamed out on high,
Gilding the pools and the spume and the spars
?Neath the vast blue deeps of the sky;

And the isles and the bright green headlands shone,
As they?d never shone before,
Mountains and valleys of silver cloud,
Wherein to swing, sweep, soar–
A host of screeching, scolding, scrabbling
Sea-birds on the shore–
A snowy, silent, sun-washed drift
Of sea-birds on the shore.

Check
by James Stephens
The Night was creeping on the ground!
She crept and did not make a sound,
Until she reached the tree: And then
She covered it, and stole again
Along the grass beside the wall!
—I heard the rustling of her shawl
As she threw blackness everywhere
Along the sky, the ground, the air,
And in the room where I was hid!
But, no matter what she did
To everything that was without,
She could not put my candle out!
So I stared at the Night! And she
Stared back solemnly at me!

Best answer:

Answer by Buk
Is this the poetry our educational system is cramming down your throats??

Good Lord, I’d write a dissertation on how bad the poems are and tell the teacher to get a grip.

What do you think? Answer below!

Q&A: I need Help With Scanning this poem for Meter and Effect.?

Question by iliketofrolick26: I need Help With Scanning this poem for Meter and Effect.?
Here is teh Poem, it is a classic:

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

I need what the effect, meter, and anything else important baout it.

Best answer:

Answer by rainbowunweaver2002
Let me help you with the metre first: it is iambic, i.e. an unstressed syllable is followed by a stressed one, as if you were saying “I AM, I AM”.
It is a crossed rhyme you find in the 1st four verses of each stanza and then a paired rhyme, a couplet, in the 5th and 6th.
In stanza 1and 2 in vers 6 there is a deviation from the very regular metre; these lines start with a stressed syllable, making the beginning almost a trochee, perhaps in accordance with the sudden movement of “fluttering” and “tossing”, whereas everything else is smooth and tranquil, almost pensive; thus the regular beat and the smoothness of the rhymes support the author’s serene bliss.

The formatting in stanza 3 is slightly incorrect at least as far as the lay-out in your questions goes:
“The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the …”

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Is it a poem or random words?

Question by Bridge golden hand: Is it a poem or random words?
Tonight I have strange feeling

I feel my heart is a sky hosting my emotions stars

Oh I swear…There are no limits to my feelings

I’m head over heels in love

I know I’m living in isolation

Between us storm, clouds, waves , ice and fire

only your eyes and voice I go around looking for

AM I lost in long impossible road!!!

Am I traveling in the ocean of your eyes without any destination!!

But if I had choose

I will choose your love for second time..

Best answer:

Answer by Hanson_luver666
both… some poetry is random words, but this fits together very nicely. If you wrote it…jolly good job mate!

Add your own answer in the comments!

Is it a poem or random words?and let me know if you like ?

Question by Bridge golden hand: Is it a poem or random words?and let me know if you like ?
Tonight I have strange feeling

I feel my heart is a sky hosting my emotions stars

Oh I swear…There are no limits to my feelings

I’m head over heels in love

I know I’m living in isolation

Between us storm, clouds, waves , ice and fire

only your eyes and voice I go around looking for

AM I lost in long impossible road!!!

Am I traveling in the ocean of your eyes without any destination!!

But if I had choose

I will choose your love for second time..

Best answer:

Answer by adamrv1
you need some rhythm and repetition in there

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write a 5-7 line poem related to the poem below.?

Question by charmaine_gem: write a 5-7 line poem related to the poem below.?
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

i wandered lonely as a cloud
that floats on high o’er vales and hills,
when all at once i saw a crowd,
a host of golden daffodils;
beside the lake, beneath the trees,
fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

countinuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the milky way,
they stretched in never-ending line,
along the margin of bay:
ten thousand saw i at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

the waves beside them danced; but they
outdid the sparkling waves in glee-:
a poet could not be gay,
in such a jocund company,
i gazed-and gazed-but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

for oft, when on my couch i lie
in vacant or in pensive mood,
they flash upon that inward eye
which is the bliss of solitude;
and then my heart with pleasure fills,
and dances with the daffodils.

Best answer:

Answer by hanmabookie
this poem is really long, my friend;
i could not wait to reach the end.
this does not mean the poem was bad,
but only that it made me sad.
for i too have played in fields of gold
the remembrance of this dates me old.

(give me credit for trying.)

(and by “dates me old” i meant “makes me feel old.”)

What do you think? Answer below!

I have to write a one-paragraph response to this poem can you give me a brief idea?

Question by : I have to write a one-paragraph response to this poem can you give me a brief idea?
A Fisheries Scientist And His Father,
The Preacher, Gather Salmon

I

Monofilament whisked through rod-guides
as we pitched our spinners across the cold.
Sea-bright cohos struck our hooks almost every cast,
shoaled and on the bite at low tide.
But Dad practiced bad Presbyterian,
bad Scots, busting off one costly lure
after another because he tied lousy knots
and fishing line weakens
when improperly folded and crimped.
Strike after strike
Dad’s poorly thrown seizing popped from the swivel.
We watched each salmon bolt or glide
into shadow with a gold blade
glinting from its jaw, a flash stabbing the dark.

I couldn’t count the times I’d taught the Old Man
the modified jamb knot, strongest for terminal gear,
made him bow his head over my hands and follow
as I wrapped, looped through twice, then paused
before saying, ‘Always draw both
ends of the line taut.
A kink or a slack spot in your stack of bends
will lower your breaking threshold.’
But I preached my sermons on tensile strength
when a bite was on or a salmon had just rolled
near the surface, glimmering its broad side.
Frantic to cast, his attention wavered
while adrenaline jittered his hands
and his knots couldn’t hold the cohos he struck.

II

We plied our gear while clouds
drifted shaggy from the Gulf of Alaska to snag
fleece in wisps on the shoulders of the fjord,
softening the north scarp.
Dad and I had threaded our skiff through drizzle
to work the estuary at the back of Katlian Bay, drawn
by spawners drawn, in turn, to the snow
melt and rain water that beget
Katlian River. Our day was so stilled
that each time a lure
punched through the skin of the bay
the slight thunk traveled to our ears
like whispered affirmation:
we were not nothing,
tiny as we were.

Anchored at the edge of the sea-
drowned valley, the mountains shoving close and steep,
we swung our treble hooks away from us
like little, iron prayers cast into that dark
from which one more generation of cohos
coalesced toward their birthstream.
And the rain hung gracefully over us.
And the forest crowded the mountainside down to our anchorage.
And spruce and hemlock slung their boughs above the tideline,
curved as if gillnets needle-worked and strung to gather drizzle.

III

The Old Man whooped again, setting the hook,
then slumped, line gone slack. Again. He cussed
his luck softly, blinded by his wanting,
unable to see the gracelessness of his knots.

Several ravens arrived, as if a session of presbyters
assembling in the trees we’d anchored by,
alert to scavenge fish viscera.
Sleek in their feathered vestments, the bird-
elders chorused from green pulpits, the limbs
of Sitka spruce. They chanted their counsel
as if to scold him for the big one that got away.

Presbyterian as hell, Dad had always extolled
Grace, his pulpit a casting platform,
his sanctuary a place of capture and release,
the hands of the Angler gentle
in the easing of iron from a stung jaw.
But there, beside the Katlian estuary, he allowed
the taste of denied prayer to sour in his mouth,
watching me as I horsed
yet another spawner to us.

IV

‘Bring back a big one!’
All through my fishing life
that’s what the Old Man had called at my back.
I’d shoulder my heaviest flyrod
and slouch down to the family skiff, smoldering
with the righteousness of a catch-and-release angler.
A meat fisherman, and a Scot who needed
to justify the cost of our small boat,
he’d call, ‘Bring back a big one!’
even though he hated to eat fish.
Dad never saw that I consecrated my own blood with salt
water, that I learned to reap my own life by releasing
the living silver scaled in the flank of a spawner.

The Old Man had only trolled bait-herring
and had butchered every one of the few fish he’d landed
through all those years in which I’d taught myself
the higher rituals of an angler’s faith,
how to dress a barbless hook with feather and silk,
how to present my artificial to a water
as impenetrable as hammered metal,
how to dance my streamer past sockeye or coho
and receive the lightly controlled connection to the dark,
the same dark that pulses through salmon blood and human nerve,
how to unhook my prey without harm,
holding each fish upright and gilling
until recovered enough to swim from the cradle
I had made of my hands.

Now,
no matter how hard
I whocked my gaff into gill plates,
my father’s knots would not hold.

And with every spawner I yarded to boatside,
and with each swift swing of the fish pick,
my tine pierced the rain that molded itself to our faces,
the same rain that had veiled my years of practice, years
rehearsing a family of bindings,
barrel knot, blood knot, each jamb knot
pulled into crisp strength, a nylon c

Best answer:

Answer by Richard B
Hello Mo,

Your teacher has saddled you with a tough one. This piece is long and filled with niche language such as the fishing technicalities and clan references. Basically, it is a story about an upside-down Father-Son relationship where the son is wise and the father bumbling. There is much more here, such as the racially inspired cliche references to Scots (people from Scotland, not Scotch, which is a drink) and the Presbyter.

You can figure this out. Read it (however painful) two or three more times and it will click.

RB

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A poem on a new beginning or just another end C/C please?

cloud platform
by gak

Question by : A poem on a new beginning or just another end C/C please?
Set out once more into the world
worn granite steps slicked with froze fog
the same steps every morning
ruts worn into by 45 years of routine
Same cafe
same coffee
cream no sugar
served by a angry spouse
admonishing her spouse in Korean
sounds of the cafe changed
but not you
“Danke” you sigh
and continue out the door
Two buses one transfer
and three stops on the subway
you arrive
same platform
past the broken escalator
up to the grey light
diffused through lead clouds
sturdy bench awaits
you sit down and watch
with each swing of the ball
your life crumble
and you wonder
when it ends
what now?

Thank you for any comments
First “spouse” should have been “server”
Mea Culpa

Best answer:

Answer by Dave
Life is a handful of moments, only.

Nice poem.

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Q&A: what does this poem mean? I dont understand it at all and I have to analyze it for school?

Question by Maddy: what does this poem mean? I dont understand it at all and I have to analyze it for school?
Nightpiece
James Joyce

Gaunt in gloom,
The pale stars their torches,
Enshrouded, wave.
Ghostfires from heaven’s far verges faint illume,
Arches on soaring arches,
Night’s sindark nave.

Seraphim,
The lost hosts awaken
To service till
In moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,
Raised when she has and shaken
Her thurible.

And long and loud,
To night’s nave upsoaring,
A starknell tolls
As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,
Voidward from the adoring
Waste of souls.

Thank You!!! I’m not trying to cheat, I just do not understand it at all!! Just steer me towards the right track…

Best answer:

Answer by Tim O
Sounds like a bunch of ruined wrecks in an opium den.

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How does this Poem make you feel?

Question by ??RAE in N.Y.??: How does this Poem make you feel?
Hours After The Attack On The World Trade Center

Weeks ago, I fell in love with that bright city.
I took no photographs, surprised by how
diminutive stood Liberty, the pity
I had so long envisioned on her brow.

The streets of low Manhattan cleanly raced
along the base of building fronts which bore
toward the clouds — a pale, calm canyon’s face
around the Towers, built when I was four.

I’ve cried this morning to a liquid shred
to see one hour’s potency, to see
the desperate faces of the knowing dead
choosing to die in flight instead of heat.

Three black birds hurried skyward once the last
abomination pierced the southern tower,
as if, like mine, their courses had been cast
to seek the Kingdom, glory, and the power

and brood upon the first great desecration.
“Then there was war in Heaven,” Saint John wrote.
The fire which scarred that moment of our nation
was nothing less than falling rebel host.

In Ramah

In Moscow, red and yellow blooms were laid
before our nation’s embassy. The bells
of Notre Dame rang out. An esplanade
of candles flared for us in Kosovo.

The Muslims in Jerusalem rejoiced
to witness Allah slay the infidels,
while silence from the free and many-voiced
in South Korea recognized our slain.

St. Paul’s was filled to bursting, and its Queen
wore black, but in New York, the dimming skyline
remains a seared and brokenhearted scene
whose towering Twins we’ll never glimpse again.

September 11, 2001

How can I ever put those scenes to bed —
the bodies tumbling from the upper floors,
imaginings of all the private wars
which must have marked the dying of the dead?

How can I fail to weep till I am dust,
remembering the ashen forms that filled
those streets, and must I love the ones who killed?
The answers come, “You cannot,” and “You must.”
This poem is by Jennifer Reese http://www.geocities.com/poetryafterseptember112001/reeserpoem.html
Michael P. Very true and made me think a lot!

Best answer:

Answer by twixerella
I think that the last one is good

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WHAT IS THIS POEM SAYING?

Question by : WHAT IS THIS POEM SAYING?
Forgive me for thinking I saw
the irregular postage stamp of death;
a black moth the size of my left
thumbnail is all I’ve trapped in the damask.
There is no need for alarm. And

there is no need for sadness, if
the rain at the window now reminds you
of nothing; not even of that
parlor, long like a nave, where cloud-shadow,
wing-shadow, where father-shadow
continually confused the light. In flight,
leaf-throng and, later, soldiers and
flags deepened those windows to submarine.

But you don’t remember, I know,
so I won’t mention that house where Chung hid,
Lin wizened, you languished, and Ming-
Ming hush-hushed us with small song. And since you
don’t recall the missionary
bells chiming the hour, or those words whose sounds
alone exhaust the heart–garden,
heaven, amen–I’ll mention none of it.

After all, it was just our life,
merely years in a book of years. It was
1960, and we stood with
the other families on a crowded
railroad platform. The trains came, then
the rains, and then we got separated.

And in the interval between
familiar faces, events occurred, which
one of us faithfully pencilled
in a day-book bound by a rubber band.

But birds, as you say, fly forward.
So I won’t show you letters and the shawl
I’ve so meaninglessly preserved.
And I won’t hum along, if you don’t, when
our mothers sing Nights in Shanghai.
I won’t, each Spring, each time I smell lilac,
recall my mother, patiently
stitching money inside my coat lining,
if you don’t remember your mother
preparing for your own escape.

After all, it was only our
life, our life and its forgetting.

Best answer:

Answer by stephen k
It is a poem of loss, of womdering what could have been, of regrets and being unable to do what needed to be done then

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