Acquainted with the Night

I have been one axquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
-Robert Frost

As I was looking through the poetry packet I saw that this poem was by Robert Frost and I immediatly wanted to do this poem. I remember reading many different poems by Frost and how much I enjoyed them, so I figured I would enjoy this one as well. While reading this poem, I feel like that the person that is being talked about this poem is feeling guilty. In the 2nd stanza it says "I have passed by the watchman on his beat and dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain." Reading this I think about my dog and when he has done something that he knows he shouldnt have. My dog, Buddy, will lower his eyes in a way that makes me think that he is saying I'm sorry I know I have been bad, but at the same time, I am unable to communicate with him, so its like he is almost unwilling to explain to me what he did and why he did what he did. I feel like this poem is about dealing with an event in a person's life where they are trying to differintiate between right and wrong, while justifying the wrong.

Disillusionment at Ten O'Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green.
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings,
None of them are strange
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
-Wallace Stevens

I decided to do this poem in light of halloween being this week. It felt kind of like it had some of the halloween spirit in it, since it started with the houses are haunted. OoOo very creepy haha. This poem is very descriptive, it talks about what the haunted thing could not be instead of just saying what it is, which is quite interesting. It makes it different, makes it so I have to think about this poem more. The part that made me laugh was where it said 'None of them are strange with socks of lace" because someone wearing lacey socks would not scare or make me feel like I was being haunted. When I think of being haunted I think of the 4 haunted houses I went to last week and how the things that did actually scare me werent lacy at all they were way more frigtening and many people would just jump out at me to scare me. However If someone were to jump out at me wearing lacy socks then I would probably laugh instead of scream, but then again laughing is a good thing to do and I did laugh a lot at the haunted houses. It seems that I laugh a lot when I get scared so maybe I'm afraid of lacy socks? hahaha ;)

Unveiling

In the cemetry
a mile away
from where we used to live
my aunts and mother,
my father and uncles lie
in two long rows almost the way
they used to sit around
the long planked table
at family dinners.
And walking beside
the graves today, down
one straight path
and up the next,
I don't feel sad
for them, just left out a bit
as if they kept
from me the kind
of grown-up secret
they used to share
back then, something
I'm not quite ready yet
to learn.
- Linda Pastan

While I read this poem it brought me back to when I was walking through the Loveland cemetry trying to find Trevor's grave. It was later that day after his funeral, so his gave was not yet marked with a toomstone, but I was determined to find it. As I walked up and down the rows I started thinking about all the people that I know there and how I didnt feel sad being there, but I felt like there was something more that I was missing out on, some secret that still needed to be told. This poem really reflected those same feelings to me, makes me wonder if there is something greater out there. In this huge world of wonder, what else is there? What exactly lies after death? I have my beliefs as you do yours, but we will never know until we experience it for ourselves, so instead of wallowing in the unknown, it is better to enjoy life as of now because you never know when it will be your last day.

My Fear

He follow us, he keeps track,
each day his lists are longer,
here, death, and hear,
something like it.

Mr. Fear we say in our dreams,
what do you have for me tonight?
And he looks through his sack,
his black sack of troubles.

Maybe he smiles when he finds
the right one. Maybe hes sorry.
Tell me Mr. Fear,
what must I carry

away from your dream.
Make is small please.
Let it fit in my pocket,
let it fall through

the hole in my pocket.
Fear let me have
a small brown bat
and a purse of crickets

like the ones I heard
singing last night
out there in the stubbly field
before I slept and met you.

While reading this poem I think of each stanza as one little part. The first stanza to mean just talks about death and that is something that many people fear, so it would be aproppriate to put that in this poem. The 2nd stanza is more of that worrying, the antisipation, which sometimes can be worse then the actual fear itself. The 3rd and 4th stanza are more about our burdens that we carry. Some are worse then others, but we always hope for them to be small, for that makes them so much more easier to carry, but that isn't always the case. I believe that last stanzas to be more about overcoming our fears. We all have our fears, but there is always that great sense of accomplishment when we finally overcome them.

Blackberries of Amelia

Friging the woods, the stone walls, the lanes,
old thickets everywhere have come alive,
their new leaves reaching out in fans of five
from tangled overarched by this years canes.

They have thier flowers too, it being June
and here or there in brambled dark and light
are small, five petalled blooms of chalky white,
as random clustered and as loosely strewn

As the far stars, of which we are now told
that ever faster do they blot away,
and that a night may come in which, some say,
we shall have blackness to behold.

I have no time for any change so great,
but I shall see the August weather spur
berries to ripen where the flowers were-
dark berries, savage-sweet and worth the wait-

and there will come the moment to be quick
and save some for the birds, and I shall need
two pails, old clothes in which to stain and bleed,
and a grandchild to talk to while we pick.

-Richard Wilbur

While reading this poem I started to think about my grandma and all the things we do together while we talk and catch up. It feels like a huge couincidence that I decided to do this poem this week because my grandma ended up going to the hospital- she is okay now, but we had a really long talk today about life and of the things we wanted to do together, while we still could. My grandma is very much like me. She enjoys the same things that I do. We both especially love nature and the little things that go on that most people don't notice and this poem reminded me of that.