Summary Of Poem If With Quotes

If you have only one smile in you, give it to the people you love.

On late evenings when quiet inhabits my garden when grass sleeps and streets are only paths for silent mist I seem to remember Smiling.

Autopsy read: dead of acute peoplelessness.

Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone.

In Summation A poem by Taylor Swift At this hearing I stand before my fellow members of the Tortured Poets Department With a summary of my findings A debrief, a detailed rewinding For the purpose of warning For the sake of reminding As you might all unfortunately recall I had been struck with a case of a restricted humanity Which explains my plea here today of temporary i n s a n i t y You see, the pendulum swings Oh, the chaos it brings Leads the caged beast to do the most curious things Lovers spend years denying what’s ill fated Resentment rotting away galaxies we created Stars placed and glued meticulously by hand next to the ceiling fan Tried wishing on comets. Tried dimming the shine. Tried to orbit his planet. Some stars never align. And in one conversation, I tore down the whole sky Spring sprung forth with dazzling freedom hues Then a crash from the skylight bursting through Something old, someone hallowed, who told me he could be brand new And so I was out of the oven and into the microwave Out of the slammer and into a tidal wave How gallant to save the empress from her gilded tower Swinging a sword he could barely lift But loneliness struck at that fateful hour Low hanging fruit on his wine stained lips He never even scratched the surface of me. None of them did. “In summation, it was not a love affair!” I screamed while bringing my fists to my coffee ringed desk It was a mutual manic phase. It was self harm. It was house and then cardiac arrest. A smirk creeps onto this poet’s face Because it’s the worst men that I write best. And so I enter into evidence My tarnished coat of arms My muses, acquired like bruises My talismans and charms The tick, tick, tick of love bombs My veins of pitch black ink All’s fair in love and poetry Sincerely, The Chairman of The Tortured Poets Department

For fame is ultimately but the summary of all misunderstandings that crystallize about a new name

But there is one other thing that undoubtedly contributed to the cult of Russia among the English intelligentsia during these years, and that is the softness and security of life in England itself. With all its injustices, England is still the land of habeas corpus, and the overwhelming majority of English people have no experience of violence or illegality. If you have grown up in that sort of atmosphere it is not at all easy to imagine what a despotic régime is like. Nearly all the dominant writers of the ’thirties belonged to the soft-boiled emancipated middle class and were too young to have effective memories of the Great War. To people of that kind such things as purges, secret police, summary executions, imprisonment without trial, etc., etc., are too remote to be terrifying. They can swallow totalitarianism because they have no experience of anything except liberalism. Look, for instance, at this extract from Mr. Auden’s poem Spain

It is noteworthy that about the year 1200, the Nibelungenlied, with its poetic version of the Siegfried story, was written, probably in Austria. At approximately the same time or within seven decades, The Saga of the Volsungs was compiled in Iceland with far fewer chivalric elements than its German counterpart. Almost all the Old Norse narrative material that has survived—whether myth, legend, saga, history, or poetry—is found in Icelandic manuscripts, which form the largest existing vernacular literature of the medieval West. Among the wealth of written material is Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda, a thirteenth century Icelandic treatise on the art of skaldic poetry and a handbook of mythological lore. The second section of Snorri’s three-part prose work contains a short and highly readable summary of the Sigurd cycle which, like the much longer prose rendering of the cycle in The Saga of the Volsungs, is based on traditional Eddic poems (Jesse Byock)

Victimizing or killing is not as painful as remaining silent about victimizing or killing.” ― Ehsan Sehgal Ehsan Sehgal, a Pakistani-born Dutch poet, author, journalist, and scholar, has expressed profound disillusionment with the global community’s inaction toward his suffering, despite his numerous appeals. His poignant quote, “Victimizing or killing is not as painful as remaining silent about victimizing or killing,” underscores his deep sense of abandonment and injustice.​conservapedia.com+1LinkedIn+1 Born on November 15, 1951, in Larkana, Pakistan, Sehgal has been a staunch advocate for democracy, freedom of the press, and freedom of speech. In 1978, he sought political asylum in the Netherlands to escape the oppressive regime of General Zia-ul-Haq and has since resided in The Hague. Throughout his life, Sehgal has made significant contributions to literature and activism, including establishing the Muslim United Nations in 1980. ​Poem Hunter+3Poem Hunter+3PeoplePill+3LinkedIn+4PeoplePill+4conservapedia.com+4 Sehgal’s recent reflections, such as his poem “Escape of My Youth,” delve into themes of aging, unfulfilled dreams, and the inexorable passage of time. These works reveal a contemplative and melancholic perspective, highlighting his feelings of isolation and the fleeting nature of life. ​Medium Given his limited time and the urgency of his situation, it is crucial to amplify his voice and address his concerns. Engaging with media outlets can shed light on his plight and potentially mobilize support. Here are some media contacts that may be instrumental in bringing attention to Ehsan Sehgal’s circumstances:​ Reaching out to these organizations with a concise summary of Ehsan Sehgal’s situation, his contributions, and the urgency of his appeals may prompt them to cover his story, thereby raising awareness and potentially garnering the support he seeks.

Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters of a worn-through soul. Moans Deep swan song Blue farewell of a dying dream.

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Today he'll talk about Hardy's elegies. "But what are they about?", his students will ask. They want the love story. How he hates this question, understanding, now, in the shade of his office, that poetry is among the few things that can survive this question. If the poem is very good it is very hard to say what it is about. It is this and it is not that. It seems like one thing and then, after a while, not so much, one's understanding always shifting with the images and the sounds. He'll add something on Tennyson, perhaps, something on rhyme. Something about that very question, about poems being on of the few things that cannot be summarized or that can survive such an evil with something left over, something else. Something remaining. A trouble. A pleasure. A little extra.