The 2 am poem is a unique and evocative piece of literature that captures the feeling of being awake in the dead of night, when the world is at its quietest and most still. It is a time when the busyness of the day has come to a halt, and the only sounds that can be heard are the gentle hum of appliances and the occasional car passing by on the street.
At 2 am, the mind is often at its most alert and clear. It is a time when the distractions of the day have fallen away, and the only thing left to do is think and reflect. For some, 2 am may be a time of intense introspection, as they consider the events and choices of their lives and what the future might hold. For others, it may be a time of creative inspiration, as they let their thoughts roam free and let their ideas flow onto the page.
The 2 am poem captures this feeling of quiet contemplation and the sense of solitude that comes with being awake at such a late hour. It may describe the feeling of being lost in thought, staring out the window at the dark sky and wondering about the mysteries of the universe. It may also explore themes of loneliness, as the speaker reflects on the fact that they are awake while everyone else is fast asleep.
However, the 2 am poem is not just about solitude and introspection. It can also be a celebration of the unique beauty that can be found in the stillness of the night. The poem may describe the peaceful feeling of being awake while the rest of the world sleeps, or it may explore the sense of calm that comes from being able to simply sit and think without any distractions.
Overall, the 2 am poem is a powerful and evocative piece of literature that captures the unique feeling of being awake in the dead of night. It is a time of solitude and contemplation, but it can also be a time of inspiration and beauty. Whether it is a time of introspection or creativity, the 2 am poem captures the essence of this special and timeless hour.
A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. by Amy Lowell
Very cool poem and very metaphorical! I know the moon, And this is an alien city. Oh my, that comment was way too deep! My punctuation, or lack there of, probably wouldn't make them feel any better. I pretend to have magic. He had wanted to live in New York and write for The New Yorker his entire life, but after a couple of years there he discovered that he didn't like the competitiveness of the literary scene, so he moved with his family to Ipswich, a small town in Massachusetts. In spite of it all, what three things are making you smile this winter? Unfortunately, despite what the groundhog says, we know we still have several more weeks of winter to endure. A model response to a poem which has been used by AQA as a GCSE unseen.
None of them were aware of anything unusual on the surface, until the electricity went out. Updike's first big success was the novel Rabbit, Run 1960 , which tells the story of a man named Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck. I choose to be free. I worry about getting old. Since his words enter into another's brain in silence and intimacy, he should be as honest and explicit as we are with ourselves.
Okay, my long comment is over, I'll shut up now! In conversation vocalising the deep within What can I say, 2am there is no filter Here. Oh dear, I fear the loss. Here are my three: 1. I LOVED this Poem so much because I feel the EXACT same way. She vanishes somewhere in the mist, And I couldn't even say my last goodbye.
I am from love and art From my father and mother I'm from chaos and laughter And from caring too deeply. I have found many things to be grateful for: 1 Making snow angels in fresh deep snow 2 Discovering tracks of various animals in the snow we tracked a bobcat last weekend 3 Sliding down a snowy hill with a boogy board + new xcountry skis with favorite smartwool socks too Clearly a snow theme here, probably because I am watching the new snowfall outside. Then they climbed out of the mines through a shaft, and when they reached the surface, the men found their homes heavily damaged or totally destroyed, many of their family members missing. Writing is my way of making other chances. I think too much and terrify myself.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. Humanity is not really apparent. This speaker rejects that image of life and, sadly, rejects the modern urban landscape A London Thoroughfare. I understand the vastness of the universe. Writing is not only useless, it's spoiled paper. The smile in your words In comparison everything so small. Best of all when Covid passes : Sitting on a warm, sunny beach in the middle of February, reading about blizzards back home.
If you are looking for a poetry style with more of a standard structure, try writing a. Our ego ruins everything, I overthink. The tornado followed the path of a slight ridge, home to several small mining towns. Dive into some fun examples of I am poems and learn to create I am poems of your own using a template. This almost oxymoronic phrase suggests a city which might be attractive, but whose coldness suggests unfriendliness and rejection. That was followed by his first novel, The Poorhouse Fair 1959 , about a fair held by the elderly residents of a poorhouse.
You can't stop it. . I say things that I shouldn't. Life scares me and sometimes I forget to live. I'm a nineteen year old college student. Unlike Where I Am From I am from the kitchen From knives and forks I am from the mirror Smooth but beautiful I am from the roses The pine trees near my home Whose long-gone limbs I remember As if they were my own. Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Whether you use a template or use your imagination to create something wholly original, I am poems provide a unique way to express yourself. I looked up to the sky, so that I could say my last goodbye but she kept fly and fly. We all do it. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly. In spite of the fact that it's twenty below and winter has gone on for five long months, in spite of being starved, starved almost to death for greenness and warmth, flowers and birds, in spite of the deadness of endless classrooms, shopping centres, television shows, in spite of the pains in the gut, the migraines, the wakings, the palpitations, in spite of a guilty knowledge of laziness, of failure to meet some obligations, in spite of all these things, and more, I have to report that the moon tonight is filling the house with a wild blueness, my children grow, excel, are healthy, my wife is gentle, there are friends, and once in a while a poem will come.
I am sweet and cute. I see dancing unicorns. Sitting by the warm fireplace with a good book or listening to classical music or both! And, well, I'm pretty boring. Summer bursts inside me. In this rendition, you use items from your home and family that tell a story about who you are.
Quote by L.S: “2:36 am 2 am is for the poets who can’t sl...”
The city, a manmade construct, has rendered nature impotent. BY They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. I told you I won't listen to what they say. Cabs go down it, One, And then another. The hum of a neon sign, Emitting light so tranquil Purple Luminescence on your face.
