After the flood poem. After The Flood poem 2023-01-01
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After the Flood is a poem that reflects on the aftermath of a natural disaster and the emotions that come with it. The poem captures the feelings of devastation, loss, and hopelessness that often follow a flood. It also touches on the resilience and determination of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
The poem begins with a description of the destruction caused by the flood. The speaker describes the broken homes, the overturned cars, and the debris that litters the streets. There is a sense of despair in the speaker's voice as they try to come to terms with the magnitude of the disaster.
As the poem progresses, the speaker reflects on the emotions that have come in the wake of the flood. There is a feeling of loss and grief as the speaker remembers the people and things that have been lost in the disaster. There is also a sense of fear and uncertainty as the speaker wonders what the future will bring and how they will be able to rebuild their lives.
Despite these negative emotions, the speaker also finds hope and resilience in the aftermath of the flood. They speak of the community coming together to help each other and to rebuild their homes and lives. There is a sense of determination in the speaker's words as they vow to rebuild and move forward, despite the challenges that lie ahead.
Overall, After the Flood is a poignant and powerful poem that captures the range of emotions that come after a natural disaster. It speaks to the resilience and determination of the human spirit, even in the face of great adversity.
After The Flood by Arthur Rimbaud
. What was the good of it all? Here, in this bend of the creek, in the rushes and long lush grasses, Wild white violets nestle, and musk in the water- weeds; Here there is stillness, and shelter — for the wandering wind as it passes Is caught by the tall green flax, and dies in the raupo and reeds. Robert Addison I love listening to classical Jazz, or some great Puccini arias, while writing poetry. O how we adapted to its dark currents, to its India-ink infinities, chasing seaweed, driftwood and coral, before belly-flopping onto dry ground. They are the same. This is the place where we found him — here, with his face to the skies, Cast by the furious flood like a broken straw on the bank ; Here at the pitiless sun he stared with unseeing eyes — Neither despairing nor pleading, but horribly, hopelessly blank.
Writing a poem is discovering. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Some very small grammatical errors that can be edited later, perhaps. As soon as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flowerbells, and said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider's web. . A door banged; and in the village square the little boy waved his arms, understood by weather vanes and cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower. A day has gone by, yet I'm stunned by disbelief.
. Blood and milk flowed. Gush, pond,— Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;— black palls and organs, lightening and thunder, rise and roll;— waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. . And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night.
Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Everything is gone, including rodents and things with wings. The sea was once our prehistoric home. Gentle or simple — what matter? Left my baby back in Algiers With strict instructions to stay at home Yeh! Blood flowed at Blue Beard's,-- through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God's seal.
Gush, pond,-- Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;-- black palls and organs, lightening and thunder, rise and roll;-- waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. I said I gotta leave you, little darlin' There are storm clouds on their way I said I gotta leave you, little darlin' There are storm clouds on their way The sun may shine tomorrow But I wouldn't hold your breath today. Once sea-bound creatures now drown at home, ill-adapted to meet the flood's malevolent intent: to purge the Earth of all who cannot resist the rushing, rising mountains of waters, before proclaiming its final conquest of our ancient lands. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints. Thank you for your poem.
Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. The torrent brought on a parade of kayaks where gardens stood, racing to the spillway where the 'Swati' meets the Susquehanna; spinning six sided picnic tables, fences; everything made of wood. She rushed by to claim her next victims; down stream on higher ground. Yet the shepherd Jim and I had looked on the face of the dead, — Looked on the dogged jaw, and forehead solid and square : There was will in the resolute mouth, and brain in the massive head — Drowned like a rat in the creek, and that power and intellect there! Exhausted now; we embrace each other; tightly, never making a sound. We buried him here where we found him, for the parson was miles away, While the wild wind rustled the flax-blades, and gorse-blossoms scented the air ; Here, with the drooping wild-flowers, that glorious sweet spring day, We left the nameless swagger, with never a dirge nor prayer. And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night.
After The Flood · Poem by Arthur Rimbaud on blog.sigma-systems.com
Blood flowed at Blue Beard's,-- through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God's seal. Your poem is significant in the seeming rapidity with which the sea surface may be rising as it has often ages hitherto. In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures. We in the homestead watched, after that weary night, Waited and watched through the day while the water rose to the door ; Watched, while the children shouted, and welcomed the flood with delight — Sailed their paper-boats, and paddled about on the floor. And here we stood in silence, the shepherd Jim and I — Stood, and stared at the stillness in the staring face of the dead ; And Jim knelt down in the rushes, and closed the expressionless eye. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints.
Now, only divine, omnipotent infinities circle the mud-brown rapids of sludge that choke all who helplessly cross their path. Did it fare with him better or worse, Rolled like a log down the creek, choked by the fierce yellow wave, Flung in the ooze on the bank, caught in a snag of the gorse, Laid by ungentle hands away in a nameless grave? For since they have been dissipated-- oh! Well there are storm clouds on the horizon An' the rain's about to fall Said there are storm clouds on the horizon An' the wind's about to squall The phone lines are down all over Seems like there's no one home to call. And somewhere, out in the distance, was there a mother or wife Waiting, and watching, and praying, as only women can pray ;— Waiting, and watching, and praying in vain for a wasted life, For that unknown tramp who perished — how many miles away? This is the place where he lay with his wan, white face to the skies, Caught here against a gorse-stump amongst the reeds on the bank ; Here to the pitiless sun he stared with unseeing eyes, Neither despairing nor pleading, but horribly, hopelessly blank. Music and poetry flow together like ice melting on a hot tin roof. For since they have been dissipated-- oh! Welcome to my 'New Look,' for a Happy New Year, everyone! Now, only prayer will be our home, built on deepest despair. Formerly poetme86 'I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew.
In the face of the pitiful present, what were the things of the past? We've survived the flood, the loss, the mud. I am forced to go on, hoping to get relief from this jam. Now, the sea threatens our ancestral grounds, the sea that falls from the angry skies with their charcoal-smudged infinities. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Ay, you may weep and pray, you women, and weep again, Weep for the wasted talent, weep for the useless life! And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night. A swelling flood, chasing red alert, destroying houses and lives, raining grief.
Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. May Death prove an easier matter to all of us, strong or weak. Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Swatara stole in the night, this singleminded thug; the memory clings. What was the use of it all? You unmercifully disturb my much needed rest.
