Old man old man poem. The Old Man by Abbie Mann 2022-12-27
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The poem "Old Man" by Sylvia Plath is a complex and poignant meditation on the passage of time and the impact of aging on the human experience. Plath uses the metaphor of the old man to explore the way in which the body and mind deteriorate as we grow older, and the ways in which we try to hold on to our youth and vitality even as we are faced with the reality of our own mortality.
The poem begins with a vivid and unsettling image of the old man, described as a "frosty silence" and a "stony face." This image conveys the sense of isolation and detachment that often accompanies old age, as well as the sense of estrangement from the world that can result from the loss of physical and mental abilities.
As the poem progresses, Plath delves deeper into the theme of aging and its effects on the human psyche. She speaks of the old man's "wrinkled hands," which suggest the physical decline and frailty that often come with old age. She also mentions the old man's "vacant eyes," which suggest a sense of disconnection and loss of vitality.
Despite these bleak descriptions, Plath does not paint a completely negative portrait of the old man. She also speaks of his "gentle mouth" and "kindness," which suggest that even in old age, there is still a sense of compassion and humanity that persists.
Ultimately, "Old Man" is a poignant and thought-provoking meditation on the passage of time and the ways in which we try to hold on to our youth and vitality even as we age and our bodies and minds begin to deteriorate. Through vivid and evocative language, Plath captures the complexity and depth of the human experience as we navigate the challenges and changes that come with old age.
The Old Man by Abbie Mann
Kepler poet, fiction writer and playwright. Now television has no power to arouse Your surliness; your wife could replace on the walls Those pictures of disinherited children, And you wouldn't know. The old man sat in the rocking chair With empty hands, his feet were bare. He was always A man who did-it-himself. The speaker turns from his consideration of a young girl, who is likely his daughter, to himself.
I have mislaid the key. He no longer believes it's attainable, either; he observes that an "invisible, compulsive force" seems to pull him back farther from it each day. Because souls are like butterflies, Crawling the earth with people, Only to eventually fly up to the sky, Perfectly free and magically bright. Now his hands shamble among clues He left for himself when he saw better, And small things distress: I've lost the hammer. He looked inside, just memories there, And so he'd lived his life. When he stops to smell the plant, it transports him.
. Or at least a guardian who is looking after her. Even to one that knows it well, the names Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: At least, what that is clings not to the names In spite of time. So he looked back, long years and short Examined things he didn't ought The chances dropped, the chances caught And how he'd lived his life. And yet I find a sly Little twinkle in your eye; And your whisperingly shy Little laugh is simply an Internal shout of glee That betrays the fallacy You'd perpetrate on me, Old Man! As for myself, Where first I met the bitter scent is lost. It suggests a very specific type of emotional turmoil.
In the middle of this stanza, the speaker brings in another contradiction regarding his feelings about the plant. And yet I like the names. The poem deals with the changing relationship of a man and his daughter. Despite many attempts to remember, his attachment to the plant is not defined by any specific image such as that of a father, garden, doorway, or friend. The bush is still But half as tall as she, though it is as old; So well she clips it. Now you ramble In your talk around London districts, fretting At how to find your way from Holborn to Soho, And where is Drury Lane? The herb itself I like not, but for certain I love it, as some day the child will love it Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush Whenever she goes in or out of the house. Twisted forces tempt to abuse having doubts, deny and confuse - truths used as toys, science as tools.
I wonder where his thoughts are traveling now And which soul in heaven do they touch? Though still primitive and childlike, it finds first tracks on which to strike. I love Your helplessness, you who hate being helpless. As he became old and increasingly helpless his daughter has to deal with her mixed feelings — resentment and desire to help him negotiate the world — and accept the contradiction of her love for him now he is helpless. The poem's speaker the "Old Man" of the title compares life at age sixty to life at age six. Few children dare to stare away while others sit and play all day. The Bridge Builder by Will Allen Dromgoole Poetry Foundation agenda angle-down angle-left angleRight arrow-down arrowRight bars calendar caret-down cart children highlight learningResources list mapMarker openBook p1 pin poetry-magazine print quoteLeft quoteRight slideshow tagAudio tagVideo teens trash-o.
When, haply, you have fared Where glad Aladdin shared His lamp with you, and dared The Afrite and his clan; And, with him, clambered through The trees where jewels grew — And filled your pockets, too, Old Man? Babies do grow and take the veil; when they learn, science shall prevail. Even to one that knows it well, the names Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: At least, what that is clings not to the names In spite of time. He feels lost in his pursuit of memory and alludes to the emotional turmoil this fact causes him. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem. This includes a discussion of life, death, childhood, home, and memory.
There is no rhyme scheme. The speaker expands on his feelings about the plant in the second stanza. Bright babies will topple toy towers as Mom picks pieces up and glowers. And review them, if you can And the same warm tears will fall — Only faster, that is all — Over Little Nell and Paul, Old Man! The speaker describes mislaying the key to his memories in the final fourth stanza. Why, the fleetest boy in town, As he bared his feet and ran, Could read with half a glance — And of keen rebuke, perchance — Your secret countenance, Old Man! In your reposeful gaze The dusk of Autumn days Is blent with April haze, As when of old began The bursting of the bud Of rosy babyhood — When all the world was good, Old Man.
All of this must be passing through the old man's thoughts While he looks at the turquoise butterfly In such a childish and lively manner. But, he hears nothing and sees nothing. Hasn't age a truant day, Just as that you went astray In the wayward, restless way, When, brown with dust and tan, Your roguish face essayed, In solemn masquerade, To hide the smile it made, Old Man? Structure The poem begins with regular three line stanzas or triplets. Everything on him is dead, Apart from that childish gaze, Which makes his old man's thoughts so young And so full of hope That his soul might soon enough fly up Like his dear butterfly; How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind; Yes, Lord, how many wishes and hopes are passing My old father's mind now. Oh, you were a lucky lad — Just as good as you were bad! So the rest can be played for fools. Often she waits there, snipping the tips andshrivelling The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs Her fingers and runs off.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs Her fingers and runs off. I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds, Sniff them and think and sniff again and try Once more to think what it is I am remembering, Always in vain. Perhaps this is the reason why The old man's sad face looks up Instead of down, Why the sparkle of life still glows In his tired eyes. So just put up the frown That your brows are pulling down! I sniff the spray And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing; Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait For what I should, yet never can, remember: No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside, Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate; Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end. I cannot like the scent, Yet I would rather give up others more sweet, With no meaning, than this bitter one. It seems that the old man feels it, And he raises his tired eyes whenever he hears The harmonious sound of the butterfly's turquoise wings, And death, Like a dark lady, Respectfully waits for its turn, As if it took pity on the old man's boyish gaze; How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind While he helplessly sits And waits for death? When I left, you tried not to cry. He no longer has access to the images he wants to remember from his youth.
His skill in DIY was in contrast to his coldness as a father. Not a word she says; And I can only wonder how much hereafter She will remember, with that bitter scent, Of garden rows, and ancient damson-trees Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door, A low thick bush beside the door, and me Forbidding her to pick. He lives in a world of small recalcitrant Things in bottles, with tacky labels. He looked at battles, lost or won The gains or losses, every one And what he had or hadn't done Now he had lived his life. I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds, Sniff them and think and sniff again and try Once more to think what it is I am remembering, Always in vain. .
