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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Parrot by Stevie Smith the poet is Stevie Smith",
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"text": "The old sick green parrot\nHigh in a dingy cage\nSick with malevolent rage\nBeadily glutted his furious eye\nOn the old dark\nChimneys of Noel Park\nFar from his jungle green\nOver the seas he came\nTo the yellow skies, to the dripping rain,\nTo the night of his despair.\nAnd the pavements of his street\nAre shining beneath the lamp\nWith a beauty that’s not for one\nBorn under a tropic sun.\nHe has croup. His feathered chest\nKnows no minute of rest.\nHigh on his perch he sits\nAnd coughs and spits,\nWaiting for death to come.\nPray heaven it won’t be long.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Dust of Snow by Robert Frost the poet is Robert Frost",
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"text": "The way a crow\nShook down on me\nThe dust of snow\nFrom a hemlock tree\n\nHas given my heart\nA change of mood\nAnd saved some part\nOf a day I had rued.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Crocus by Alfred Kreymborg the poet is Alfred Kreymborg",
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"text": "When trees have lost remembrance of the leaves\nthat spring bequeaths to summer, autumn weaves\nand loosens mournfully—this dirge, to whom\ndoes it belong—who treads the hidden loom?\n\nWhen peaks are overwhelmed with snow and ice,\nand clouds with crepe bedeck and shroud the skies—\nnor any sun or moon or star, it seems,\ncan wedge a path of light through such black dreams—\n\nAll motion cold, and dead all traces thereof:\nWhat sudden shock below, or spark above,\nstarts torrents raging down till rivers surge—\nthat aid the first small crocus to emerge?\n\nThe earth will turn and spin and fairly soar,\nthat couldn't move a tortoise-foot before—\nand planets permeate the atmosphere\ntill misery depart and mystery clear!—\n\nAnd yet, so insignificant a hearse?—\nwho gave it the endurance so to brave\nsuch elements?—shove winter down a grave?—\nand then lead on again the universe?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Lonely Hearts by Wendy Cope the poet is Wendy Cope",
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"text": "Can someone make my simple wish come true?\nMale biker seeks female for touring fun.\nDo you live in North London? Is it you?\nGay vegetarian whose friends are few,\nI'm into music, Shakespeare and the sun.\nCan someone make my simple wish come true?\nExecutive in search of something new—\nPerhaps bisexual woman, arty, young.\nDo you live in North London? Is it you?\nSuccessful, straight and solvent? I am too—\nAttractive Jewish lady with a son.\nCan someone make my simple wish come true?\nI'm Libran, inexperienced and blue—\nNeed slim, non-smoker, under twenty-one.\nDo you live in North London? Is it you?\nPlease write (with photo) to Box 152.\nWho knows where it may lead once we've begun?\nCan someone make my simple wish come true?\nDo you live in North London? Is it you?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Northern Pike by James Wright the poet is James Wright",
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"text": "All right. Try this,\nThen. Every body\nI know and care for,\nAnd every body\nElse is going\nTo die in a loneliness\nI can't imagine and a pain\nI don't know. We had\nTo go on living. We\nUntangled the net, we slit\nThe body of this fish\nOpen from the hinge of the tail\nTo a place beneath the chin\nI wish I could sing of.\nI would just as soon we let\nThe living go on living.\nAn old poet whom we believe in\nSaid the same thing, and so\nWe paused among the dark cattails and prayed\nFor the muskrats,\nFor the ripples below their tails,\nFor the little movements that we knew the crawdads were making\n\nunder water,\nFor the right-hand wrist of my cousin who is a policeman.\nWe prayed for the game warden's blindness.\nWe prayed for the road home.\nWe ate the fish.\nThere must be something very beautiful in my body,\nI am so happy.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Babies by Alice Fulton the poet is Alice Fulton",
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"text": "born gorgeous with nerves, with brains\nthe pink of silver polish or\njellyfish wafting ornately\nthrough the body below.\nAn invertebrate cooing\non the mother\ntongue shushes and lulls them into thinking\nall is well. As they grow they learn\n\nsalvage: tear-out\nguides to happiness say apologies can outshine\nlies, guilt be lickspittled from their lives, bad\nglycerined to good. Like a child’s first school pencils\nin their formal brilliance\nand sharp new smells, they lie\n\nas lovers. Maybe one cries\nthe wrong name and the night skinning\nthem pleasantly alive\nleaps away in shards.\nThen it’s time for restitution:\na tin of homebaked,\nholding gingham safety, fetal\nas the light through mason jars of beets and brine,\nor jewelry, clasping and unclasping\naisles of fluorescence from great department stores,\na distracting plenitude, and tempting.\n\nStill, the beloved may stay bitter as an ear\nthe tongue pressed\ninto, unwanted.\nAnd the word end: spiney, finally-formed,\nindents them and is\nunderstood. They learn\n\nthe hard way as hurts\naccrue, and the brain is cratered as a rock\nby rain that fell ages past\non unprotected mud. An insult keeps\ndespite apologies. When it vaporizes at last,\nits space fills with grains that harden\nto a fossil shaped exactly\nlike the insult.\nThey grow up when they know that\n\nsometimes\nonly a gesture responsive as a heart-\nshaped parachute above a jump\na life depends on\nto be perfect\nthe first time will ever do",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Jaguar by Ted Hughes the poet is Ted Hughes",
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"text": "The apes yawn and adore their fleas in the sun.\nThe parrots shriek as if they were on fire, or strut\nLike cheap tarts to attract the stroller with the nut.\nFatigued with indolence, tiger and lion\n\nLie still as the sun. The boa-constrictor’s coil\nIs a fossil. Cage after cage seems empty, or\nStinks of sleepers from the breathing straw.\nIt might be painted on a nursery wall.\n\nBut who runs like the rest past these arrives\nAt a cage where the crowd stands, stares, mesmerized,\nAs a child at a dream, at a jaguar hurrying enraged\nThrough prison darkness after the drills of his eyes\nOn a short fierce fuse. Not in boredom—\nThe eye satisfied to be blind in fire,\nBy the bang of blood in the brain deaf the ear—\nHe spins from the bars, but there’s no cage to him\n\nMore than to the visionary his cell:\nHis stride is wildernesses of freedom:\nThe world rolls under the long thrust of his heel.\nOver the cage floor the horizons come.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Jumbo Jet by Spike Milligan the poet is Spike Milligan",
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"text": "I saw a little elephant standing in my garden,\nI said 'You don't belong in here', he said 'I beg your pardon?',\nI said 'This place is England, what are you doing here?',\nHe said 'Ah, then I must be lost' and then 'Oh dear, oh dear'.\n\n'I should be back in Africa, on Saranghetti's Plain',\n'Pray, where is the nearest station where I can catch a train?'.\nHe caught the bus to Finchley and then to Mincing lane,\nAnd over the Embankment, where he got lost, again.\n\nThe police they put him in a cell, but it was far too small,\nSo they tied him to a lampost and he slept against the wall.\nBut as the policemen lay sleeping by the twinkling light of dawn,\nThe lampost and the wall were there, but the elephant was gone!\n\nSo if you see an elephant, in a Jumbo Jet,\nYou can be sure that Africa's the place he's trying to get!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Spanish Needle by Claude McKay the poet is Claude McKay",
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"text": "Lovely dainty Spanish needle\nWith your yellow flower and white,\nDew bedecked and softly sleeping,\nDo you think of me to-night?\nShadowed by the spreading mango,\nNodding o'er the rippling stream,\nTell me, dear plant of my childhood,\nDo you of the exile dream?\nDo you see me by the brook's side\nCatching crayfish 'neath the stone,\nAs you did the day you whispered:\nLeave the harmless dears alone?\nDo you see me in the meadow\nComing from the woodland spring\nWith a bamboo on my shoulder\nAnd a pail slung from a string?\nDo you see me all expectant\nLying in an orange grove,\nWhile the swee-swees sing above me,\nWaiting for my elf-eyed love?\nLovely dainty Spanish needle,\nSource to me of sweet delight,\nIn your far-off sunny southland\nDo you dream of me to-night?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Pride by Jackie Kay the poet is Jackie Kay",
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"text": "When I looked up, the black man was there,\nstaring into my face,\nas if he had always been there,\nas if he and I went a long way back.\nHe looked into the dark pool of my eyes\nas the train slid out of Euston.\nFor a long time this went on\nthe stranger and I looking at each other,\na look that was like something being given\nfrom one to the other.\nMy whole childhood, l'm quite sure,\npassed before him, the worst things\nI've ever done, the biggest lies I've ever told.\nAnd he was a little boy on a red dust road.\nHe stared into the dark depth of me,\nand then he spoke:\n'lbo\n,' he said. 'lbo, definitely.'\nOur train rushed through the dark.\n'You are an Ibo!' he said, thumping the table.\nMy coffee jumped and spilled.\nSeveral sleeping people woke.\nThe night train boasted and whistled\nthrough the English countryside,\npast unwritten stops in the blackness.\n'That nose is an Ibo nose.\nThose teeth are Ibo teeth,' the stranger said,\nhis voice getting louder and louder.\nl had no doubt, from the way he said it,\nthat Ibo noses are the best noses in the world,\nthat lbo teeth are perfect pearls.\nPeople were walking down the trembling aisle\nto come and look\nas the night rain babbled against the window.\nThere was a moment when\nmy whole face changed into a map,\nand the stranger on the train\nlocated even, the name\nof my village in Nigeria\nin the lower part of my jaw.\nI told him what I'd heard was my father's name.\nOkafor. He told me what it meant,\nsomething stunning,\nsomething so apt and astonishing.\nTell me, I asked the black man on the train\nwho was himself transforming,\nat roughly the same speed as the train,\nand could have been\nat any stop, my brother, my father as a young man,\nor any member of my large clan,\nTell me about the lbos.\nHis face had a look\nI've seen on a MacLachlan, a MacDonell, a MacLeod,\nthe most startling thing, pride,\na quality of being certain.\n'Now that I know you are an Ibo, we will eat.'\nHe produced a spicy meat patty,\nripping it into two.\nTell me about the lbos.\n'The lbos are small in stature\nNot tall like the Yoruba or Hausa.\nThe lbos are clever, reliable,\ndependable, faithful, true.\nThe Ibos should be running Nigeria.\nThere would be none of this corruption.'\nAnd what, I asked, are the lbos faults?\nI smiled my newly acquired lbo smile,\nflashed my gleaming lbo teeth.\nThe train grabbed at a bend,\n'Faults? No faults. Not a single one.'\n'If you went back,' he said brightening,\n'The whole village would come out for you.\nMassive celebrations. Definitely.\nDefinitely,' he opened his arms wide.\n'The eldest grandchild- fantastic welcome.\nIf the grandparents are alive.'\nI saw myself arriving\nthe hot dust, the red road,\nthe trees heavy with other fruits,\nthe bright things, the flowers.\nI saw myself watching\nJackie Kay\nLucozade, The Shoes of Dead Comrades, Pride\nthe old people dance towards me\ndressed up for me in happy prints.\nAnd I found my feet.\nI started to dance.\nI danced a dance I never knew I knew.\nWords and sounds fell out of my mouth like seeds.\nI astonished myself.\nMy grandmother was like me exactly, only darker.\nWhen I looked up, the black man had gone.\nOnly my own face startled me in the dark train window.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Aunt Helen by T.S. Eliot the poet is T.S. Eliot",
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"text": "Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,\nAnd lived in a small house near a fashionable square\nCared for by servants to the number of four.\nNow when she died there was silence in heaven\nAnd silence at her end of the street.\nThe shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet—\nHe was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.\nThe dogs were handsomely provided for,\nBut shortly afterwards the parrot died too.\nThe Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,\nAnd the footman sat upon the dining-table\nHolding the second housemaid on his knees—\nWho had always been so careful while her mistress lived.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Art of Drowning by Billy Collins the poet is Billy Collins",
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"text": "I wonder how it all got started, this business\nabout seeing your life flash before your eyes\nwhile you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,\ncould startle time into such compression, crushing\ndecades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.\n\nAfter falling off a steamship or being swept away\nin a rush of floodwaters, wouldn't you hope\nfor a more leisurely review, an invisible hand\nturning the pages of an album of photographs-\nyou up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.\n\nHow about a short animated film, a slide presentation?\nYour life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?\nWouldn't any form be better than this sudden flash?\nYour whole existence going off in your face\nin an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-\nnothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.\n\nSurvivors would have us believe in a brilliance\nhere, some bolt of truth forking across the water,\nan ultimate Light before all the lights go out,\ndawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.\nBut if something does flash before your eyes\nas you go under, it will probably be a fish,\n\na quick blur of curved silver darting away,\nhaving nothing to do with your life or your death.\nThe tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all\nas you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,\nleaving behind what you have already forgotten,\nthe surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Christ of Everywhere by Henry Van Dyke the poet is Henry van Dyke",
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"text": "\"Christ of the Andes,\" Christ of Everywhere,\nGreat lover of the hills, the open air,\nAnd patient lover of impatient men\nWho blindly strive and sin and strive again, —\nThou Living Word, larger than any creed,\nThou Love Divine, uttered in human deed, —\nOh, teach the world, warring and wandering still,\nThy way of Peace, the foot path of Good Will!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Song For The Last Act by Louise Bogan the poet is Louise Bogan",
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"text": "Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook. Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease\nThe lead and marble figures watch the show Of yet another summer loath to go\nAlthough the scythes hang in the apple trees.\nNow that I have your face by heart, I look.\nNow that I have your voice by heart, I read In the black chords upon a dulling page Music that is not meant for music’s cage,\nWhose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed. The staves are shuttled over with a stark Unprinted silence. In a double dream I must spell out the storm, the running stream. The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.\nNow that I have your voice by heart, I read.\nNow that I have your heart by heart, I see\nThe wharves with their great ships and architraves; The rigging and the cargo and the slaves\nOn a strange beach under a broken sky.\nO not departure, but a voyage done!\nThe bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps\nIts red rust downward, and the long vine creeps Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.\nNow that I have your heart by heart, I see.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Traveling through the Dark by William Stafford the poet is William Stafford",
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"text": "Traveling through the dark I found a deer\ndead on the edge of the Wilson River road.\nIt is usually best to roll them into the canyon:\nthat road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.\nBy glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing; she had stiffened already, almost cold.\nI dragged her off; she was large in the belly.\nMy fingers touching her side brought me the reason—\nher side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting, alive, still, never to be born.\nBeside that mountain road I hesitated.\nThe car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine.\nI stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.\nI thought hard for us all—my only swerving—, then pushed her over the edge into the river.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Swing by Robert Louis Stevenson the poet is Robert Louis Stevenson",
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"text": "How do you like to go up in a swing,\nUp in the air so blue?\nOh, I do think it the pleasantest thing\nEver a child can do!\nUp in the air and over the wall,\nTill I can see so wide,\nRivers and trees and cattle and all\nOver the countryside—\nTill I look down on the garden green,\nDown on the roof so brown—\nUp in the air I go flying again,\nUp in the air and down!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is London Bridge is Falling Down the poet is A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes",
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"text": "London Bridge is falling down,\nFalling down, falling down,\nLondon Bridge is falling down,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nBuild it up with wood and clay,\nWood and clay, wood and clay,\nBuild it up with wood and clay,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nWood and clay will wash away,\nWash away, wash away,\nWood and clay will wash away,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nBuild it up with bricks and mortar,\nBricks and mortar, bricks and mortar,\nBuild it up with bricks and mortar,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nBricks and mortar will not stay,\nWill not stay, will not stay,\nBricks and mortar will not stay,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nBuild it up with iron and steel,\nIron and steel, iron and steel,\nBuild it up with iron and steel,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nIron and steel will bend and bow,\nBend and bow, bend and bow,\nIron and steel will bend and bow,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nBuild it up with silver and gold,\nSilver and gold, silver and gold,\nBuild it up with silver and gold,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nSilver and gold will be stolen away,\nStolen away, stolen away,\nSilver and gold will be stolen away,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nSet a man to watch all nigh,\nWatch all night, watch all night,\nSet a man to watch all night,\nMy fair Lady.\n\nSuppose the man should fall asleep,\nFall asleep, fall asleep,\nSuppose the man should fall asleep?\nMy fair Lady.\n\nGive him a pipe to smoke all night,\nSmoke all night, smoke all night,\nGive him a pipe to smoke all night,\nMy fair Lady.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Winter in the Boulevard by D.H. Lawrence the poet is D.H. Lawrence",
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"text": "THE frost has settled down upon the trees\nAnd ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies\nOf leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old\nRomantic stories now no more to be told.\nThe trees down the boulevard stand naked in\nthought,\nTheir abundant summery wordage silenced, caught\nIn the grim undertow; naked the trees confront\nImplacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt.\nHas some hand balanced more leaves in the depths\nof the twigs?\nSome dim little efforts placed in the threads of the\nbirch?—\nIt is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on\nthe sprigs,\nSitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with\ntheir perch.\nThe clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.\nLike vivid thought the air spins bright, and all\nTrees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought\nAwaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Innocence by Patrick Kavanagh the poet is Patrick Kavanagh",
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"text": "They laughed at one I loved-\nThe triangular hill that hung\nUnder the Big Forth. They said\nThat I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges\nOf the little farm and did not know the world.\nBut I knew that love's doorway to life\nIs the same doorway everywhere.\nAshamed of what I loved\nI flung her from me and called her a ditch\nAlthough she was smiling at me with violets.\n\nBut now I am back in her briary arms\nThe dew of an Indian Summer lies\nOn bleached potato-stalks\nWhat age am I?\n\nI do not know what age I am,\nI am no mortal age;\nI know nothing of women,\nNothing of cities,\nI cannot die\nUnless I walk outside these whitethorn hedge",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness by John Donne the poet is John Donne",
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"text": "Since I am coming to that holy room,\nWhere, with thy choir of saints for evermore,\nI shall be made thy music; as I come\nI tune the instrument here at the door,\nAnd what I must do then, think here before.\nWhilst my physicians by their love are grown\nCosmographers, and I their map, who lie\nFlat on this bed, that by them may be shown\nThat this is my south-west discovery,\nPer fretum febris, by these straits to die,\nI joy, that in these straits I see my west;\nFor, though their currents yield return to none,\nWhat shall my west hurt me? As west and east\nIn all flat maps (and I am one) are one,\nSo death doth touch the resurrection.\nIs the Pacific Sea my home? Or are\nThe eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?\nAnyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,\nAll straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,\nWhether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.\nWe think that Paradise and Calvary,\nChrist's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;\nLook, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;\nAs the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,\nMay the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.\nSo, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;\nBy these his thorns, give me his other crown;\nAnd as to others' souls I preach'd thy word,\nBe this my text, my sermon to mine own:\n\"Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down.\"",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Fear by Eva Picková the poet is Eva Picková",
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"text": "Today the ghetto knows a different fear,\nClose in it grip, death weilds an icy scythe.\nAn sickeness spreads a terror in its wake,\nThe victims of its shadow weep and writhe.\n\nToday fathers heartbeat tell his fright.\nAnd Mother's bend their heads into their hands,\nNow children choke and die with typhus here,\nA bitter tax is taken ftom their hands.\n\nMy heart still beats inside my breast\nWhile friends depart for other worlds.\nPerhaps its better-who can say?\nThan watching this, to die today?\n\nNo,No, my God we want to live.\nNot watch our numbers melt away.\nWe want to have a better world,\nWe want to work-we must not die!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is To A Louse by Robert Burns the poet is Robert Burns",
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"text": "Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!\nYour impudence protects you sairly:\nI canna say but ye strunt rarely,\nOwre gawze and lace;\nTho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,\nOn sic a place.\n\nYe ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,\nDetested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,\nHow daur ye set your fit upon her,\nSae fine a Lady!\nGae somewhere else and seek your dinner,\nOn some poor body.\n\nSwith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;\nThere ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,\nWi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,\nIn shoals and nations;\nWhare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,\nYour thick plantations.\n\nNow haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,\nBelow the fatt’rels, snug and tight,\nNa faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,\nTill ye’ve got on it,\nThe vera topmost, towrin height\nO’ Miss’s bonnet.\n\nMy sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,\nAs plump an’ gray as onie grozet:\nO for some rank, mercurial rozet,\nOr fell, red smeddum,\nI’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,\nWad dress your droddum!\n\nI wad na been surpriz’d to spy\nYou on an auld wife’s flainen toy;\nOr aiblins some bit duddie boy,\nOn ’s wylecoat;\nBut Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!\nHow daur ye do ’t?\n\nO Jenny dinna toss your head,\nAn’ set your beauties a’ abread!\nYe little ken what cursed speed\nThe blastie’s makin!\nThae winks and finger-ends, I dread,\nAre notice takin!\n\nO wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us\nTo see oursels as others see us!\nIt wad frae monie a blunder free us\nAn’ foolish notion:\nWhat airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,\nAnd ev’n Devotion!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Panther by Ogden Nash the poet is Ogden Nash",
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"text": "The panther is like a leopard,\nExcept it hasn't been peppered.\nShould you behold a panther crouch,\nPrepare to say Ouch.\nBetter yet, if called by a panther,\nDon't anther.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Sing a Song of Sixpence by Mother Goose the poet is A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes",
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"text": "Sing a song of sixpence,\nA pocket full of rye,\nFour and twenty blackbirds\nBaked in a pie.\n\nWhen the pie was opened\nThe birds began to sing—\nWasn't that a dainty dish\nTo set before the king?\n\nThe king was in the counting-house\nCounting out his money,\nThe queen was in the parlor\nEating bread and honey,\n\nThe maid was in the garden\nHanging out the clothes.\nAlong came a blackbird\nAnd snipped off her nose.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes by Lawrence Ferlinghetti the poet is Lawrence Ferlinghetti ",
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"text": "At the stoplight waiting for the light\nnine a.m. downtown San Francisco\na bright yellow garbage truck\nwith two garbagemen in red plastic blazers\nstanding on the back stoop\none on each side hanging on\nand looking down into\nan elegant open Mercedes\nwith an elegant couple in it\nThe man\nin a hip three-piece linen suit\nwith shoulder-length blond hair and sunglassed\nThe young blond woman so casually coifed\nwith short skirt and coloured stockings\non the way to his architect's office\n\nAnd the two scavengers up since four a.m.\ngrungy from their route\non the way home\nThe older of the two with grey iron hair\nand hunched back\nlooking down like some\ngargoyle Quasimodo\nAnd the younger of the two\nalso with sunglasses and long hair\nabout the same age as the Mercedes driver\n\nAnd both scavengers gazing down\nas from a great distance\nat the cool couple\nas if they were watching some odourless TV ad\nin which everything is always possible\n\nAnd the very red light for an instant\nholding all four close together\nas if anything at all were possible\nbetween them\nacross that small gulf\nin the high sea\nof this democracy.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Omens by Cecilia Llompart the poet is Cecilia Llompart",
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"text": "The dead bird, color of a bruise,\nand smaller than an eye\nswollen shut,\nis king among omens.\nWho can blame the ants for feasting?\nLet him cast the first crumb.\n~\nWe once tended the oracles.\nNow we rely on a photograph\na fingerprint\na hand we never saw\ncoming.\n~\nA man draws a chalk outline\nfirst in his mind\naround nothing\nthen around the body\nof another man.\nHe does this without thinking.\n~\nWhat can I do about the white room I left\nbehind? What can I do about the great stones\nI walk among now? What can I do\nbut sing.\nEven a small cut can sing all day.\n~\nThere are entire nights\nI would take back.\nNostalgia is a thin moon,\ndisappearing\ninto a sky like cold,\nunfeeling iron.\n~\nI dreamed\nyou were a drowned man, crown\nof phosphorescent, seaweed in your hair,\nwater in your shoes. I woke up desperate\nfor air.\n~\nIn another dream, I was a field\nand you combed through me\nsearching for something\nyou only thought you had lost.\n~\nWhat have we left at the altar of sorrow?\nWhat blessed thing will we leave tomorrow?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Poem at Thirty-Nine by Alice Walker the poet is Alice Walker",
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"text": "How i miss my father.\nI wish he had not been\nso tired\nwhen i was\nborn\n\nWriting deposit slips and checks\ni think of him.\nHe taught me how.\nThis is the form,\nhe must have said:\nthe way it is done.\nI learned to see\nbits of paper\nas a way\nto escape\nthe life he knew\nand even in high school\nhad a savings\naccount.\n\n\nHe taught me\nthat telling the truth\ndid not always mean\na beating;\nthough many of my truths\nmust have grieved him\nbefore the end.\n\nHow I miss my father!\nHe cooked like a person\ndancing\nin a yoga meditation\nand craved the voluptuous\nsharing\nof good food.\n\nNow I look and cook just like him:\nmy brain light;\ntossing this and that\ninto the pot;\nseasoning none of my life\nthe same way twice; happy to feed\nwhoever strays my way.\n\nHe would have grown\nto admire\nthe women I've become:\ncooking, writing, chopping wood,\nstaring into the fire.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Fire and Ice by Robert Frost the poet is Robert Frost",
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"text": "Some say the world will end in fire,\nSome say in ice.\nFrom what I’ve tasted of desire\nI hold with those who favor fire.\nBut if it had to perish twice,\nI think I know enough of hate\nTo say that for destruction ice\nIs also great\nAnd would suffice.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Digging by Seamus Heaney the poet is Seamus Heaney",
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"text": "Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.\nUnder my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down\nTill his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.\nThe coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly.\nHe rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep\nTo scatter new potatoes that we picked,\nLoving their cool hardness in our hands.\nBy God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.\nMy grandfather cut more turf in a day\nThan any other man on Toner’s bog.\nOnce I carried him milk in a bottle\nCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened up\nTo drink it, then fell to right away\nNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods\nOver his shoulder, going down and down\nFor the good turf. Digging.\nThe cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap\nOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge\nThrough living roots awaken in my head.\nBut I’ve no spade to follow men like them.\nBetween my finger and my thumb\nThe squat pen rests.\nI’ll dig with it.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Hard Times by John Ashbery the poet is John Ashbery",
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"text": "Trust me. The world is run on a shoestring.\nThey have no time to return the calls in hell\nAnd pay dearly for those wasted minutes. Somewhere\nIn the future it will filter down through all the proceedings\n\nBut by then it will be too late, the festive ambience\nWill linger on but it won't matter. More or less\nSuccinctly they will tell you what we've all known for years:\nThat the power of this climate is only to conserve itself.\n\nWhatever twists around it is decoration and can never\nBe looked at as something isolated, apart. Get it? And\nHe flashed a mouthful of aluminum teeth there in the darkness\nTo tell however it gets down, that it does, at last.\n\nOnce they made the great trip to California\nAnd came out of it flushed. And now every day\nWill have to dispel the notion of being like all the others.\nIn time, it gets to stand with the wind, but by then the night is closed off.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Abou Ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt the poet is Leigh Hunt",
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"text": "Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)\nAwoke one night from a deep dream of peace,\nAnd saw, within the moonlight in his room,\nMaking it rich, and like a lily in bloom,\nAn angel writing in a book of gold:—\nExceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,\nAnd to the presence in the room he said,\n\"What writest thou?\"—The vision raised its head,\nAnd with a look made of all sweet accord,\nAnswered, \"The names of those who love the Lord.\"\n\"And is mine one?\" said Abou. \"Nay, not so,\"\nReplied the angel. Abou spoke more low,\nBut cheerly still; and said, \"I pray thee, then,\nWrite me as one that loves his fellow men.\"\nThe angel wrote, and vanished. The next night\nIt came again with a great wakening light,\nAnd showed the names whom love of God had blest,\nAnd lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Old Men by Kenneth Fearing the poet is Kenneth Fearing",
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"text": "They are the raw, monotonous skies,\nThe faded placards and iron rails\nPassed by in narrow streets of rain.\nTheirs are the indistinct thin cries\nHeard in a long sleep that fails\nIn strange confusion and numb pain.But old men have their deep dreams\nThey follow on quiet afternoons\nAt intervals, through distant streets.\nTheir lives come near them in warm streams\nOf tonic hope. And orange moons\nShine magically on stark defeats.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The House of Life: 19. Silent Noon by Dante Gabriel Rossetti the poet is Dante Gabriel Rossetti",
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"text": "Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—\nThe finger-points look through like rosy blooms:\nYour eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms\n'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.\nAll round our nest, far as the eye can pass,\nAre golden kingcup fields with silver edge\nWhere the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.\n'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.\nDeep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly\nHangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—\nSo this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.\nOh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,\nThis close-companioned inarticulate hour\nWhen twofold silence was the song of love.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is An Apple Gathering by Christina Rossetti the poet is Christina Rossetti",
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"text": "I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree\nAnd wore them all that evening in my hair:\nThen in due season when I went to see\nI found no apples there.\nWith dangling basket all along the grass\nAs I had come I went the selfsame track:\nMy neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass\nSo empty-handed back.\nLilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,\nTheir heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;\nSweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,\nTheir mother's home was near.\nPlump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,\nA stronger hand than hers helped it along;\nA voice talked with her through the shadows cool\nMore sweet to me than song.\nAh Willie, Willie, was my love less worth\nThan apples with their green leaves piled above?\nI counted rosiest apples on the earth\nOf far less worth than love.\nSo once it was with me you stooped to talk\nLaughing and listening in this very lane:\nTo think that by this way we used to walk\nWe shall not walk again!\nI let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos\nAnd groups; the latest said the night grew chill,\nAnd hastened: but I loitered, while the dews\nFell fast I loitered still.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Locket by John Montague the poet is John Montague",
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"text": "Sing a last song\nfor the lady who has gone,\nfertile source of guilt and pain.\nThe worst birth in the annals of Brooklyn,\nthat was my cue to come on,\nmy first claim to fame.\n\nNaturally, she longed for a girl,\nand all my infant curls of brown\ncouldn’t excuse my double blunder\ncoming out the wrong sex,\nand the wrong way around.\nNot readily forgiven,\n\nSo you never nursed me\nand when all my father’s songs\ncouldn’t sweeten the lack of money,\nwhen poverty comes throught the door\nlove flies up your chimney,\nyour favourite saying,\n\nThen you gave me away,\nmight never have known me,\nif I had not cycled down\nto court you like a young man,\nteasingly untying your apron,\ndrinking by the fire, yarning\n\nOf your wild, young days\nwhich didn’t last long, for you,\nlovely Molly, the belle of your small town,\nlanded up mournful and chill\nas the constant rain that lashes it\nwound into your cocoon of pain.\n\nStanding in that same hallway,\nDon’t come again.you say, roughly,\nI start to get fond of you, John,\nand then you are up and gone;\nthe harsh logic of a forlorn woman\nresigned to being alone.\n\nAnd still, mysterious blessing,\nI never knew, until you were gone,\nthat, always around your neck\nyou wore an oval locket\nwith an old picture in it,\nof a child in Brooklyn.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is I am Trying to Break Your Heart by Kevin Young the poet is Kevin Young",
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"text": "I am hoping\nto hang your head\non my wall\nin shame—\nthe slightest taxidermy\nthrills me. Fish\nforever leaping\non the living-room wall—\npaperweights made\nfrom skulls\nof small animals.\nI want to wear\nyour smile on my sleeve\n& break\nyour heart like a horse\nor its leg. Weeks of being\nbucked off, then\nall at once, you're mine—\nPut me down.\nI want to call you thine\nto tattoo mercy\nalong my knuckles. I assassin\ndown the avenue\nI hope\nto have you forgotten\nby noon. To know you\nby your knees\npalsied by prayer.\nLoneliness is a science—\nconsider the taxidermist's\ntender hands\ntrying to keep from losing\nskin, the bobcat grin\nof the living.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Two Songs by Adrienne Rich the poet is Adrienne Rich",
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"text": "Sex, as they harshly call it,\n\nI fell into this morning\n\nat ten o'clock, a drizzling hour\n\nof traffic and wet newspapers.\n\nI thought of him who yesterday\n\nclearly didn't\n\nturn me to a hot field\n\nready for plowing,\n\nand longing for that young man\n\npierced me to the roots\n\nbathing every vein, etc.\n\nAll day he appears to me\n\ntouchingly desirable,\n\na prize one could wreck one's peace for.\n\nI'd call it love if love\n\ndidn't take so many years\n\nbut lust too is a jewel\n\na sweet flower and what\n\npure happiness to know\n\nall our high-toned questions\n\nbreed in a lively animal.\n\n2\n\nThat \"old last act\"!\n\nAnd yet sometimes\n\nall seems post coitum triste\n\nand I a mere bystander.\n\nSomebody else is going off,\n\ngetting shot to the moon.\n\nOr, a moon-race!\n\nSplit seconds after\n\nmy opposite number lands\n\nI make it---\n\nwe lie fainting together\n\nat a crater-edge\n\nheavy as mercury in our moonsuits\n\ntill he speaks---\n\nin a different language\n\nyet one I've picked up\n\nthrough cultural exchanges. . .\n\nwe murmur the first moonwords:\n\nSpasibo. Thanks. O.K.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is kitchenette building by Gwendolyn Brooks the poet is Gwendolyn Brooks",
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"text": "We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,\nGrayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong\nLike “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”\nBut could a dream send up through onion fumes\nIts white and violet, fight with fried potatoes\nAnd yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,\nFlutter, or sing an aria down these rooms\nEven if we were willing to let it in,\nHad time to warm it, keep it very clean,\nAnticipate a message, let it begin?\nWe wonder. But not well! not for a minute!\nSince Number Five is out of the bathroom now,\nWe think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Goliath and David by Robert Graves the poet is Robert Graves",
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"text": "Yet once an earlier David took\nSmooth pebbles from the brook:\nOut between the lines he went\nTo that one-sided tournament,\nA shepherd boy who stood out fine\nAnd young to fight a Philistine\nClad all in brazen mail. He swears\nThat he's killed lions, he's killed bears,\nAnd those that scorn the God of Zion\nShall perish so like bear or lion.\nBut ... the historian of that fight\nHad not the heart to tell it right.\n\nStriding within javelin range,\nGoliath marvels at this strange\nGoodly-faced boy so proud of strength.\nDavid's clear eye measures the length;\nWith hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,\nPoises a moment thoughtfully,\nAnd hurls with a long vengeful swing.\nThe pebble, humming from the sling\nLike a wild bee, flies a sure line\nFor the forehead of the Philistine;\nThen ... but there comes a brazen clink,\nAnd quicker than a man can think\nGoliath's shield parries each cast.\nClang! clang! and clang! was David's last.\nScorn blazes in the Giant's eye,\nTowering unhurt six cubits high.\nSays foolish David, \"Damn your shield!\nAnd damn my sling! but I'll not yield.\"\nHe takes his staff of Mamre oak,\nA knotted shepherd-staff that's broke\nThe skull of many a wolf and fox\nCome filching lambs from Jesse's flocks.\nLoud laughs Goliath, and that laugh\nCan scatter chariots like blown chaff\nTo rout; but David, calm and brave,\nHolds his ground, for God will save.\nSteel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!\nShame for beauty's overthrow!\n(God's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)\nOne cruel backhand sabre-cut\n\"I'm hit! I'm killed!\" young David cries,\nThrows blindly forward, chokes ... and dies.\nAnd look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,\nGoliath straddles over him.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Wild Swans by Edna St. Vincent Millay the poet is Edna St. Vincent Millay",
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"text": "I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.\nAnd what did I see I had not seen before?\nOnly a question less or a question more;\nNothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.\nTiresome heart, forever living and dying,\nHouse without air, I leave you and lock your door.\nWild swans, come over the town, come over\nThe town again, trailing your legs and crying!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is A Ritual to Read to Each Other by William Stafford the poet is William Stafford",
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"text": "f you don't know the kind of person I am\nand I don't know the kind of person you are\na pattern that others made may prevail in the world\nand following the wrong god home we may miss our star.\n\nFor there is many a small betrayal in the mind,\na shrug that lets the fragile sequence break\nsending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood\nstorming out to play through the broken dike.\n\nAnd as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,\nbut if one wanders the circus won't find the park,\nI call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty\nto know what occurs but not recognize the fact.\n\nAnd so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,\na remote important region in all who talk:\nthough we could fool each other, we should consider—\nlest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.\n\nFor it is important that awake people be awake,\nor a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;\nthe signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —\nshould be clear: the darkness around us is deep.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Halloween Party by Kenn Nesbitt the poet is Kenn Nesbitt",
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"text": "We’re having a Halloween party at school.\nI’m dressed up like Dracula. Man, I look cool!\nI dyed my hair black, and I cut off my bangs.\nI’m wearing a cape and some fake plastic fangs.\n\nI put on some makeup to paint my face white,\nlike creatures that only come out in the night.\nMy fingernails, too, are all pointed and red.\nI look like I’m recently back from the dead.\n\nMy mom drops me off, and I run into school\nand suddenly feel like the world’s biggest fool.\nThe other kids stare like I’m some kind of freak—\nthe Halloween party is not till next week.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Difficulty that is Marriage by Paul Durcan the poet is Paul Durcan",
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"text": "We disagree to disagree, we divide, we differ;\nYet each night as I lie in bed beside you\nAnd you are faraway curled up in sleep\nI array the moonlit ceiling with a mosaic of question-marks;\nHow was it I was so lucky to have ever met you?\nI am no brave pagan proud of my mortality\nYet gladly on this changeling earth I should live for ever\nIf it were with you, my sleeping friend.\nI have my troubles and I shall always have them\nBut I should rather live with you for ever\nThan exchange my troubles for a changeless kingdom.\nBut I do not put you on a pedestal or a throne;\nYou must have your faults but I do not see them.\nIf it were with you, I should live for ever.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Who Are You And Whom Do You Love? by Bhanu Kapil the poet is Bhanu Kapil",
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"text": "A month from now. A week from now. Tomorrow. When he goes.\nThe going. I’ll make crepes, walk by the river with the dog, float can-\ndles in a pudding basin; the usual. He’s gone. Between our bodies:\nthe sun at 5 a.m.; fifty-seven Herefords, and a Brahma bull that\nbroke the river fence; four and a half thousand hummingbirds; a\ndying man; a man who is about to knock on the door of a woman\nwith black eyes, to tell her that he loves her; the woman herself, who\nis drawing a bath. She can’t hear the door above the water. And her\neyes aren’t really black. They’re brown. She lights a match.\n\nFloating candles. The incommensurable distance. I forgot to mem-\norize his face.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Valentine by Owen Sheers the poet is Owen Sheers",
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"text": "The water torture of your heels\nemptying before me down that Paris street,\nevacuated as the channels of our hearts.\n\nThat will be one memory.\n\nThe swing of the tassels on your skirt\neach step filling out the curve of your hip;\nyour wet lashes, the loss of everything we’d learnt.\n\n\nThat will be another.\n\nThen later – holding each other on the hotel bed,\nlike a pair of sunken voyagers\nwho had thought themselves done for,\n\nonly to wake washed up on a shore,\nuncertain in their exhaustion,\nwhether to laugh or weep.\n\nThat, my valentine, will be the one I’ll keep.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda the poet is Pablo Neruda",
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"text": "I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.\nI love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body.\nI love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride:\nI love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,\nexcept in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Power by Audre Lorde the poet is Audre Lorde",
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"text": "The difference between poetry and rhetoric\nis being ready to kill\nyourself\ninstead of your children.\n\nI am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds\nand a dead child dragging his shattered black\nface off the edge of my sleep\nblood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders\nis the only liquid for miles\nand my stomach\nchurns at the imagined taste while\nmy mouth splits into dry lips\nwithout loyalty or reason\nthirsting for the wetness of his blood\nas it sinks into the whiteness\nof the desert where I am lost\nwithout imagery or magic\ntrying to make power out of hatred and destruction\ntrying to heal my dying son with kisses\nonly the sun will bleach his bones quicker.\n\nA policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens\nstood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood\nand a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and\nthere are tapes to prove it. At his trial\nthis policeman said in his own defense\n“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else\nonly the color”. And\nthere are tapes to prove that, too.\n\nToday that 37 year old white man\nwith 13 years of police forcing\nwas set free\nby eleven white men who said they were satisfied\njustice had been done\nand one Black Woman who said\n“They convinced me” meaning\nthey had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame\nover the hot coals\nof four centuries of white male approval\nuntil she let go\nthe first real power she ever had\nand lined her own womb with cement\nto make a graveyard for our children.\n\nI have not been able to touch the destruction\nwithin me.\nBut unless I learn to use\nthe difference between poetry and rhetoric\nmy power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold\nor lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire\nand one day I will take my teenaged plug\nand connect it to the nearest socket\nraping an 85 year old white woman\nwho is somebody's mother\nand as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed\na greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time\n“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is A Sourdough Story by Robert Service the poet is Robert Service",
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"text": "Hark to the Sourdough story, told at sixty below,\nWhen the pipes are lit and we smoke and spit\nInto the campfire glow.\nRugged are we and hoary, and statin' a general rule,\nA genooine Sourdough story\nAin't no yarn for the Sunday School.\nA Sourdough came to stake his claim in Heav'n one morning early.\nSaint Peter cried: \"Who waits outside them gates so bright and pearly?\"\n\"I'm recent dead,\" the Sourdough said, \"and crave to visit Hades,\nWhere haply pine some pals o' mine, includin' certain ladies.\"\nSaid Peter: \"Go, you old Sourdough, from life so crooly riven;\nAnd if ye fail to find their trail, we'll have a snoop round Heaven.\"\nHe waved, and lo! that old Sourdough dropped down to Hell's red spaces;\nBut though 'twas hot he couldn't spot them old familiar faces.\nThe bedrock burned, and so he turned, and climbed with footsteps fleeter,\nThe stairway straight to Heaven's gate, and there, of course, was Peter.\n\"I cannot see my mates,\" sez he, \"among those damned forever.\nI have a hunch some of the bunch in Heaven I'll discover.\"\nSaid Peter: \"True; and this I'll do (since Sourdoughs are my failing)\nYou see them guys in Paradise, lined up against the railing -\nAs bald as coots, in birthday suits, with beards below the middle . . .\nWell, I'll allow you in right now, if you can solve a riddle:\nAmong that gang of stiffs who hang and dodder round the portals,\nIs one whose name is know to Fame; it's Adam, first of mortals.\nFor quiet's sake he makes a break from Eve, which is his Madame. . . .\nWell, there's the gate; To crash it straight, just spy the guy that's Adam.\"\nThe old Sourdough went down the row of greybeards ruminatin'\nWith optics dim they peered at him, and pressed agin the gratin'.\nIn every face he sought some trace of our ancestral father;\nBut though he stared, he soon despaired the faintest clue to gather.\nThen suddenly he whooped with glee: \"Ha! Ha! an inspiration.\"\nAnd to and fro along the row he ran with animation.\nTo Peter, bold he cried: \"Behold, all told there are eleven.\nSuppose I fix on Number Six; say Boy! How's that for Heaven?\"\n\"By gosh! you win,\" said Pete. \"Step in. But tell me how you chose him.\nThey're like as pins; all might be twins. There's nothing to disclose him.\"\nThe Sourdough said: \"'Twas hard; my head was seething with commotion.\nI felt a dunce; then all at once I had a gorgeous notion.\nI stooped and peered beneath each beard that drooped like fleece of mutton.\nMy search was crowned. . . . That bird I found; ain't got no belly button.\"",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is A Friend’s Greeting by Edgar Guest the poet is Edgar Guest",
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"text": "I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me;\nI'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be;\nI'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day\nAs you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.\nI'd like to do the big things and the splendid things for you,\nTo brush the gray from out your skies and leave them only blue;\nI'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard,\nAnd feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you've stirred.\nI'd like to give you back the joy that you have given me,\nYet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be;\nI'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on\nUndaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon.\nI'm wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay\nA portion of the gladness that you've strewn along my way;\nAnd could I have one wish this year, this only would it be:\nI'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Here by Philip Larkin the poet is Philip Larkin",
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"text": "Swerving east, from rich industrial shadows\nAnd traffic all night north; swerving through fields\nToo thin and thistled to be called meadows,\nAnd now and then a harsh—named halt, that shields\nWorkmen at dawn; swerving to solitude\nOf skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants,\nAnd the widening river’s slow presence,\nThe piled gold clouds, the shining gull—marked mud,\n \nGathers to the surprise of a large town:\nHere domes and statues, spires and cranes cluster\nBeside grain—scattered streets, barge—crowded water,\nAnd residents from raw estates, brought down\nThe dead straight miles by stealing flat—faced trolleys,\nPush through plate—glass swing doors to their desires —\nCheap suits, red kitchen—ware, sharp shoes, iced lollies,\nElectric mixers, toasters, washers, driers—\n \nA cut—price crowd, urban yet simple, dwelling\nWhere only salesmen and relations come\nWithin a terminate and fishy—smelling\nPastoral of ships up streets, the slave museum,\nTattoo—shops, consulates, grim head—scarfed wives;\nAnd out beyond its mortgaged half—built edges\nFast—shadowed wheat—fields, running high as hedges,\nIsolate villages, where removed lives\n \nLoneliness clarifies. Here silence stands\nLike heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,\nHidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,\nLuminously—peopled air ascends;\nAnd past the poppies bluish neutral distance\nEnds the land suddenly beyond a beach\nOf shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence:\nFacing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Old Song by Edward FitzGerald the poet is Edward FitzGerald",
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"text": "TIS a dull sight\nTo see the year dying,\nWhen winter winds\nSet the yellow wood sighing:\nSighing, O sighing!\nWhen such a time cometh\nI do retire\nInto an old room\nBeside a bright fire:\nO, pile a bright fire!\nAnd there I sit\nReading old things,\nOf knights and lorn damsels,\nWhile the wind sings—\nO, drearily sings!\nI never look out\nNor attend to the blast;\nFor all to be seen\nIs the leaves falling fast:\nFalling, falling!\nBut close at the hearth,\nLike a cricket, sit I,\nReading of summer\nAnd chivalry—\nGallant chivalry!\nThen with an old friend\nI talk of our youth—\nHow 'twas gladsome, but often\nFoolish, forsooth:\nBut gladsome, gladsome!\nOr, to get merry,\nWe sing some old rhyme\nThat made the wood ring again\nIn summer time—\nSweet summer time!\nThen go we smoking,\nSilent and snug:\nNaught passes between us,\nSave a brown jug—\nSometimes!\nAnd sometimes a tear\nWill rise in each eye,\nSeeing the two old friends\nSo merrily—\nSo merrily!\nAnd ere to bed\nGo we, go we,\nDown on the ashes\nWe kneel on the knee,\nPraying together!\nThus, then, live I\nTill, 'mid all the gloom,\nBy Heaven! the bold sun\nIs with me in the room\nShining, shining!\nThen the clouds part,\nSwallows soaring between;\nThe spring is alive,\nAnd the meadows are green!\nI jump up like mad,\nBreak the old pipe in twain,\nAnd away to the meadows,\nThe meadows again!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Lamb by William Blake the poet is William Blake",
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"text": "Little Lamb who made thee\nDost thou know who made thee\nGave thee life & bid thee feed.\nBy the stream & o'er the mead;\nGave thee clothing of delight,\nSoftest clothing wooly bright;\nGave thee such a tender voice,\nMaking all the vales rejoice!\nLittle Lamb who made thee\nDost thou know who made thee\n\nLittle Lamb I'll tell thee,\nLittle Lamb I'll tell thee!\nHe is called by thy name,\nFor he calls himself a Lamb:\nHe is meek & he is mild,\nHe became a little child:\nI a child & thou a lamb,\nWe are called by his name.\nLittle Lamb God bless thee.\nLittle Lamb God bless thee.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Allegory of the Cave by Stephen Dunn the poet is Stephen Dunn",
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"text": "He climbed toward the blinding light\nand when his eyes adjusted\nhe looked down and could see\n\nhis fellow prisoners captivated\nby shadows; everything he had believed\nwas false. And he was suddenly\n\nin the 20th century, in the sunlight\nand violence of history, encumbered\nby knowledge. Only a hero\n\nwould dare return with the truth.\nSo from the cave's upper reaches,\nremoved from harm, he called out\n\nthe disturbing news.\nWhat lovely echoes, the prisoners said,\nwhat a fine musical place to live.\n\nHe spelled it out, then, in clear prose\non paper scraps, which he floated down.\nBut in the semi-dark they read his words\n\nwith the indulgence of those who seldom read:\nIt's about my father's death, one of them said.\nNo, said the others, it's a joke.\n\nBy this time he no longer was sure\nof what he'd seen. Wasn't sunlight a shadow too?\nWasn't there always a source\n\nbehind a source? He just stood there,\nconfused, a man who had moved\nto larger errors, without a prayer.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Creation by James Weldon Johnson the poet is James Weldon Johnson",
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"text": "And God stepped out on space,\nAnd he looked around and said:\nI'm lonely—\nI'll make me a world.\nAnd far as the eye of God could see\nDarkness covered everything,\nBlacker than a hundred midnights\nDown in a cypress swamp.\nThen God smiled,\nAnd the light broke,\nAnd the darkness rolled up on one side,\nAnd the light stood shining on the other,\nAnd God said: That's good!\nThen God reached out and took the light in his hands,\nAnd God rolled the light around in his hands\nUntil he made the sun;\nAnd he set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.\nAnd the light that was left from making the sun\nGod gathered it up in a shining ball\nAnd flung it against the darkness,\nSpangling the night with the moon and stars.\nThen down between\nThe darkness and the light\nHe hurled the world;\nAnd God said: That's good!\nThen God himself stepped down—\nAnd the sun was on his right hand,\nAnd the moon was on his left;\nThe stars were clustered about his head,\nAnd the earth was under his feet.\nAnd God walked, and where he trod\nHis footsteps hollowed the valleys out\nAnd bulged the mountains up.\nThen he stopped and looked and saw\nThat the earth was hot and barren.\nSo God stepped over to the edge of the world\nAnd he spat out the seven seas—\nHe batted his eyes, and the lightnings flashed—\nHe clapped his hands, and the thunders rolled—\nAnd the waters above the earth came down,\nThe cooling waters came down.\nThen the green grass sprouted,\nAnd the little red flowers blossomed,\nThe pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,\nAnd the oak spread out his arms,\nThe lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,\nAnd the rivers ran down to the sea;\nAnd God smiled again,\nAnd the rainbow appeared,\nAnd curled itself around his shoulder.\nThen God raised his arm and he waved his hand\nOver the sea and over the land,\nAnd he said: Bring forth! Bring forth!\nAnd quicker than God could drop his hand,\nFishes and fowls\nAnd beasts and birds\nSwam the rivers and the seas,\nRoamed the forests and the woods,\nAnd split the air with their wings.\nAnd God said: That's good!\nThen God walked around,\nAnd God looked around\nOn all that he had made.\nHe looked at his sun,\nAnd he looked at his moon,\nAnd he looked at his little stars;\nHe looked on his world\nWith all its living things,\nAnd God said: I'm lonely still.\nThen God sat down—\nOn the side of a hill where he could think;\nBy a deep, wide river he sat down;\nWith his head in his hands,\nGod thought and thought,\nTill he thought: I'll make me a man!\nUp from the bed of the river\nGod scooped the clay;\nAnd by the bank of the river\nHe kneeled him down;\nAnd there the great God Almighty\nWho lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,\nWho flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,\nWho rounded the earth in the middle of his hand;\nThis great God,\nLike a mammy bending over her baby,\nKneeled down in the dust\nToiling over a lump of clay\nTill he shaped it in is his own image;\nThen into it he blew the breath of life,\nAnd man became a living soul.\nAmen. Amen.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is A Character by William Wordsworth the poet is William Wordsworth",
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"text": "I marvel how Nature could ever find space\nFor so many strange contrasts in one human face:\nThere's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom\nAnd bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.\n\nThere's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;\nSuch strength as, if ever affliction and pain\nCould pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,\nWould be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.\n\nThere's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,\nAnd attention full ten times as much as there needs;\nPride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;\nAnd mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.\n\nThere's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare\nOf shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,\nThere's virtue, the title it surely may claim,\nYet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.\n\nThis picture from nature may seem to depart,\nYet the Man would at once run away with your heart;\nAnd I for five centuries right gladly would be\nSuch an odd such a kind happy creature as he.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is To Night by Percy Bysshe Shelley the poet is Percy Bysshe Shelley",
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"text": "Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,\nSpirit of Night!\nOut of the misty eastern cave,\nWhere, all the long and lone daylight,\nThou wovest dreams of joy and fear,\nWhich make thee terrible and dear,—\nSwift be thy flight!\nWrap thy form in a mantle gray,\nStar-inwrought!\nBlind with thine hair the eyes of Day;\nKiss her until she be wearied out,\nThen wander o'er city, and sea, and land,\nTouching all with thine opiate wand—\nCome, long-sought!\nWhen I arose and saw the dawn,\nI sighed for thee;\nWhen light rode high, and the dew was gone,\nAnd noon lay heavy on flower and tree,\nAnd the weary Day turned to his rest,\nLingering like an unloved guest.\nI sighed for thee.\nThy brother Death came, and cried,\nWouldst thou me?\nThy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,\nMurmured like a noontide bee,\nShall I nestle near thy side?\nWouldst thou me?—And I replied,\nNo, not thee!\nDeath will come when thou art dead,\nSoon, too soon—\nSleep will come when thou art fled;\nOf neither would I ask the boon\nI ask of thee, belovèd Night—\nSwift be thine approaching flight,\nCome soon, soon!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is My God! O Let Me Call Thee Mine! by Anne Brontë the poet is Anne Brontë",
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"text": "My God! O let me call Thee mine!\nWeak wretched sinner though I be,\nMy trembling soul would fain be Thine,\nMy feeble faith still clings to Thee,\nMy feeble faith still clings to Thee.\nNot only for the past I grieve,\nThe future fills me with dismay;\nUnless Thou hasten to relieve,\nI know my heart will fall away,\nI know my heart will fall away.\n\nI cannot say my faith is strong,\nI dare not hope my love is great;\nBut strength and love to Thee belong,\nO, do not leave me desolate!\nO, do not leave me desolate!\n\nI know I owe my all to Thee,\nO, take this heart I cannot give.\nDo Thou my Strength my Saviour be;\nAnd make me to Thy glory live!\nAnd make me to Thy glory live!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Sonnet 108 by William Shakespeare the poet is William Shakespeare",
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"text": "What’s in the brain, that ink may character,\nWhich hath not figured to thee my true spirit?\nWhat’s new to speak, what now to register,\nThat may express my love, or thy dear merit?\nNothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,\nI must each day say o’er the very same;\nCounting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,\nEven as when first I hallowed thy fair name.\nSo that eternal love in love’s fresh case,\nWeighs not the dust and injury of age,\nNor gives to necessary wrinkles place,\nBut makes antiquity for aye his page;\nFinding the first conceit of love there bred,\nWhere time and outward form would show it dead.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Song of the Women of my Land by Oumar Farouk the poet is Oumar Farouk",
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"text": "Like a sculptor chipping away at bits of wood,\nTime chisels away bits of their memory\nIt strips away lyrics of the women of my Land\nLeaving only a fading tune echoing the song,\nthey sang in the forlorn fields\nabout their lives; songs\nof how they ploughed the terrain of their landscape\nfor memories of lyrics lost in the vast void of time,\nin those days when a song beheld their lives;\nwhen servitude cuffed the ankles of their soul,\nand dereliction decapitated the epic of their lives.\nWith a song, they sponged off their anguish,\nto behold their collective pain,\nto celebrate their gains,\ngive lyrics to the tune of their lives,\ncheat the tyranny of tit\nand commune with the yet unborn\nto give meaning to an epoch lost in antiquity,\nYet time strips the lyrics and scars the tune,\nleaving a dying song.\nThe Song of the Women of my Land by Oumar Farouk Sesay\nDead!\nLike the woman who died long ago,\nLeaving the song to tell the story of their lives.\nToday the tune roams the forlorn fields\nLike their souls looking for lyrics.\nTo tell the tale of servitude\nof the women of my Land\nWho ploughed their soil and soul\nFor a song to sing the story of their lives\nThe song of the women of my Land\nleft in the memory of my mind.\nNow feeding the verses of poets, it echoes in\nWriggling in the rhythms and melodies,\nHollering in distant tunes\nIn places far afield the forlorn fields,\nwhere the song of their lives died.\nThe stuttering lips of my pen\nAnd the screeching voice of my rib\ntry to sing the song of the women of my Land\nIn verses far from the theatre of toil\nwhere they left a song that now roams the land\nstripped of lyrics like a scorned ghost.\nThe tune tuning the tenor of my verse\nis all that remains of the song of the women of my land\nWho laboured and died leaving a dying song.\nThe dirge of their lives!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Apple-Raid by Vernon Scannell the poet is Vernon Scannell",
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"text": "Darkness came early, though not yet cold;\nStars were strung on the telegraph wires;\nStreet lamps spilled pools of liquid gold;\nThe breeze was spiced with garden fires.\nThat smell of burnt leaves, the early dark.\nCan still excite me but not as it did\nSo long ago when we met in the park-\nMyself, John Peters and David Kidd.\nWe moved out of town to the district where\nThe lucky and wealthy had their homes\nwith garages, gardens and apples to spare\nClustered in the trees' green domes\nWe chose the place we meant to plunder\nAnd climbed the wall and tip-toed through\nThe secret dark. Apples crunched under Our feet as we moved through the grass and dew.\nWe found the lower boughs of a tree\nThat were easy to reach. We stored the fruit\nin pockets and jerseys until all three\nBoys were heavy with their tasty loot.\nSafe on the other side of the wall\nWe moved back to town and munched as we went.\nI wonder if David remembers at all That little adventure, the apples' fresh scent?\nStrange to think that he's fifty years old,\nThat though little boy with scabs on his knees;\nStranger to think that John Pieters lies cold\nIn an orchard in France beneath apple trees.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is My Heart Leaps Up by William Wordsworth the poet is William Wordsworth",
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"text": "My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky:\nSo was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!\nThe Child is father of the Man;\nAnd I could wish my days to be\nBound each to each by natural piety.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is But You Didn’t by Merrill Glass the poet is Merrill Glass",
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"text": "Remember the time you lent me your car and I dented it?\nI thought you'd kill me...\nBut you didn't.\nRemember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was\nformal, and you came in jeans?\nI thought you'd hate me...\nBut you didn't.\nRemember the times I'd flirt with\nother boys just to make you jealous, and\nyou were?\nI thought you'd drop me...\nBut you didn't.\nThere were plenty of things you did to put up with me,\nto keep me happy, to love me, and there are\nso many things I wanted to tell\nyou when you returned from\nVietnam...\nBut you didn't.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is September 1913 by William Butler Yeats the poet is William Butler Yeats",
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"text": "What need you, being come to sense,\nBut fumble in a greasy till\nAnd add the halfpence to the pence\nAnd prayer to shivering prayer, until\nYou have dried the marrow from the bone;\nFor men were born to pray and save:\nRomantic Ireland’s dead and gone,\nIt’s with O’Leary in the grave.\nYet they were of a different kind,\nThe names that stilled your childish play,\nThey have gone about the world like wind,\nBut little time had they to pray\nFor whom the hangman’s rope was spun,\nAnd what, God help us, could they save?\nRomantic Ireland’s dead and gone,\nIt’s with O’Leary in the grave.\nWas it for this the wild geese spread\nThe grey wing upon every tide;\nFor this that all that blood was shed,\nFor this Edward Fitzgerald died,\nAnd Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,\nAll that delirium of the brave?\nRomantic Ireland’s dead and gone,\nIt’s with O’Leary in the grave.\nYet could we turn the years again,\nAnd call those exiles as they were\nIn all their loneliness and pain,\nYou’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair\nHas maddened every mother’s son’:\nThey weighed so lightly what they gave.\nBut let them be, they’re dead and gone,\nThey’re with O’Leary in the grave.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note by Amiri Baraka the poet is Amiri Baraka",
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"text": "Lately, I've become accustomed to the way\nThe ground opens up and envelopes me\nEach time I go out to walk the dog.\nOr the broad edged silly music the wind\nMakes when I run for a bus . . .\n\nThings have come to that.\n\nAnd now, each night I count the stars,\nAnd each night I get the same number.\nAnd when they will not come to be counted,\nI count the holes they leave.\n\n\n\nNobody sings anymore.\n\nAnd then last night, I tiptoed up\nTo my daughter's room and heard her\nTalking to someone, and when I opened\nThe door, there was no one there . . .\nOnly she on her knees, peeking into\n\nHer own clasped hands.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is 2 Mothers in an HDB Playground by Arthur Yap the poet is Arthur Yap",
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"text": "ah beng is so smart,\nalready he can watch tv & know the whole story.\nyour kim cheong is also quite smart,\nwhat boy is he in the exam?\nthis playground is not too bad, but i’m always\nso worried, car here, car there.\nat exam time, it’s worse.\nbecause you know why?\nkim cheong eats so little.\ngive him some complain. my ah beng was like that,\nnow he’d different. if you give him anything\nhe’s sure to finish it all up.\nsure, sure. cheong’s father buys him\nvitamins but he keeps it inside his mouth\n& later gives it to the cat.\ni cold like mad but what for?\nif i don’t see it, how can i scold?\non saturday, tv showed a new type,\nspecial for children. why don’t you call\nhis father buy some? maybe they are better.\nmoney’s no problem. it’s not that\nwe want to save. if we buy it\n& he doesn’t eat it, throwing money\ninto the jamban is the same.\nah beng’s father spends so much,\nrakes out the mosaic floor & wants\nto make terrazzo or what.\nwe also got new furniture, bought from diethelm.\nthe sofa is so soft. i dare not sit. they all\nsit like don’t want to get up. so expensive.\nnearly two thousand dollars, sure must be good.\nthat you can’t say. my toa-soh\nbought an expensive sewing machine,\nafter 6 months, it is already spoilt.\nshe took it back but… beng,\ncome here, come, don’t play the fool.\nyour tuition teacher is coming.\nwah! kim cheong, now you’re quite big.\ncome cheong, quick go home & bathe.\nah part wants to take you chia-hong in new motor-car.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Home is so Sad by Philip Larkin the poet is Philip Larkin",
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"text": "Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,\nShaped to the comfort of the last to go\nAs if to win them back. Instead, bereft\nOf anyone to please, it withers so,\nHaving no heart to put aside the theft\n\nAnd turn again to what it started as,\nA joyous shot at how things ought to be,\nLong fallen wide. You can see how it was:\nLook at the pictures and the cutlery.\nThe music in the piano stool. That vase.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ by John Keats the poet is John Keats",
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"text": "Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,\nAlone and palely loitering;\nThe sedge is withered from the lake,\nAnd no birds sing.\n\nAh, what can ail thee, wretched wight,\nSo haggard and so woe-begone?\nThe squirrel's granary is full,\nAnd the harvest's done.\n\nI see a lilly on thy brow,\nWith anguish moist and fever dew;\nAnd on thy cheek a fading rose\nFast withereth too.\n\nI met a lady in the meads\nFull beautiful, a faery's child;\nHer hair was long, her foot was light,\nAnd her eyes were wild.\n\nI set her on my pacing steed,\nAnd nothing else saw all day long;\nFor sideways would she lean, and sing\nA faery's song.\n\nI made a garland for her head,\nAnd bracelets too, and fragrant zone;\nShe looked at me as she did love,\nAnd made sweet moan.\n\nShe found me roots of relish sweet,\nAnd honey wild, and manna dew;\nAnd sure in language strange she said,\nI love thee true.\n\nShe took me to her elfin grot,\nAnd there she gazed and sighed deep,\nAnd there I shut her wild sad eyes—\nSo kissed to sleep.\n\nAnd there we slumbered on the moss,\nAnd there I dreamed, ah woe betide,\nThe latest dream I ever dreamed\nOn the cold hill side.\n\nI saw pale kings, and princes too,\nPale warriors, death-pale were they all;\nWho cried—\"La belle Dame sans merci\nHath thee in thrall!\"\n\nI saw their starved lips in the gloam\nWith horrid warning gaped wide,\nAnd I awoke, and found me here\nOn the cold hill side.\n\nAnd this is why I sojourn here\nAlone and palely loitering,\nThough the sedge is withered from the lake,\nAnd no birds sing.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Elegy for Jane by Theodore Roethke the poet is Theodore Roethke",
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"text": "(My student, thrown by a horse)\n\nI remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;\nAnd her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;\nAnd how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her.\nAnd she balanced in the delight of her thought,\nA wren, happy, tail into the wind,\nHer song trembling the twigs and small branches.\nThe shade sang with her;\nThe leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,\nAnd the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.\n\nOh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,\nEven a father could not find her:\nScraping her cheek against straw,\nStirring the clearest water.\nMy sparrow, you are not here,\nWaiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.\nThe sides of wet stones cannot console me,\nNor the moss, wound with the last light.\n\nIf only I could nudge you from this sleep,\nMy maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.\nOver this damp grave I speak the words of my love:\nI, with no rights in this matter,\nNeither father nor lover.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Depths by Denise Levertov the poet is Denise Levertov",
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"text": "When the white fog burns off,\nthe abyss of everlasting light\nis revealed. The last cobwebs\nof fog in the\nblack fir trees are flakes\nof white ash in the world's hearth.\n\nCold of the sea is counterpart\nto this great fire. Plunging\nout of the burning cold of ocean\nwe enter an ocean of intense\nnoon. Sacred salt\nsparkles on our bodies.\n\nAfter mist has wrapped us again\nin fine wool, may the taste of salt\nrecall to us the great depths about us",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Animal Fair the poet is A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes",
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"text": "We went to the animal fair,\nThe birds and the beasts were there,\nThe big baboon by the light of the moon\nWas combing his golden hair.\nThe monkey fell out of his bunk,\nAnd slid down the elephant's trunk,\nThe elephant sneezed - Achoo!\nAnd fell on her knees,\nAnd what became of the monkey,\nMonkey, monkey, monkey, monkey?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Battle-Hymn of the Republic by Julia Ward Howe the poet is Julia Ward Howe",
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"text": "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:\nHe is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;\nHe hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:\nHis truth is marching on.\nI have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;\nThey have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;\nI can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.\nHis Day is marching on.\nI have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:\n“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;\nLet the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,\nSince God is marching on.”\nHe has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;\nHe is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:\nOh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!\nOur God is marching on.\nIn the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,\nWith a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:\nAs he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,\nWhile God is marching on.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Sonnet 104 by William Shakespeare the poet is William Shakespeare",
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"text": "To me, fair friend, you never can be old,\nFor as you were when first your eye I eyed,\nSuch seems your beauty still. Three winters cold\nHave from the forests shook three summers’ pride,\nThree beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned\nIn process of the seasons have I seen,\nThree April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,\nSince first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.\nAh, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,\nSteal from his figure, and no pace perceived;\nSo your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,\nHath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:\nFor fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:\nEre you were born was beauty’s summer dead.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The City of Sleep by Rudyard Kipling the poet is Rudyard Kipling",
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"text": "Over the edge of the purple down,\nWhere the single lamplight gleams,\nKnow ye the road to the Merciful Town\nThat is hard by the Sea of Dreams –\nWhere the poor may lay their wrongs away,\nAnd the sick may forget to weep?\nBut we – pity us! Oh, pity us!\nWe wakeful; ah, pity us! –\nWe must go back with Policeman Day –\nBack from the City of Sleep!\nWeary they turn from the scroll and crown,\nFetter and prayer and plough –\nThey that go up to the Merciful Town,\nFor her gates are closing now.\nIt is their right in the Baths of Night\nBody and soul to steep,\nBut we – pity us! ah, pity us!\nWe wakeful; oh, pity us! –\nWe must go back with Policeman Day –\nBack from the City of Sleep!\nOver the edge of the purple down,\nEre the tender dreams begin,\nLook – we may look – at the Merciful Town,\nBut we may not enter in!\nOutcasts all, from her guarded wall\nBack to our watch we creep:\nWe – pity us! ah, pity us!\nWe wakeful; ah, pity us! –\nWe that go back with Policeman Day –\nBack from the City of Sleep!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Mother’s Song by Shirley Lim the poet is Shirley Geok-Lin Lim",
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"text": "Beautiful man, milk teeth bared in a trap,\nWhose mouth curls in despair,\nShe smiles at your face.\nBeautiful man, twitching boy’s shoulders\nLike many golden carp\nSwimming to her gaze.\nBeautiful man, your white skin turns redder,\nYour slit eyes grow wide,\nYour chin’s fuzzed with moth.\nBeautiful man, fingers knifing, stab\nOr roll, winding up thoughts\nLike fine hair, like cloth.\nBeautiful man, leaning back stock-still, now\nBunched in fury, fishy,\nYou play at the groom.\nBeautiful man, crowsfeet walk your brow.\nYour head pulls as the tide\nSilvering the room.\nBeautiful man, bitter, slipping her grasp.\nLike strong medicine, harsh tea,\nShe swallows her doubts.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is After Death by Christina Rossetti the poet is Christina Rossetti",
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"text": "The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept\nAnd strewn with rushes, rosemary and may\nLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,\nWhere through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.\nHe leaned above me, thinking that I slept\nAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say,\n‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away\nCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.\nHe did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold\nThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,\nOr ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:\nHe did not love me living; but once dead\nHe pitied me; and very sweet it is\nTo know he still is warm though I am cold.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Coronet by Andrew Marvell the poet is Andrew Marvell",
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"text": "When for the thorns with which I long, too long,\nWith many a piercing wound,\nMy Saviour’s head have crowned,\nI seek with garlands to redress that wrong:\nThrough every garden, every mead,\nI gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers),\nDismantling all the fragrant towers\nThat once adorned my shepherdess’s head.\nAnd now when I have summed up all my store,\nThinking (so I myself deceive)\nSo rich a chaplet thence to weave\nAs never yet the King of Glory wore:\nAlas, I find the serpent old\nThat, twining in his speckled breast,\nAbout the flowers disguised does fold,\nWith wreaths of fame and interest.\nAh, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them,\nAnd mortal glory, Heaven’s diadem!\nBut Thou who only couldst the serpent tame,\nEither his slippery knots at once untie;\nAnd disentangle all his winding snare;\nOr shatter too with him my curious frame,\nAnd let these wither, so that he may die,\nThough set with skill and chosen out with care:\nThat they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread,\nMay crown thy feet, that could not crown thy head.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Ghazal “In Real Time” By Agha Shahid Ali the poet is Agha Shahid Ali",
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"text": "I’ll do what I must if I’m bold in real time. A refugee, I’ll be paroled in real time.\nCool evidence clawed off like shirts of hell-fire? A former existence untold in real time ...\nThe one you would choose: Were you led then by him? What longing, O Yaar, is controlled in real time?\nEach syllable sucked under waves of our earth—\nThe funeral love comes to hold in real time!\nThey left him alive so that he could be lonely—\nThe god of small things is not consoled in real time.\nPlease afterwards empty my pockets of keys—\nIt’s hell in the city of gold in real time.\nGod’s angels again are—for Satan!—forlorn. Salvation was bought but sin sold in real time.\nAnd who is the terrorist, who the victim?\nWe’ll know if the country is polled in real time.\n“Behind a door marked DANGER” are being unwound\nthe prayers my friend had enscrolled in real time.\nThe throat of the rearview and sliding down it the Street of Farewell’s now unrolled in real time.\nI heard the incessant dissolving of silk—\nI felt my heart growing so old in real time.\nHer heart must be ash where her body lies burned. What hope lets your hands rake the cold in real time?\nNow Friend, the Belovèd has stolen your words—\nRead slowly: The plot will unfold in real time.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes the poet is Ted Hughes",
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"text": "I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:\nSomething else is alive\nBeside the clock’s loneliness\nAnd this blank page where my fingers move.\nThrough the window I see no star:\nSomething more near\nThough deeper within darkness\nIs entering the loneliness:\nCold, delicately as the dark snow\nA fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;\nTwo eyes serve a movement, that now\nAnd again now, and now, and now\nSets neat prints into the snow\nBetween trees, and warily a lame\nShadow lags by stump and in hollow\nOf a body that is bold to come\nAcross clearings, an eye,\nA widening deepening greenness,\nBrilliantly, concentratedly,\nComing about its own business\nTill, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox\nIt enters the dark hole of the head.\nThe window is starless still; the clock ticks,\nThe page is printed.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is There Was a Crooked Man by Mother Goose the poet is Mother Goose",
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"text": "There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile,\nHe found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;\nHe bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse,\nAnd they all lived together in a little crooked house.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free by William Wordsworth the poet is William Wordsworth",
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"text": "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,\nThe holy time is quiet as a Nun\nBreathless with adoration; the broad sun\nIs sinking down in its tranquility;\nThe gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea;\nListen! the mighty Being is awake,\nAnd doth with his eternal motion make\nA sound like thunder—everlastingly.\nDear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,\nIf thou appear untouched by solemn thought,\nThy nature is not therefore less divine:\nThou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;\nAnd worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,\nGod being with thee when we know it not.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Nani by Alberto Ríos the poet is Alberto Ríos",
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"text": "Sitting at her table, she serves\nthe sopa de arroz to me\ninstinctively, and I watch her,\nthe absolute mamá, and eat words\nI might have had to say more\nout of embarrassment. To speak,\nnow-foreign words I used to speak,\ntoo, dribble down her mouth as she serves\nme albóndigas. No more\nthan a third are easy to me.\nBy the stove she does something with words\nand looks at me only with her\nback. I am full. I tell her\nI taste the mint, and watch her speak\nsmiles at the stove. All my words\nmake her smile. Nani never serves\nherself, she only watches me\nwith her skin, her hair. I ask for more.\n\nI watch the mamá warming more\ntortillas for me. I watch her\nfingers in the flame for me.\nNear her mouth, I see a wrinkle speak\nof a man whose body serves\nthe ants like she serves me, then more words\nfrom more wrinkles about children, words\nabout this and that, flowing more\neasily from these other mouths. Each serves\nas a tremendous string around her,\nholding her together. They speak\nNani was this and that to me\nand I wonder just how much of me\nwill die with her, what were the words\nI could have been, was. Her insides speak\nthrough a hundred wrinkles, now, more\nthan she can bear, steel around her,\nshouting, then, What is this thing she serves?\n\nShe asks me if I want more.\nI own no words to stop her.\nEven before I speak, she serves.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Keyways by Owen Sheers the poet is Owen Sheers",
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"text": "Strange then, that this should be our last time together.\nStanding in line at the locksmith's\nwaiting for a set of your keys to be cut\nso I can visit your flat when you're out\nand take back all that's mine again.\n\nThe hot day outside presses to the shop window glass,\nlights the uncut sets along the wall\nlike lucky charms along a bracelet.\nAnd I realise that's how I felt when we first met -\nan uncut key, a smooth blade, edentate,\n\n\nwaiting for your impression, the milling and grooves\nof moments in time, until our keyways would fit,\nas they finally did in that chapel, our breaths\nrising and falling in unison as we listened to the Messiah,\ntouching at elbow, shoulder and hip\n\nlike a pair of Siamese twins sharing one lung.\nFrom then on I was sure we were keyed alike.\nThat our combinations matched,\nour tumblers aligned precisely to give and roll perfectly\ninto the other's empty spaces.\n\nAnd at night, when you slept facing away from me\nand I held the bow of your hip,\nagain it was coming home, my stomach, the small of your back,\nmy knees in the hollows of yours, a master key fit.\nSo when did the bolt slip? The blade break in the mouth?\n\nUseless now, I understand, to try and unpick the months\nback to that second when, for the first time,\none us made a turn that failed to dock,\nwent nowhere, stuck half-way, leaving us\nwaiting the expected click, which never came.\n\nSo strange then, that we should do this now,\nthis cutting of keys, just when we're changing all the locks.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Muse by Meena Alexander the poet is Meena Alexander",
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"text": "I was young when you came to me.\nEach thing rings its turn,\nyou sang in my ear, a slip of a thing\ndressed like a convent girl--\nwhite socks, shoes,\ndark blue pinafore, white blouse.\n\nA pencil box in hand: girl, book, tree--\nthose were the words you gave me.\nGirl was penne, hair drawn back,\ngleaming on the scalp,\nthe self in a mirror in a rosewood room\nthe sky at monsoon time, pearl slits\n\nIn cloud cover, a jagged music pours:\ngash of sense, raw covenant\nclasped still in a gold bound book,\npusthakam pages parted,\nink rubbed with mist,\na bird might have dreamt its shadow there\n\nspreading fire in a tree maram.\nYou murmured the word, sliding it on your tongue,\ntrying to get how a girl could turn\ninto a molten thing and not burn.\nCenturies later worn out from travel\nI rest under a tree.\n\nYou come to me\na bird shedding gold feathers,\neach one a quill scraping my tympanum.\nYou set a book to my ribs.\nNight after night I unclasp it\nat the mirror's edge\n\nalphabets flicker and soar.\nWrite in the light\nof all the languages\nyou know the earth contains,\nyou murmur in my ear.\nThis is pure transport.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Among the Rocks by Robert Browning the poet is Robert Browning",
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"text": "Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,\nThis autumn morning! How he sets his bones\nTo bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet\nFor the ripple to run over in its mirth;\nListening the while, where on the heap of stones\nThe white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.\n\nThat is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;\nSuch is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.\nIf you loved only what were worth your love,\nLove were clear gain, and wholly well for you:\nMake the low nature better by your throes!\nGive earth yourself, go up for gain above!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Old Timers by Carl Sandburg the poet is Carl Sandburg",
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"text": "I am an ancient reluctant conscript.\n\nOn the soup wagons of Xerxes I was a cleaner of pans.\nOn the march of Miltiades' phalanx I had a haft and head;\nI had a bristling gleaming spear-handle.\n\nRed-headed Cæsar picked me for a teamster.\nHe said, \"Go to work, you Tuscan bastard,\nRome calls for a man who can drive horses.\"\n\nThe units of conquest led by Charles the Twelfth,\nThe whirling whimsical Napoleonic columns:\nThey saw me one of the horseshoers.\n\nI trimmed the feet of a white horse Bonaparte swept the night stars with.\n\nLincoln said, \"Get into the game; your nation takes you.\"",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Expect Nothing by Alice Walker the poet is Alice Walker",
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"text": "Expect nothing. Live frugally\nOn surprise.\nBecome a stranger\nTo need of pity\nOr, if compassion be freely\nGiven out\nTake only enough.\nStop short of urge to plead\nThen purge away the need.\nWish for nothing larger\nThan your own small heart\nOr greater than a star;\nTame wild disappointment\nWith caress unmoved and cold.\nMake of it a parka\nFor your soul.\n\nDiscover the reason why\nSo tiny human midget\nExists at all\nSo scared unwise.\nBut expect nothing. Live frugally\nOn surprise.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Dali, Hussain, or Odour of Dream, Colour of Wind by Thangjam Ibopishak Singh the poet is Thangjam Ibopishak Singh",
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"text": "My uncle from Wangu asked me:\nHow many bushels of paddy\nHave you stored for this season?\nI asked my friend Kesho again:\nHow many kgs of poems have you written for this month?\nWrite and then tear up, write and then tear up;\nA cashier counts old one rupee notes\nA rotten, mouldy bundle of notes\nOne thousand ...\nSeven hundred ...\nOnly eleven ...\nSpending one hour two minutes and fifteen seconds.\nThen after the final count, washing his hands clean with dettol\nHe eats up the notes, one by one.\nTrue, the poet says:\nLeaves do not move without a fleeting wind.\nTrue, I also say:\nEven if the wind blows or not, even if it rains or not,\nLeaves never move\nIf there are no leaves\nOn the bare tree.\nOne knows man’s thoughts from his speech\nAs for the mind’s words of a tight-lipped man\nOne can read them from his eyes;\nThat is why to conceal my mind\nI put on dark glasses;\nAgain, so that even the glasses cannot read\nI keep my two eyes shut.\n(Men who close their eyes can be seen inside a lockup\nOr inside a sacred temple).\nI’ve never seen fish flying in the sky\nBut I often saw ducks floating on water.\nYou say: you are wrong\nI say: I am wrong\nThe Vedas say: ‘In Brahma\nLies zero.’\nYou also say and I too declare: What they call ‘you’\nIs never me.\nWhich is more fragrant\nThe report of guns or the scent of flowers?\nThe sound of guns lies on the nose,\nThe odour of flowers on the tips of flowers.\nBlind men see colours on voices.\nA love letter\nA horoscope of my grandfather\nA radio which belongs to our mother\nA pair of tweezers of my son\nTen bottles of rum flying in air\nOne brassiere which belongs to my grandmother\nA pair of lingams\nA bird carrying a bunch of keys in its beak\nOne whistle\nTwo butterflies\nA cake of soap\nA Shakespearean sonnet\nA pair of clogs\nTied up by women’s hair. (What’s left?\nAdd some of your own).\nAn egg\nSinks slowly\nSlowly, very slowly...\nPiercing my sleeping teenage daughter’s\nHairless pate.\nThen her two ears move lazily.\nOne day, wanting to own a peepal tree\nI climbed atop a rich man’s tall building, and,\nEntering his bathroom, looked for one.\n(I like peepal trees very much;\nI would like to see every citizen of Imphal\nWalking with a small peepal tree\nGrowing on his head).\nThen inside that bathroom\nI found my wife leaning:\nHalf her body, waist above turning into a peepal\nWaist below her body without clothes.\nI was not surprised\nI was not worried\nI did not cry.\nGirish Karnad,\nMy wife metamorphosed into your Chelluvi!\nHow can I claim now\nThat I like peepal trees?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Ascetic by Patrick Kavanagh the poet is Patrick Kavanagh",
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"text": "That in the end\nI may find\nSomething not sold for a penny\nIn the slums of Mind.\n\nThat I may break\nWith these hands\nThe bread of wisdom that grows\nIn the other lands.\n\nFor this, for this\nDo I wear\nThe rags of hunger and climb\nThe unending stair.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Sweeney Erect by T.S. Eliot the poet is T.S. Eliot",
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"text": null,
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"text": "And the trees about me,\nLet them be dry and leafless; let the rocks\nGroan with continual surges; and behind me\nMake all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!\nPaint me a cavernous waste shore\nCast in the unstilted Cyclades,\nPaint me the bold anfractuous rocks\nFaced by the snarled and yelping seas.\nDisplay me Aeolus above\nReviewing the insurgent gales\nWhich tangle Ariadne's hair\nAnd swell with haste the perjured sails.\nMorning stirs the feet and hands\n(Nausicaa and Polypheme),\nGesture of orang-outang\nRises from the sheets in steam.\nThis withered root of knots of hair\nSlitted below and gashed with eyes,\nThis oval O cropped out with teeth:\nThe sickle motion from the thighs\nJackknifes upward at the knees\nThen straightens out from heel to hip\nPushing the framework of the bed\nAnd clawing at the pillow slip.\nSweeney addressed full length to shave\nBroadbottomed, pink from nape to base,\nKnows the female temperament\nAnd wipes the suds around his face.\n(The lengthened shadow of a man\nIs history, said Emerson\nWho had not seen the silhouette\nOf Sweeney straddled in the sun).\nTests the razor on his leg\nWaiting until the shriek subsides.\nThe epileptic on the bed\nCurves backward, clutching at her sides.\nThe ladies of the corridor\nFind themselves involved, disgraced,\nCall witness to their principles\nAnd deprecate the lack of taste\nObserving that hysteria\nMight easily be misunderstood;\nMrs. Turner intimates\nIt does the house no sort of good.\nBut Doris, towelled from the bath,\nEnters padding on broad feet,\nBringing sal volatile\nAnd a glass of brandy neat.",
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[
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Waking in Winter by Sylvia Plath the poet is Sylvia Plath",
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"text": "I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.\nWinter dawn is the color of metal,\nThe trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.\nAll night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-\nAn assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I\nInching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green\nPoison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones,\nNoiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.\n\nHow the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up\nThe skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view!\nSpace! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely.\nCot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —-\nEach nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared.\nThe deathly guests had not been satisfied\nWith the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants,\nOr the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Dash by Linda Ellis the poet is Linda Ellis",
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"text": "I read of a man who stood to speak\nAt the funeral of a friend\nHe referred to the dates on the tombstone\nFrom the beginning...to the end\n\nHe noted that first came the date of birth\nAnd spoke the following date with tears,\nBut he said what mattered most of all\nWas the dash between those years\n\nFor that dash represents all the time\nThat they spent alive on earth.\nAnd now only those who loved them\nKnow what that little line is worth\n\nFor it matters not, how much we own,\nThe cars...the house...the cash.\nWhat matters is how we live and love\nAnd how we spend our dash.\n\nSo, think about this long and hard.\nAre there things you'd like to change?\nFor you never know how much time is left\nThat can still be rearranged.\n\nIf we could just slow down enough\nTo consider what's true and real\nAnd always try to understand\nThe way other people feel.\n\nAnd be less quick to anger\nAnd show appreciation more\nAnd love the people in our lives\nLike we've never loved before.\n\nIf we treat each other with respect\nAnd more often wear a smile,\nRemembering this special dash\nMight only last a little while\n\nSo, when your eulogy is being read\nWith your life's actions to rehash...\nWould you be proud of the things they say\nAbout how you spent YOUR dash?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron the poet is Lord Byron",
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"text": "She walks in beauty, like the night\nOf cloudless climes and starry skies;\nAnd all that’s best of dark and bright\nMeet in her aspect and her eyes;\nThus mellowed to that tender light\nWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.\n\nOne shade the more, one ray the less,\nHad half impaired the nameless grace\nWhich waves in every raven tress,\nOr softly lightens o’er her face;\nWhere thoughts serenely sweet express,\nHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.\n\nAnd on that cheek, and o’er that brow,\nSo soft, so calm, yet eloquent,\nThe smiles that win, the tints that glow,\nBut tell of days in goodness spent,\nA mind at peace with all below,\nA heart whose love is innocent!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Little Boy Lost by William Blake the poet is William Blake",
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"text": null,
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"text": "Father, father, where are you going\nO do not walk so fast.\nSpeak father, speak to your little boy\nOr else I shall be lost,\n\nThe night was dark no father was there\nThe child was wet with dew.\nThe mire was deep, & the child did weep\nAnd away the vapour flew.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is White Apples by Donald Hall the poet is Donald Hall",
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"text": "when my father had been dead a week\nI woke\nwith his voice in my ear\nI sat up in bed\nand held my breath\nand stared at the pale closed door\n\nwhite apples and the taste of stone\n\nif he called again\nI would put on my coat and galoshes",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Folk poet, Ysinno by Lakdasa Wikramasingha the poet is Lakdasa Wikramasingha",
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"text": "Ysinno cut the bamboo near Haniketta ,\nAnd from those wattles made his hut\nAnd had nothing to cover it with, nothing\nLike a hundred and sixty\nBales of straw.\n\nSo he made his way to the Walauva at Iddamalgoda\nAnd to the Menike said how poor he was.\nAnd how from his twenties he had made those lines of song\nSwearing before her all his fealties.\nSo she said, Wait for the Yala\nHarvest and take the straw.\n\nYsinno said, O the rains are coming near,\nMy woman fretting, her kid will get all wet\nThen the kind Menike said, O then\nYou take what straw you need from the behind shed\nAnd Ysinno being a folk poet and his lines not being all dead ,\nThe benison of the Menike of Iddamalgoda\nLives even today.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Arms and the Boy by Wilfred Owen the poet is Wilfred Owen",
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"text": null,
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"text": "Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade\nHow cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;\nBlue with all malice, like a madman's flash;\nAnd thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.\n\nLend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads, \nWhich long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads, \nOr give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth \nSharp with the sharpness of grief and death.\n\nFor his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.\nThere lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;\nAnd God will grow no talons at his heels,\nNor antlers through the thickness of his curls.",
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[
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"content": [
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is A Minor Role by U.A. Fanthorpe the poet is U.A. Fanthorpe",
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
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"text": "I’m best observed on stage,\nPropping a spear, or making endless\nExits and entrances with my servant’s\npatter, Yes, sir. O no, sir. If I get\nThese midget moments wrong, the monstrous fabric\nShrinks to unwanted sniggers.\n\nBut my heart’s in the unobtrusive,\nThe waiting-room roles: driving to hospitals,\nParking at hospitals. Holding hands under\nVeteran magazines; making sense\nOf consultants’ monologues; asking pointed\nQuestions politely; checking dosages,\nDates; getting on terms with receptionists;\nSustaining the background music of civility.\nAt home in the street you may see me\nWalking fast in case anyone stops:\ngetting on, getting better my formula\nFor well-meant intrusiveness.\n\nAt home,\nThinking ahead: Bed? A good idea!\n(Bed solves a lot); answer the phone,\nBe wary what I say to it, but grateful always;\nContrive meals for hunger-striker; track down\nWhimsical soft-centred happy-all-the-way-through novels;\nFind the cat (mysteriously reassuring);\nCancel things; pretend all’s well,\nAdmit it’s not. Learn to conjugate all the genres of misery:\nTears, torpor, boredom, lassitude, yearnings\nFor a simpler illness, like a broken leg.\nEnduring ceremonial delays. Being referred\nSomewhere else. Consultant’s holiday. Saying Thank you,\nFor anything to everyone\nNot the star part.\n\nAnd who would want it? I jettison the spear,\nThe servant’s try, the terrible drone of Chorus:\nYet to my thinking this act was ill advised\nIt would have been better to die*. No it wouldn’t!\nI am here to make you believe in life.",
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[
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"content": [
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Base Details by Siegfried Sassoon the poet is Siegfried Sassoon",
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
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"index": null,
"text": "If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath\nI'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,\nAnd speed glum heroes up the line to death.\nYou'd see me with my puffy petulant face,\nGuzzling and gulping in the best hotel,\nReading the Roll of Honour. \"Poor young chap,\"\nI'd say — \"I used to know his father well;\nYes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap.\"\nAnd when the war is done and youth stone dead,\nI'd toddle safely home and die — in bed.",
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[
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"content": [
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"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Funeral by Norman Dubie the poet is Norman Dubie",
"type": "text"
},
{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
"type": "image"
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"content": [
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"index": null,
"text": "It felt like the zero in brook ice.\nShe was my youngest aunt, the summer before\nWe had stood naked\nWhile she stiffened and giggled, letting the minnows\nNibble at her toes. I was almost four—\nThat evening she took me\nTo the springhouse where on the scoured planks\nThere were rows of butter in small bricks, a mold\nLike ermine on the cheese,\nAnd cut onions to rinse the air\nOf the black, sickly-sweet meats of rotting pecans.\n\nShe said butter was colored with marigolds\nPlucked down by the marsh\nWith its tall grass and miner’s-candles.\nWe once carried the offal’s pail beyond the barn\nTo where the fox could be caught in meditation.\nHer bed linen smelled of camphor. We went\n\nIn late March for her burial. I heard the men talk.\nI saw the minnows nibble at her toe.\nAnd Uncle Peter, in a low voice, said\nThe cancer ate her like horse piss eats deep snow.",
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[
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"content": [
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"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Women Gather by Nikki Giovanni the poet is Nikki Giovanni",
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
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"content": [
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"text": "The women gather because it is not unusual to seek comfort in our hours of stress.\nA man must be buried.\nIt is not unusual that the old bury the young though it is an abomination.\nIt is not strange that the unwise and the ungentle carry the banner of humaneness though it is a castration of the spirit.\nIt no longer shatters the intellect that those who make war call themselves diplomats.\nWe are no longer surprised that the unfaithful pray loudest every Sunday in church and sometimes in rooms facing east though it is a sin and a shame.\nSo how do we judge a man.\nMost of us love from our need to love not because we find someone deserving.\nMost of us forgive because we have trespassed not because we are magnanimous.\nMost of us comfort because we need comforting, our ancient rituals demand that we give what we hope to receive.\nAnd how do we judge a man.\nWe learn to greet when meeting, to cry when parting and to soften our words at times of stress.\nThe women gather with cloth and ointment, their busy hands bowing to laws that decree willows shall stand swaying but unbroken against even the determined wind of death.\nWe judge a man by his dreams, not alone his deeds.\nWe judge a man by his intent, not alone his shortcomings.\nWe judge a man because it is not unusual to know him through those who love him.\nThe women gather strangers to each other because they have loved a man.\nIt is not unusual to sift through ashes and find an unburnt picture…",
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