You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo
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Daddy- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 4 views
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You do not do, you do not do Any more
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Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo .
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This has been among my favorite poems because of it's graphic stark imagery of the narrator's father. Also, Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite authors. Some of the images are based on her real relationship with her father and her unhappy marriage to writer, Ted Hughes
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Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du.
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Plath's father, Otto, died in 1940 of complications due to diabetes when Sylvia was 81/2 years old. She said that she feld "a loss of faith after his death."
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Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend
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Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene
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An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew.
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More Nazi imagery. The narrator feels oppressed by her father and tortured by his dominance and his death.
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Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend 1Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene 1An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.
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pack
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The
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With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And
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I have always been scared of you,
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1Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend 1Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene 1An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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The Narrator begins to compare her father to a Nazi. It is worth noting that Plath's father came from Poland.
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You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who
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1 Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend 1Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene 1An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones
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would do.
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1 Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend 1Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene 1An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man
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But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through.
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The Narrator married a man who she felt was a stand-in for her father. She was unhappy with him as well.
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1 Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend 1Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene 1An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. 1But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years
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1 Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do 1Any more , black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo . 1Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend 1Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene 1An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. 1But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed t
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The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years , if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through
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Now she compares her father and her husband to vampires. The final stanza about the villagers dancing seems like the end of an old Dracula movie! Plath married Hughes were married in 1956 and had two children. It was unhappy and during a seperation, Plath committed suicide in 1963.
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This has been among my favorite poems, because of it's stark very graphic imagery of the narrator's father and Plath is one of my favorite authors. Some of the images are based on Plath's real life father, and later her troubled marriage to writer, Ted Hughes.
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The Raven- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 1 views
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The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
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Classic poem of the macabre. It is a story that is either a man's interaction with the supernatural, or a man who looses his mind with grief. Thinking a bird is somthing other than what it is. One of Poe's most famous works.
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Classic poem of the macabre. It is a story that is either a man's interaction with the supernatural, or a man who looses his mind with grief. Thinking a bird is somthing other than what it is. One of Poe's most famous works.
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I, Too, Sing America- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 0 views
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I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong
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I think that Langston Hughes was relecting on the plight of African Americans in this poem .
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I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes , But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong
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Hughes describes the hardships of African Americans but at the same time expresses the strength that they have as they laugh, eat and grow strong. The future is reflected with words such as "Tommorow" and "Then."
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I always picture Walt Whitman reading his poem, then Langston Hughes reading his answer, and the Sojourner Truth rising to read, "Ain't I a Woman?" Kind of a readers' theater setting. :)
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Nothing Gold Can Stay- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 3 views
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I think Frost is writing about how life is not always perfect. There are definitely wonderful, "gold" moments throughout life. They do not even have to be decadent moments to be perfect. For example, "green" appears as "gold" and a simple leaf is "a flower." It does not last - "only so an hour" before "Eden" sinks. However, dawn does not turn to night but to day. The perfect moment may have passed, the paradise may be gone, but there is still light.
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Jabberwocky - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 0 views
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One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
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Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
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'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wab
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LibraryTechTalk - 0 views
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LibraryH3lp allows you to transfer questions to other operators within your institution. You’ll be able to see who is signed in and available, IM them to make sure they have time to help, and transfer questions to colleagues with special knowledge and/or shorter lines.
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This would be a nice benefit. We use Meebo now, and to my knowledge, this is not possible.
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A Blessing - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 1 views
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That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.
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I'm not the best with poem interpretation. But for me, I look at this last line as the poet stating that the nuzzle of the pony in her hand makes this moment such a happy one - that if this person were a flower, he would bloom right at that moment. This depicts the happiness of this special moment.
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A poem of friendship. What do you think the last line means to you? I have shared what I think.
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Seven Wonders of the World - Travel Channel - 0 views
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The New Wonders
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The Coliseum is on this list. I only wonder why it was never on the list of original wonders...
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Narcolepsy Information Page: National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke (N... - 0 views
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For example, many people with narcolepsy take short, regularly scheduled naps at times when they tend to feel sleepiest.
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Narcolepsy information sheet compiled by the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke (NINDS).
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FitDay - Free Weight Loss and Diet Journal - 0 views
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Free Online AccountUse your free online account to enter your daily foods and exercise. FitDay analyzes all your information and shows you:
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Free account is actually more convenient than the paid-for software, since you can access it anywhere.
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free online diet journal and
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Track and analyze your nutrition, weight loss, diet and fitness over the web. Its free and private!
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"Out, Out-" - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 0 views
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No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
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The last line always confused me because I always thought it contradicted the, "Call it a day, I wish they might have said" line that occurs earlier in the poem, yet when I look at it now, I realize that he's referring to the workingmen continuing going about their day. This last line illustrates the "show must go on" attitude of business.
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"Out, Out--" by Robert Frost - 1 views
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I graduated with a B.F.A. in creative writing at the University of Evansville, and poetry was always the most difficult form of writing for me to understand. However, poetry also became the most beautiful form of writing I studied once I began to understand it a little better. This particular poem was one of the first poems I read at UE that really evoked emotion from me. It's not the happiest poem (what poem about the death of a worker boy by blood loss from losing a hand could be happy?), but the most important thing to get from this poem is the feelings the narrator is trying to convey.
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The Writer - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 0 views
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Children grow up way to fast, and before you know it they are making their won way in the world.
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In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My daughter is writing a story.
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Young as she is, the stuff Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy: I wish her a lucky passage.
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I remember the dazed starling Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago; How we stole in, lifted a sash
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And wait then, humped and bloody, For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits Rose when, suddenly sure, It lifted off from a chair-back, Beating a smooth course for the right window And clearing the sill of the world. It is always a matter, my darling, Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish What I wished you before, but harder.
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A Visit from Saint Nicholas - Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More - 1 views
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'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
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This particular line always gives me warm fuzzies. Granted, I heard this poem first in a cartoon format, but the cartoon images that now pop into my head when I read this always make me smile.
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But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick
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I was exposed to this -after- seeing the Rudolph cartoon, and remember thinking that it was a huge difference from the larger reindeers in that cartoon!
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But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
