Old man old man poem. The Bridge Builder by Will Allen Dromgoole 2022-10-14
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The poem "Old Man" by Sylvia Plath is a complex and poignant meditation on the passage of time and the impact of aging on the human experience. Plath uses the metaphor of the old man to explore the way in which the body and mind deteriorate as we grow older, and the ways in which we try to hold on to our youth and vitality even as we are faced with the reality of our own mortality.
The poem begins with a vivid and unsettling image of the old man, described as a "frosty silence" and a "stony face." This image conveys the sense of isolation and detachment that often accompanies old age, as well as the sense of estrangement from the world that can result from the loss of physical and mental abilities.
As the poem progresses, Plath delves deeper into the theme of aging and its effects on the human psyche. She speaks of the old man's "wrinkled hands," which suggest the physical decline and frailty that often come with old age. She also mentions the old man's "vacant eyes," which suggest a sense of disconnection and loss of vitality.
Despite these bleak descriptions, Plath does not paint a completely negative portrait of the old man. She also speaks of his "gentle mouth" and "kindness," which suggest that even in old age, there is still a sense of compassion and humanity that persists.
Ultimately, "Old Man" is a poignant and thought-provoking meditation on the passage of time and the ways in which we try to hold on to our youth and vitality even as we age and our bodies and minds begin to deteriorate. Through vivid and evocative language, Plath captures the complexity and depth of the human experience as we navigate the challenges and changes that come with old age.
Old Man Poem Summary and Analysis
The herb itself I like not, but for certain I love it, as some day the child will love it Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush Whenever she goes in or out of the house. All of this must be passing through the old man's thoughts While he looks at the turquoise butterfly In such a childish and lively manner. Lifelong adjuster of environments, Lord once of shed, garage and garden, Each with its proper complement of tackle, World authority on twelve different Sorts of glue, connoisseur of nuts And bolts, not good with daughters But a dab hand with the Black and Decker, Self-demoted in your nineties to washing-up After supper, and missing crusted streaks Of food on plates; have you forgotten The jokes you no longer tell, as you forget If you've smoked your timetabled cigarette? His time grew short, and near the last How had those years gone by so fast? I wonder where his thoughts are traveling now And which soul in heaven do they touch? He draws a surprising parallel between these two times in his life: during both, he yearned for some beautiful "picture" or ideal vision, but could never reach it, despite his best efforts. He looked at battles, lost or won The gains or losses, every one And what he had or hadn't done Now he had lived his life. As he became old and increasingly helpless his daughter has to deal with her mixed feelings — resentment and desire to help him negotiate the world — and accept the contradiction of her love for him now he is helpless.
When, haply, you have fared Where glad Aladdin shared His lamp with you, and dared The Afrite and his clan; And, with him, clambered through The trees where jewels grew — And filled your pockets, too, Old Man? The final couplet is crisp and decisive, the voice of the daughter taking control. I cannot like the scent, Yet I would rather give up others more sweet, With no meaning, than this bitter one. It suggests a very specific type of emotional turmoil. He lives in a world of small recalcitrant Things in bottles, with tacky labels. So the rest can be played for fools. Often she waits there, snipping the tips andshrivelling The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs Her fingers and runs off. And yet I find a sly Little twinkle in your eye; And your whisperingly shy Little laugh is simply an Internal shout of glee That betrays the fallacy You'd perpetrate on me, Old Man! Albert Einstein quote: ".
There is no rhyme scheme. He feels lost in his pursuit of memory and alludes to the emotional turmoil this fact causes him. Perhaps this is the reason why The old man's sad face looks up Instead of down, Why the sparkle of life still glows In his tired eyes. When I left, you tried not to cry. Stanza Four I have mislaid the key. Regrets and pleasures, all were past.
Twisted forces tempt to abuse having doubts, deny and confuse - truths used as toys, science as tools. The bush is still But half as tall as she, though it is as old; So well she clips it. The speaker turns from his consideration of a young girl, who is likely his daughter, to himself. Though still primitive and childlike, it finds first tracks on which to strike. Or, with Sinbad, at sea — And in veracity Who has sinned as bad as he, Or would, or will, or can? He was always A man who did-it-himself.
This is what I am thinking about while looking Into the sad face of an old man Who is motionlessly starring into the distance, As if down there, In the blue eye of the dreamy sea He shall find all the answers. It is only in the last stanza that there is a subtle tone of understated love. His brother's and sister's souls? As for myself, Where first I met the bitter scent is lost. And — as often you have leant, In boyish sentiment, To kiss the letter sent By Nelly, Belle, or Nan — Wherein the rose's hue Was red, the violet blue — And sugar sweet — and you, Old Man, — So, to-day, as lives the bloom, And the sweetness, and perfume Of the blossoms, I assume, On the same mysterious plan The Master's love assures, That the selfsame boy endures In that hale old heart of yours,. He no longer has access to the images he wants to remember from his youth. So he looked back, long years and short Examined things he didn't ought The chances dropped, the chances caught And how he'd lived his life.
And yet I like the names. The poem deals with the changing relationship of a man and his daughter. It seems that the old man feels it, And he raises his tired eyes whenever he hears The harmonious sound of the butterfly's turquoise wings, And death, Like a dark lady, Respectfully waits for its turn, As if it took pity on the old man's boyish gaze; How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind While he helplessly sits And waits for death? Why, the fleetest boy in town, As he bared his feet and ran, Could read with half a glance — And of keen rebuke, perchance — Your secret countenance, Old Man! Few children dare to stare away while others sit and play all day. His skill in DIY was in contrast to his coldness as a father. Even to one that knows it well, the names Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: At least, what that is clings not to the names In spite of time.
This butterfly is very young, But his noble parentage is very old, And that noble parentage used to spread its turquoise light In the times of the old man's parents And grandparents, Back in the time when hope was born and people say that hopes are younger than solitude. The old man sat in the rocking chair With empty hands, his feet were bare. And the host of friends you had — Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan; And the old School-Teacher, too, Though he often censured you; And the girls in pink and blue, Old Man. When he stops to smell the plant, it transports him. Throughout this piece, the Old Man Edward Thomas Old Man, or Lad's-love,—in the name there's nothing To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man, The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree, Growing with rosemary and lavender.
How many wishes and hopes pass through a man's mind? This includes a discussion of life, death, childhood, home, and memory. Now television has no power to arouse Your surliness; your wife could replace on the walls Those pictures of disinherited children, And you wouldn't know. I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing; Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait For what I should, yet never can, remember: No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside, Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate; Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end. Babies do grow and take the veil; when they learn, science shall prevail. The speaker expands on his feelings about the plant in the second stanza. Old man, old man, So obdurate in your contracted world, Living in almost-dark, I can see you, You said to me, but only as a cloud.
