Song as poetry. Depeche Mode Only when I loose myself.

This song has alot of visual and tactial imagary, synaesthesia, symbol, metaphor, synecdoche, allusion, apostrophe,and, ambiguity.



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It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
Then I find myself
I find myself
It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
Then I find myself
I find myself
Something beautiful is happening inside for me
Something sensual, it's full of fire and mystery
I feel hypnotized, I feel paralized
I have found heaven
There's a thousand reasons
Why I should not spent my time with you
For every reason not to be here I can think of two
Keep me hanging on
Feeling nothing's wrong
Inside your heaven
It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
Then I find myself
I find myself
It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
Then I find myself
I find myself
I can feel the emptiness inside me fade & disappear
There's a feeling of content that now you are here
I feel satisfied
I belong inside
Your velvet heaven
Did I need to sell my soul
For pleasure like this
Did I have to lose control
To treasure your kiss
Did I need to place my heart
In the palm of your hand
Before I could even start
To understand
It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
Then I find myself
I find myself
It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
That I find my life
I find myself
It's Only When I Lose Myself in someone else
Then I find myself
I find myself

I like this one pome about spring because it speaks of pain, love, and time. In the second stanza, I see alergies and in the third, fourth and fifth it talks about love, and time. Ode to Spring   by Frederick Seidel I can only find words for. And sometimes I can't. Here are these flowers that stand for. I stand here on the sidewalk. I can't stand it, but yes of course I understand it. Everything has to have meaning. Things have to stand for something. I can't take the time. Even skin-deep is too deep. I say to the flower stand man: Beautiful flowers at your flower stand, man. I'll take a dozen of the lilies. I'm standing as it were on my knees Before a little man up on a raised Runway altar where his flowers are arrayed Along the outside of the shop. I take my flames and pay inside. I go off and have sexual intercourse. The woman is the woman I love. The room displays thirteen lilies. I stand on the surface.

Ode to things by Pablo Neruda I have a crazy, crazy love of things. I like pliers, and scissors. I love cups, rings, and bowls – not to speak, of course, of hats. I love all things, not just the grandest, also the infinite- ly small – thimbles, spurs, plates, and flower vases. Oh yes, the planet is sublime! It’s full of pipes weaving hand-held through tobacco smoke, and keys and salt shakers – everything, I mean, that is made by the hand of man, every little thing: shapely shoes, and fabric, and each new bloodless birth of gold, eyeglasses, carpenter’s nails, brushes, clocks, compasses, coins, and the so-soft softness of chairs. Mankind has built oh so many perfect things! Built them of wool and of wood, of glass and of rope: remarkable tables, ships, and stairways. I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling but because, I don’t know, because this ocean is yours, and mine: these buttons and wheels and little forgotten treasures, fans upon whose feathers love has scattered its blossoms, glasses, knives and scissors – all bear the trace of someone’s fingers on their handle or surface, the trace of a distant hand lost in the depths of forgetfulness. I pause in houses, streets and elevators, touching things, identifying objects that I secretly covet: this one because it rings, that one because it’s as soft as the softness of a woman’s hip, that one there for its deep-sea color, and that one for its velvet feel. O irrevocable river of things: no one can say that I loved only fish, or the plants of the jungle and the field, that I loved only those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive. It’s not true: many things conspired to tell me the whole story. Not only did they touch me, or my hand touched them: they were so close that they were a part of my being, they were so alive with me that they lived half my life and will die half my death.   I like this pome because it talks about so many different things.

Robert Frost Pome

Ghost House I DWELL in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out. It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me— Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,— With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things, As sweet companions as might be had. I chose this pome because I was caught by the title, and drawn in deeper by the pome itself. I like how he describs the purple-stemmed wild rasberries, and paints a picture with the words. You can see the grave stones in your mind covered in moss. He uses a lot of visual and auditory cues in this pome.

Woo Hoo I created my Blog.... Now what?

It is going to take me a bit to learn, but that is what I'm here for.