Analysis of The Park



Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Noon comes; the hours pass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Silence reigns throughout the park.
A crumpled headline, a forgotten toy,
lifeless, do not hear a far-off bark.
In the park, not a single little boy.
Midnight comes; the hours go --
soon, the sky begins to glow...
morning breaks, and with it, sound.
White skeletons of benches -- slats --
in all the wintry parks of Age
fill up in morning. Deserted flats,
each with the aspect of a cage,
become an unused, waiting gauge
that measures dull and wasted years --
floods of loneliness -- rivers of fears...
In the park, begins the morning round.
The weak and battered, pallid crowd
which, daily, parks ingest,
speak in muted tones; but loud
is the message all suggest.
The clangor of the beaten Belles,
trampled in the slime of years,
entreats the mind to plug its ears;
yet, if it will, it hears...
memories, perhaps, keep active still
the shriveled and the loosened flaps
that are the mouths of all the Bills --
reduced to gray and ugly gaps...
Down the graveled pathways come
children bent on carefree play.
Belles, though silent, are not dumb,
nor will the Bills forego their say.
But warnings fall on ears too deaf;
around are eyes too blind to see.
And so the tots, too young for Death,
play on and on till time for tea.
Day after day after day
children come and children play.
Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Once more, deep silence claims the park.
Midnight hours come and go.
The sky again assumes a glow.
The wind stirs dead leaves to rustle.
Starts again the aimless bustle
of the battered, weak, and infirm-eyed:
those whom living failed -- who died
but still must play their signal role
of unloved, friendless, unhailed Old;
who gather daily in the park
to envy tots their vital spark --
the hope, the promise in their eyes --
before it fades, before it dies.
But tots at play, both young and old,
must laugh and sing -- cannot be told
that youth's not long and Time is cold.
Time devours -- a ravenous beast --
and men are the courses at his feast.
Some he swallows in their prime,
some premature. On some he waits
too long a time: these rancid morsels,
Time's midnight snack, explore their memories.
They hie them back to that old moment,
deepest black, when they first dared to know -- and first said --
that Time's the master all men dread.
Yes, kids at play are bold and wise
with flashing smiles and knowing eyes.
They know that Belles and Bills say lies.
Time is but a birthday gift or new surprise;
more games to play; a windy day for a kite one flies;
coins that shine; toys that squeak;
a trip to the zoo at the end of the week.
But Belles and Bills persist in their story.
Some even mention forgotten glory.
Then Belles and Bills go back to flats,
to wait -- to wait till morning comes.
They listen to the rustling rats
and slowly sip their gin or rum.
Eyes are glazed; minds are dazed.
The atmosphere grows dim and hazed.
Children bore easily with grown up prattle;
their thoughts turn to cake and to toys that rattle.
Children go home to eat, to sleep.
Belles and Bills their vigils keep
til falling leaves and a darkening sky
shows them their truth and the children's lie.
Nothing's forever; all things die.
Then do they go; back to an empty room...
each suffering mad Cassandra's doom.
They'll await once more the sun's first ray --
the birth, in the park, of another day.
Before they leave, they look around,
surveying the world to which they're bound;
then, they shuffle away, with an air of sadness
at being, always, on the verge of madness.
The echo of an unheard bark
reverberates throughout the park.
Fallen leaves and a darkened sky
confirm the truth.
Children lie.


Scheme Text too long
Poetic Form
Metre 1010001 1001101 110101 110111 1010101 010100101 101110111 0011010101 110101 1010111 1010111 11001101 01010111 110100101 1101101 01101101 11010101 111001011 001010101 01010101 110101 1010111 1010101 0110101 1000111 1011111 111111 100011101 01000101 11011101 01110101 10111 101111 1110111 11010111 11011111 01111111 01011111 11011111 1101101 1010101 1010001 1001101 110111 11110101 110101 01010101 01111110 10101010 101010011 1110111 11111101 101111 11010001 11011101 01010011 01110111 11111101 11011011 11110111 101001001 011010111 1110011 1011111 110111010 111011100 111111110 101111111011 11010111 11111101 11010101 11110111 1110111101 1111010110111 111111 01101101101 1101010110 1101001010 11011111 11111101 11010101 01011111 111111 0101101 10110011110 11111011110 10111111 1011101 1101001001 111100101 10010111 1111111101 1100111 101110111 0100110101 01111101 010011111 111001111110 1101101110 01011011 0100101 10100101 0101 101
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 3,670
Words 689
Sentences 51
Stanzas 1
Stanza Lengths 104
Lines Amount 104
Letters per line (avg) 28
Words per line (avg) 7
Letters per stanza (avg) 2,910
Words per stanza (avg) 689
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Submitted on May 02, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

3:29 min read
4

L. Larry Amadore

A word lover who enjoys beautiful poetry of all genres and responds with admiration to fresh and felicitous phrases. [Retired manufacturing/production control mgr./marketing manager/financial analyst. USAF veteran; lived in US, Mexico, Germany, Turkey.] more…

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