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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "a love supreme, a love supreme\na love supreme, a love supreme\n\nSex fingers toes\nin the marketplace\nnear your father's church\nin Hamlet, North Carolina—\nwitness to this love\nin this calm fallow\nof these minds,\nthere is no substitute for pain:\ngenitals gone or going,\nseed burned out,\nyou tuck the roots in the earth,\nturn back, and move\nby river through the swamps,\nsinging: a love supreme, a love supreme;\nwhat does it all mean?\nLoss, so great each black\nwoman expects your failure\nin mute change, the seed gone.\nYou plod up into the electric city—\nyour song now crystal and\nthe blues. You pick up the horn\nwith some will and blow\ninto the freezing night:\na love supreme, a love supreme—\n\nDawn comes and you cook\nup the thick sin 'tween\nimpotence and death, fuel\nthe tenor sax cannibal\nheart, genitals, and sweat\nthat makes you clean—\na love supreme, a love supreme—\n\nWhy you so black?\ncause I am\nwhy you so funky?\ncause I am\nwhy you so black?\ncause I am\nwhy you so sweet?\ncause I am\nwhy you so black?\ncause I am\na love supreme, a love supreme:\n\nSo sick\nyou couldn't play Naima,\nso flat we ached\nfor song you'd concealed\nwith your own blood,\nyour diseased liver gave\nout its purity,\nthe inflated heart\npumps out, the tenor kiss,\ntenor love:\na love supreme, a love supreme—\na love supreme, a love supreme—",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "She practises a fugue, though it can matter\nto no one now if she plays well or not.\nBeside her on the floor two children chatter,\nthen scream and fight. She hushes them. A pot\nboils over. As she rushes to the stove\ntoo late, a wave of nausea overpowers\nsubject and counter-subject. Zest and love\ndrain out with soapy water as she scours\nthe crusted milk. Her veins ache. Once she played\nfor Rubinstein, who yawned. The children caper\nround a sprung mousetrap where a mouse lies dead.\nWhen the soft corpse won't move they seem afraid.\nShe comforts them; and wraps it in a paper\nfeaturing: Tasty dishes from stale bread.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…\nIn life after life, in age after age, forever.\nMy spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,\nThat you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,\nIn life after life, in age after age, forever.\n\nWhenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,\nIts ancient tale of being apart or together.\nAs I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,\nClad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:\nYou become an image of what is remembered forever.\n\nYou and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.\nAt the heart of time, love of one for another.\nWe have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same\nShy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-\nOld love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.\n\nToday it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you\nThe love of all man’s days both past and forever:\nUniversal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.\nThe memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours –\nAnd the songs of every poet past and forever.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Somewhere in the dark sky is a beautiful fight,\none-two, cha cha chá—all our knuckles rapping\n\nagainst the stars’ edges for the dancing master,\nfor a flying sidekick to our bodies’ centers.\n\nMy father called you Little Dragon Lee, told me\nhow you swiveled your hips across the floor—\n\nthree-four, cha cha chá—then you both wrote\nlove poems for a girl in your English class.\n\nI practiced throwing roundhouse kicks as a boy,\nfeet aimed at my reflection in store windows,\n\nat street signs, at parked cars, everything I knew\nI could break. Now, my feet cannot leave\n\nthe ground, and I write love poems for the dead.\nThe last time I watched Enter the Dragon,\n\nI imagined it was my father emerging victorious\nfrom the hall of mirrors, my father hustling\n\non the dance floor, because the last time\nI saw my father, he had been waiting for me\n\nthe whole day in the morgue. Hold me,\nhe said, and I did until his body stopped\n\nacting like it was alive. There is no fight\nwhere there is no spark, no wretched cock crow\n\nin the dark, just this cha cha chá—grief is a fist\nand a promise to hurt someone. Just give it\n\nan inch between knuckle and breastbone.\nIt will punch through everyone.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Love is like water or the air\nmy townspeople;\nit cleanses, and dissipates evil gases.\nIt is like poetry too\nand for the same reasons.\nLove is so precious\nmy townspeople\nthat if I were you I would\nhave it under lock and key—\nlike the air or the Atlantic or\nlike poetry",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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": "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": "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": "When we talk about when to tell the kids,\nwe are so together, so concentrated.\nI mutter, “I feel like a killer.” “I’m\nthe killer”—taking my wrist—he says,\nholding it. He is sitting on the couch,\nthe old indigo chintz around him,\nrich as a night sea with jellies,\nI am sitting on the floor. I look up at him,\nas if within some chamber of matedness,\nsome dust I carry around me. Tonight,\nto breathe its Magellanic field is less\npainful, maybe because he is drinking\na wine grown where I was born—fog,\neucalyptus, sempervirens—and I’m\nsharing the glass with him. “Don’t catch\nmy cold,” he says, “—oh that’s right, you want\nto catch my cold.” I should not have told him that,\nI tell him I will try to fall out of\nlove with him, but I feel I will love him\nall my life. He says he loves me\nas the mother of our children, and new troupes\nof tears mount to the acrobat platforms\nof my ducts and do their burning leaps.\nSome of them jump straight sideways, and, for a\nmoment, I imagine a flurry\nof tears like a whirra of knives thrown\nat a figure, to outline it—a heart’s spurt\nof rage. It glitters, in my vision, I nod\nto it, it is my hope.",
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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": "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": "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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "I used to think that grown-up people chose\nTo have stiff backs and wrinkles round their nose,\nAnd veins like small fat snakes on either hand,\nOn purpose to be grand.\nTill through the banisters I watched one day\nMy great-aunt Etty’s friend who was going away,\nAnd how her onyx beads had come unstrung.\nI saw her grope to find them as they rolled;\nAnd then I knew that she was helplessly old,\nAs I was helplessly young.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "I’ve known rivers:\nI’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.\n\nMy soul has grown deep like the rivers.\n\nI bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.\nI built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.\nI looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.\nI heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.\n\nI’ve known rivers:\nAncient, dusky rivers.\n\nMy soul has grown deep like the rivers.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,\nThere where the vines cling crimson on the wall,\nAnd in the twilight wait for what will come.\nThe leaves will whisper there of her, and some,\nLike flying words, will strike you as they fall;\nBut go, and if you listen she will call.\nGo to the western gate, Luke Havergal—\nLuke Havergal.\n\n\nNo, there is not a dawn in eastern skies\nTo rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;\nBut there, where western glooms are gathering,\nThe dark will end the dark, if anything:\nGod slays Himself with every leaf that flies,\nAnd hell is more than half of paradise.\nNo, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—\nIn eastern skies.\n\n\nOut of a grave I come to tell you this,\nOut of a grave I come to quench the kiss\nThat flames upon your forehead with a glow\nThat blinds you to the way that you must go.\nYes, there is yet one way to where she is,\nBitter, but one that faith may never miss.\nOut of a grave I come to tell you this—\nTo tell you this.\n\n\nThere is the western gate, Luke Havergal,\nThere are the crimson leaves upon the wall.\nGo, for the winds are tearing them away,—\nNor think to riddle the dead words they say,\nNor any more to feel them as they fall;\nBut go, and if you trust her she will call.\nThere is the western gate, Luke Havergal—\nLuke Havergal.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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": "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": "A fortnight before Christmas Gypsies were everywhere:\nVans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to the fair.\n'My gentleman,' said one, 'you've got a lucky face.'\n'And you've a luckier,' I thought, 'if such a grace\nAnd impudence in rags are lucky.' 'Give a penny\nFor the poor baby's sake.' 'Indeed I have not any\nUnless you can give change for a sovereign, my dear.'\n'Then just half a pipeful of tobacco can you spare?'\nI gave it. With that much victory she laughed content.\nI should have given more, but off and away she went\nWith her baby and her pink sham flowers to rejoin\nThe rest before I could translate to its proper coin\nGratitude for her grace. And I paid nothing then,\nAs I pay nothing now with the dipping of my pen\nFor her brother's music when he drummed the tambourine\nAnd stamped his feet, which made the workmen passing grin,\nWhile his mouth-organ changed to a rascally Bacchanal dance\n'Over the hills and far away.' This and his glance\nOutlasted all the fair, farmer, and auctioneer,\nCheap-jack, balloon-man, drover with crooked stick, and steer,\nPig, turkey, goose, and duck, Christmas Corpses to be.\nNot even the kneeling ox had eyes like the Romany.\nThat night he peopled for me the hollow wooded land,\nMore dark and wild than stormiest heavens, that I searched and scanned\nLike a ghost new-arrived. The gradations of the dark\nWere like an underworld of death, but for the spark\nIn the Gypsy boy's black eyes as he played and stamped his tune,\n'Over the hills and far away', and a crescent moon.",
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"text": "When you thought me poor,\nmy poverty was shaming.\nWhen blackness was unwelcome\nwe found it best\nthat I stay home.\nWhen by the miracle\nof fierce dreaming and hard work\nLife fulfilled our every want\nyou found me crassly\nwell off;\nnot trimly,\ninconspicuously wealthy\nlike your rich friends.\nStill black too,\nnow\nI owned too much and too many\nof everything.\nWoe is me: I became a\nsuccess! Blackness, who\nknows how?\nBecame suddenly\nin!\nWhat to do?\nNow that Fate appears\n(for the moment anyhow)\nto have dismissed\nabject failure\nin any case?\nNow that moonlight and night\nhave blessed me.\nNow that the sun\nunaffected by criticism\nof any sort,\nimplacably beams\nthe kiss filled magic that creates\nthe dark and radiant wonder\nof my face.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.\n\nIt doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.\n\nIt doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.\n\nI want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.\n\nI want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.\n\nIt doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.\n\nI want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.\n\nI want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’\n\nIt doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.\n\nIt doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.\n\nIt doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.\n\nI want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.",
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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": "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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Move him into the sun—\nGently its touch awoke him once,\nAt home, whispering of fields half-sown.\nAlways it woke him, even in France,\nUntil this morning and this snow.\nIf anything might rouse him now\nThe kind old sun will know.\n\nThink how it wakes the seeds—\nWoke once the clays of a cold star.\nAre limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides\nFull-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?\nWas it for this the clay grew tall?\n—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil\nTo break earth's sleep at all?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,\nBright topaz denizens of a world of green.\nThey do not fear the men beneath the tree;\nThey pace in sleek chivalric certainty.\n\nAunt Jennifer's finger fluttering through her wool\nFind even the ivory needle hard to pull.\nThe massive weight of Uncle's wedding band\nSits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.\n\nWhen Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie\nStill ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.\nThe tigers in the panel that she made\nWill go on prancing, proud and unafraid.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Impassioned singer of the happy time.\nWhen all the world was waking into morn,\nAnd dew still glistened on the tangled thorn,\nAnd lingered on the branches of the lime, \nOh peerless singer of the golden rhyme,\nHappy wert thou to live ere doubt was born, \nBefore the joy of life was half out-worn,\nAnd nymphs and satyrs vanished from your clime.\nThen maidens bearing parsley in their hands\nWound thro' the groves to where the goddess stands,\nAnd mariners might sail for unknown lands\nPast sea-clasped islands veiled in mystery, \nAnd Venus still was shining from the sea,\nAnd Ceres had not lost Persephone.",
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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": "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": "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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest\nThe seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,\nShedding white rings of tumult, building high\nOver the chained bay waters Liberty—\nThen, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes As apparitional as sails that cross\nSome page of figures to be filed away;\n—Till elevators drop us from our day ...\nI think of cinemas, panoramic sleights\nWith multitudes bent toward some flashing scene\nNever disclosed, but hastened to again,\nForetold to other eyes on the same screen;\nAnd Thee, across the harbor, silver paced\nAs though the sun took step of thee yet left\nSome motion ever unspent in thy stride,—\nImplicitly thy freedom staying thee!\nOut of some subway scuttle, cell or loft\nA bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,\nTilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,\nA jest falls from the speechless caravan.\nDown Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,\nA rip-tooth of the sky’s acetylene;\nAll afternoon the cloud flown derricks turn ...\nThy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.\nAnd obscure as that heaven of the Jews,\nThy guerdon ... Accolade thou dost bestow\nOf anonymity time cannot raise:\nVibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.\nO harp and altar, of the fury fused,\n(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)\nTerrific threshold of the prophet’s pledge,\nPrayer of pariah, and the lover’s cry,\nAgain the traffic lights that skim thy swift\nUnfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,\nBeading thy path—condense eternity:\nAnd we have seen night lifted in thine arms.\nUnder thy shadow by the piers I waited\nOnly in darkness is thy shadow clear.\nThe City’s fiery parcels all undone,\nAlready snow submerges an iron year ...\nO Sleepless as the river under thee,\nVaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod, Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend\nAnd of the curveship lend a myth to God.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Hark! ah, the nightingale—\nThe tawny-throated!\nHark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!\nWhat triumph! hark!—what pain!\nO wanderer from a Grecian shore,\nStill, after many years, in distant lands,\nStill nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain\nThat wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—\nSay, will it never heal?\nAnd can this fragrant lawn\nWith its cool trees, and night,\nAnd the sweet, tranquil Thames,\nAnd moonshine, and the dew,\nTo thy rack'd heart and brain\nAfford no balm?\nDost thou to-night behold,\nHere, through the moonlight on this English grass,\nThe unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?\nDost thou again peruse\nWith hot cheeks and sear'd eyes\nThe too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?\nDost thou once more assay\nThy flight, and feel come over thee,\nPoor fugitive, the feathery change\nOnce more, and once more seem to make resound\nWith love and hate, triumph and agony,\nLone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?\nListen, Eugenia—\nHow thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!\nAgain—thou hearest?\nEternal passion!\nEternal pain!",
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"text": "Never trust a mirror,\nFor the mirror always lies,\nIt makes you think that all your worth,\nCan be seen from the outside.\nNever trust a mirror,\nIt only shows you skin deep,\nYou can't see how your eyelids flutter,\nWhen you're drifting off to sleep,\nIt doesn't show you what he sees,\nWhen you're only being you,\nOr how your eyes just light up,\nWhen you're loving what you do,\nIt doesn't capture when you're smiling,\nWhere no one else can see,\nAnd your reflection cannot tell you,\nEverything you mean to me,\nNever trust a mirror,\nFor it only shows your skin,\nAnd if you think that it dictates your worth,\nIt's time you looked within.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.\nAfter all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,\nwe ourselves flash and yearn,\nand moreover my mother told me as a boy\n(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored\nmeans you have no\n\nInner Resources.' I conclude now I have no\ninner resources, because I am heavy bored.\nPeoples bore me,\nliterature bores me, especially great literature,\nHenry bores me, with his plights & gripes\nas bad as achilles,\n\nWho loves people and valiant art, which bores me.\nAnd the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag\nand somehow a dog\nhas taken itself & its tail considerably away\ninto mountains or sea or sky, leaving\nbehind: me, wag.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Not in that wasted garden\nWhere bodies are drawn into grass\nThat feeds no flocks, and into evergreens\nThat bear no fruit —\nThere where along the shaded walks\nVain sighs are heard,\nAnd vainer dreams are dreamed\nOf close communion with departed souls —\nBut here under the apple tree\nI loved and watched and pruned\nWith gnarled hands\nIn the long, long years;\nHere under the roots of this northern-spy\nTo move in the chemic change and circle of life,\nInto the soil and into the flesh of the tree,\nAnd into the living epitaphs\nOf redder apples!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "You that are dear, O you above the rest!\nForgive him his evasive moods and cold;\nThe absence that belied him oft of old,\nThe war upon sad speech, the desperate jest,\nAnd pity’s wildest gush but half-confessed,\nForgive him! Let your gentle memories hold\nSome written word once tender and once bold,\nOr service done shamefacedly at best,\nWhereby to judge him. All his days he spent,\nLike one who with an angel wrestled well,\nO’ermastering Love with show of light disdain;\nAnd whatso’er your spirits underwent,\nHe, wounded for you, worked no miracle\nTo make his heart’s allegiance wholly plain.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "To unearth the roots\nof a banyan\nis never easy.\nChop or hack. The old banyan\nwith the roots spread\nover a century.\n\nThis aged city,\nfacing the withered glory,\nnow wrinkled, cracked,\nweather-beaten,\nwith dim eyes,\n\nhas stood the time.\nThe heavy breath,\n\nbreathing. A river turns\ninto a gutter. There is humming\nof vehicles. The city mumbles.\n\nYou grapple for meaning\nin the traffic of noises.\n\nThe old banyan\n\nis no more. You can no longer click\nthat tree at the crossroad, combing\nthe National Highway number eight\nwhen you enter Vadodara.\n\nThe roots won't die.\nYou witness rebirth\n\nin the mould of stone. A sculpted ghost.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Come, my beloved,\nconsider the lilies.\nWe are of little faith.\nWe talk too much.\nPut your mouthful of words away\nand come with me to watch\nthe lilies open in such a field,\ngrowing there like yachts,\nslowly steering their petals\nwithout nurses or clocks.\nLet us consider the view:\na house where white clouds\ndecorate the muddy halls.\nOh, put away your good words\nand your bad words. Spit out\nyour words like stones!\nCome here! Come here!\nCome eat my pleasant fruits.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Remember, remember, the 5th of November,\nGunpowder, treason and plot.\nI see no reason\nWhy gunpowder treason\nShould ever be forgot.\nGuy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent\nTo blow up the King and the Parliament\nThree score barrels of powder below\nPoor old England to overthrow\nBy God's providence he was catch'd\nWith a dark lantern and burning match\nHoller boys, holler boys, let the bells ring\nHoller boys, holler boys\nGod save the King!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!\nLong has it waved on high,\nAnd many an eye has danced to see\nThat banner in the sky;\nBeneath it rung the battle shout,\nAnd burst the cannon’s roar;—\nThe meteor of the ocean air\nShall sweep the clouds no more!\nHer deck, once red with heroes’ blood\nWhere knelt the vanquished foe,\nWhen winds were hurrying o’er the flood\nAnd waves were white below,\nNo more shall feel the victor’s tread,\nOr know the conquered knee;—\nThe harpies of the shore shall pluck\nThe eagle of the sea!\nO, better that her shattered hulk\nShould sink beneath the wave;\nHer thunders shook the mighty deep,\nAnd there should be her grave;\nNail to the mast her holy flag,\nSet every thread-bare sail,\nAnd give her to the god of storms,—\nThe lightning and the gale!",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "I love you\nbecause the Earth turns round the sun\nbecause the North wind blows north\nsometimes\nbecause the Pope is Catholic\nand most Rabbis Jewish\nbecause the winters flow into springs\nand the air clears after a storm\nbecause only my love for you\ndespite the charms of gravity\nkeeps me from falling off this Earth\ninto another dimension\nI love you\nbecause it is the natural order of things\nI love you\nlike the habit I picked up in college\nof sleeping through lectures\nor saying I’m sorry\nwhen I get stopped for speeding\nbecause I drink a glass of water\nin the morning\nand chain-smoke cigarettes\nall through the day\nbecause I take my coffee Black\nand my milk with chocolate\nbecause you keep my feet warm\nthough my life a mess\nI love you\nbecause I don’t want it\nany other way\nI am helpless\nin my love for you\nIt makes me so happy\nto hear you call my name\nI am amazed you can resist\nlocking me in an echo chamber\nwhere your voice reverberates\nthrough the four walls\nsending me into spasmatic ecstasy\nI love you\nbecause it’s been so good\nfor so long\nthat if I didn’t love you\nI’d have to be born again\nand that is not a theological statement\nI am pitiful in my love for you\nThe Dells tell me Love\nis so simple\nthe thought though of you\nsends indescribably delicious multitudinous\nthrills throughout and through-in my body\nI love you\nbecause no two snowflakes are alike\nand it is possible\nif you stand tippy-toe\nto walk between the raindrops\nI love you\nbecause I am afraid of the dark\nand can’t sleep in the light\nbecause I rub my eyes\nwhen I wake up in the morning\nand find you there\nbecause you with all your magic powers were\ndetermined that\nI should love you\nbecause there was nothing for you but that\nI would love you\nI love you\nbecause you made me\nwant to love you\nmore than I love my privacy\nmy freedom my commitments\nand responsibilities\nI love you ’cause I changed my life\nto love you\nbecause you saw me one Friday\nafternoon and decided that I would\nlove you\nI love you I love you I love you",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "In the cold, cold parlor\nmy mother laid out Arthur\nbeneath the chromographs:\nEdward, Prince of Wales,\nwith Princess Alexandra,\nand King George with Queen Mary.\nBelow them on the table\nstood a stuffed loon\nshot and stuffed by Uncle\nArthur, Arthur's father.\nSince Uncle Arthur fired\na bullet into him,\nhe hadn't said a word.\nHe kept his own counsel\non his white, frozen lake,\nthe marble-topped table.\nHis breast was deep and white,\ncold and caressable;\nhis eyes were red glass,\nmuch to be desired.\n\"Come,\" said my mother,\n\"Come and say good-bye\nto your little cousin Arthur.\"\nI was lifted up and given\none lily of the valley\nto put in Arthur's hand.\nArthur's coffin was\na little frosted cake,\nand the red-eyed loon eyed it\nfrom his white, frozen lake.\nArthur was very small.\nHe was all white, like a doll\nthat hadn't been painted yet.\nJack Frost had started to paint him\nthe way he always painted\nthe Maple Leaf (Forever).\nHe had just begun on his hair,\na few red strokes, and then\nJack Frost had dropped the brush\nand left him white, forever.\nThe gracious royal couples\nwere warm in red and ermine;\ntheir feet were well wrapped up\nin the ladies' ermine trains.\nThey invited Arthur to be\nthe smallest page at court.\nBut how could Arthur go,\nclutching his tiny lily,\nwith his eyes shut up so tight\nand the roads deep in snow?",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "If all the world and love were young,\nAnd truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,\nThese pretty pleasures might me move,\nTo live with thee, and be thy love.\n\nTime drives the flocks from field to fold,\nWhen Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,\nAnd Philomel becometh dumb,\nThe rest complains of cares to come.\n\nThe flowers do fade, and wanton fields,\nTo wayward winter reckoning yields,\nA honey tongue, a heart of gall,\nIs fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.\n\nThy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,\nThy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies\nSoon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:\nIn folly ripe, in reason rotten.\n\nThy belt of straw and Ivy buds,\nThe Coral clasps and amber studs,\nAll these in me no means can move\nTo come to thee and be thy love.\n\nBut could youth last, and love still breed,\nHad joys no date, nor age no need,\nThen these delights my mind might move\nTo live with thee, and be thy love.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "She kept an antique shop – or it kept her.\nAmong Apostle spoons and Bristol glass,\nThe faded silks, the heavy furniture,\nShe watched her own reflection in the brass\nSalvers and silver bowls, as if to prove\nPolish was all, there was no need of love.\nAnd I remember how I once refused\nTo go out with her, since I was afraid.\nIt was perhaps a wish not to be used\nLike antique objects. Though she never said\nThat she was hurt, I still could feel the guilt\nOf that refusal, guessing how she felt.\n\nLater, too frail to keep a shop, she put\nAll her best things in one narrow room.\nThe place smelt old, of things too long kept shut,\nThe smell of absences where shadows come\nThat can’t be polished. There was nothing then\nTo give her own reflection back again.\n\nAnd when she died I felt no grief at all,\nOnly the guilt of what I once refused.\nI walked into her room among the tall\nSideboards and cupboards – things she never used\nBut needed; and no finger marks were there,\nOnly the new dust falling through the air.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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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": "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": "The trouble with geraniums\nis that they’re much too red!\nThe trouble with my toast is that\nit’s far too full of bread.\n\nThe trouble with a diamond\nis that it’s much too bright.\nThe same applies to fish and stars\nand the electric light.\n\nThe troubles with the stars I see\nlies in the way they fly.\nThe trouble with myself is all\nself-centred in the eye.\n\nThe trouble with my looking-glass\nis that it shows me, me;\nthere’s trouble in all sorts of things\nwhere it should never be.",
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"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "We came upon him sitting in the sun\nBlinded by war, and left. And past the fence\nThere came young soldiers from the Hand and Flower,\nAsking advice of his experience.\nAnd he said this, and that, and told them tales,\nAnd all the nightmares of each empty head\nBlew into air; then, hearing us beside,\n\"Poor chaps, how'd they know what it's like?\" he said.\nAnd we stood there, and watched him as he sat,\nTurning his sockets where they went away,\nUntil it came to one of us to ask \"And you're-how old?\"\n\"Nineteen, the third of May.\"",
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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 poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": "Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.\n\nAll the animals that had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.\n\nThey all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.\n\nThen you cross Rainbow Bridge together…",
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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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"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"text": null,
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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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[
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"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
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"index": 0,
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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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"content": [
{
"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
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"content": [
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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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"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
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"text": "Listen to Mustn'ts, child, listen to the Don'ts.\nListen to the Shouldn'ts, the Impossibles, the Won'ts.\nListen to the Never Haves, then listen close to me.\nAnything can happen, child, Anything can be.",
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[
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"content": [
{
"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
"type": "image"
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"text": "All the complicated details\nof the attiring and\nthe disattiring are completed!\nA liquid moon\nmoves gently among\nthe long branches.\nThus having prepared their buds\nagainst a sure winter\nthe wise trees\nstand sleeping in the cold.",
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[
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"content": [
{
"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
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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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"content": [
{
"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
},
{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
"type": "image"
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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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[
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"content": [
{
"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
"type": "text"
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{
"index": 0,
"text": null,
"type": "image"
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"content": [
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"index": null,
"text": "When God at first made man,\nHaving a glass of blessings standing by,\n“Let us,” said he, “pour on him all we can.\nLet the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie,\nContract into a span.”\n\nSo strength first made a way;\nThen beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure.\nWhen almost all was out, God made a stay,\nPerceiving that, alone of all his treasure,\nRest in the bottom lay.\n\n“For if I should,” said he,\n“Bestow this jewel also on my creature,\nHe would adore my gifts instead of me,\nAnd rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;\nSo both should losers be.\n\n“Yet let him keep the rest,\nBut keep them with repining restlessness;\nLet him be rich and weary, that at least,\nIf goodness lead him not, yet weariness\nMay toss him to my breast.”",
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"index": null,
"text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.",
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"index": 0,
"text": null,
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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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