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A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink
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User Rating:
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6.0
/10
(89 votes)
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566
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—
His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—
'Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
'Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But 'twas—the fact that He was dead—
Emily Dickinson
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Monday, January 13, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: tiger, water, death, hunting
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Comments about this poem (A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink
by
Emily Dickinson
) |
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Pranab k Chakraborty (6/19/2011 8:03:00 AM)
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Unique picturisation of a stronger in helpless moment of its evaporation. Documentation of a death depicts the poetic strength of an word-artist. Diction with its ultimate message makes the reader much conscious about a timeless creation in poetic field........
'Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
'Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But 'twas—the fact that He was dead—
Yes, the fact is that, no one is much powerful than death. And it happens, when time comes whether it be a wild tiger or a little mouse.
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Kevin Straw (6/19/2010 8:14:00 AM)
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This is a very interesting poem.
The Poet stands before the dead tiger seeing her charitable gesture in its eyes, and she feels the eyes accuse her for its death.
When we give charity too late to be of use, it is a temptation sometimes to blame the recipient – “Why did you make it impossible for me to do you good? ” And it is also tempting to blame ourselves - even though we did all we could humanly do we felt that “we sped too late”. In failing to do good, we sometimes feel someone must be blamed.
But when our charity becomes pointless because the need for it has gone, then, so long as we tried as hard as we could, we can attribute blame to no one. We need to be stoical and accept the situation.
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Ramesh T A (6/19/2010 2:18:00 AM)
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Prey of tiger cannot escape and so also the fate of tiger cannot be changed by mercy!
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Yacov Mitchenko (6/19/2010 1:06:00 AM)
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This poem is by no means among her best. For all its strange syntax and violations of conventional grammar, it is nonetheless clear. In the beginning, the speaker sees a dying tiger, and then proceeds to find some water for it. By the time she returns with water, the tiger is dead. Curiously, she and the water are reflected in the tiger's eye. I've had a somewhat similar experience with one of my cats, while I did everything to help save it or at least alleviate some of its suffering. This poem is about compassion, but that even compassion often has its limits. The sufferers still have to suffer and die alone, while those around are often helpless. They can't help in the way they feel is adequate.
I love Emily's work, though as in the case of most classic poets, her reputation is inflated. Out of the nearly 2000 poems she wrote, I cannot find more than about 25 that are truly great. Most of her work reads like footnotes on grand or serious themes, which is to say that they are nowhere near sufficiently developed enough to stand as satisfying poems. They simply end too abruptly.Yes, less is often more; I certainly prefer suggestiveness to plain statement. BUT she takes it to the extreme: most of her poems lack richness precisely because there is insufficient development of theme.
For those readers who love animal poems I strongly recommend those of Robinson Jeffers, in particular 'Hurt Hawks' and 'Vulture'. He has written some of the best I've ever read.
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is it Poetry (6/19/2009 5:03:00 PM)
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It has been awhile, I know Emily.
To know and stay unknowing,
mighty sand it drinks it dries it.
Frantically, held aloft soft palms.
Once heavy, so helpless, waning.
Sun grasps tigers soft, last moan.
How they wonder even when sea,
in lives wave there deaths abased.
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Adeline Foster (6/19/2009 4:35:00 PM)
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Sorry fellows, but she meant the balls to be the globes of the eyes—note the immediate reference to the retina. She was looking into them as into a crystal ball. There they saw the saving possibility–water and she. Many of Emily Dickenson’s poems deal with the transitory condition of life. Her mother died in her young childhood; she nursed her father until his death. Her apparent acceptance of these facts and yet a quest to understand is found throughout her writing. The compassion and yet the acceptance is found in this poem. This is a deep traverse into the very essence of her thinking.
Adeline
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Michael Harmon (6/19/2009 3:26:00 PM)
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I am a Dickinson fan. However, would one of those who praised this poem please enlighten us as to its meaning and why they praised it? It would certainly help me to also appreciate it better. :)
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Madeline Arnold (6/19/2009 6:26:00 AM)
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Emily Dickenson was amazing, I take inspiration from her works, which live on through her own death.
Alice x
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Abby Mackaway (6/19/2009 5:36:00 AM)
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I'm not one to be negative, but ummm, what tyhe hell is going on in this one. a strange choice for poem of the day, and a strange poem for such a classic poet.
With respect,
Abby
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