The song by Linkin Park "My December" could be poetic. It uses metaphors and symbols to give a picture of how he feels about the person he misses. The title is a metaphor for how the month of December represents winter and coldness that the singer relates to loneliness. One symbol he uses is the snow covered trees. This song could be interpret into a poem that deals with a man that is missing his love and finds himself being nothing with out her. 

"My December"

This is my December
This is my time of the year
This is my December
This is all so clear
This is my December
This is my snow covered home
This is my December
This is me alone

And I
Just wish that
I didn't feel
Like there was
Something I missed
And I
Take back all
The things that I said
To make you
Feel like that
And I
Just wish that
I didn't feel
Like there was
Something I missed
And I
Take back all the
Things that I said to you

And I give it all away
Just to have somewhere
To go to
Give it all away
To have someone
To come home to

This is my December
These are my snow-covered trees
This is me pretending
This is all I need

And I
Just wish that
I didn't feel
Like there was
Something I missed
And I
Take back all
The things that I said
To make you feel like that
And I
Just wish that
I didn't feel
Like there was
Something I missed
And I
Take back all the things
I said to you

And I give it all away
Just to have
Somewhere to go to
Give it all away
To have someone
To come home to

This is my December
This is my time of the year
This is my December
This is all so clear

And I give it all away
Just to have somewhere
To go to
Give it all away
To have someone
To come home to

Spring Poem by Thomas Carew

I like this poem by Thomas Carew because of the way he compares spring to his feeling in his hart/love. He mentions how winter snowy white robes are leaving and springs wonderful changes are accruing, but how his heart is steel feels like winter. Then he describes the moments he spent with the women that left his heart feeling like an eternal winter. At the end he mentions how she has the warmth of June in her eyes, but the coldness of winter in her heart.

The Spring

by Thomas Carew (1640)

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake or crystal stream: But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee. Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring, In triumph to the world, the youthful spring: The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array Welcome the coming of the long’d-for May. Now all things smile: only my love doth lower, Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold Her heart congeal’d, and makes her pity cold. The ox, which lately did for shelter fly Into the stall, doth now securely lie In open fields; and love no more is made By the fire-side, but in the cooler shade Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep Under a sycamore, and all things keep Time with the season: only she doth carry June in her eyes, in her heart January

Pablo Neruda's Odes

I enjoyed reading this poem because it give an interesting perspective of clothes. It links the clothes and its necessity to our own bodies. It gives clothes life and emotions. I also liked how the poem in the end says that your clothes will be there for you no matter what happens or where you are.
 
Ode to Clothes
                             

Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day, still.

A BOY'S WILL By Robert Frost

  I enjoyed this poem because it describes an old house and how time has changed it. It also mentions how the tomb stones look like and how the ghost act. The poem uses persona, and metaphor.

Ghost House

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