“Introduction to Poetry”by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poemand hold it up to the lightlike a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poemand watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's roomand feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterskiacross the surface of a poemwaving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to dois tie the poem to a chair with ropeand torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hoseto find out what it really means.

“Baseball Dreams”by Charles Ghigna

Before the bayonet replaced the bat,Jack Marsh played second base for Yale;his spikes anchored into the August clay,his eyes set deep against the setting sun.

The scouts all knew his numbers well,had studied his sure hands that flewlike hungry gulls above the grass;but Uncle Sam had scouted too,

Jackie Robinson U.S. Army (1942-1944)

had chosen first the team to playhad chosen first the team to playthe season's final game of '44,the season's final game of '44,had issued him another uniformhad issued him another uniformto wear into the face of winter moonto wear into the face of winter moon

that shone upon a snowy plainthat shone upon a snowy plainwhere players played a deadly game,where players played a deadly game,where strikes were thrown with each grenadewhere strikes were thrown with each grenadeand high pitched echoes linger still,and high pitched echoes linger still,

beyond the burned out foreign fieldsbeyond the burned out foreign fieldsand boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,and boyhood dreams of bunts and steals,young Jack Marsh is rounding third,young Jack Marsh is rounding third,and sliding, sliding safely home.and sliding, sliding safely home.

SHORTSTOP

by Charles Ghigna

The slits of his eyeshidden in shadowsbeneath the bill of his cap,he watches and waitslike a patient catto catch what comeshis way.

 

Crack!and he pouncesupon the ball,his hands flyingabove the grass,flinging his preyon its wayacross the diamondinto a double-play.

The Bat

Theodore Roethke

By day the bat is cousin to the mouse.He likes the attic of an aging house.

His fingers make a hat about his head.his head.His pulse beat is so slow we think himthink him dead.

He loops in crazy figures half the nightthe nightAmong the trees that face thee cornercorner light.

But when he brushes up against a screen,We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:

For something is amiss or out of placeWhen mice with wings can wear a human face.

“Football”

by Louis Jenkins

I take the snap from the center, fake to the right, fade back...I've got protection. I've got a receiver open downfield...What the hell is this? This isn't a football, it's a shoe, a man'sbrown leather oxford. A cousin to a football maybe, the sameskin, but not the same, a thing made for the earth, not the air.I realize that this is a world where anything is possible and Iunderstand, also, that one often has to make do with what onehas. I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear cornsyrup on them because there was no maple syrup and theyweren't very good. Well, anyway, this is different. (My mandownfield is waving his arms.) One has certain responsibilities,one has to make choices. This isn't right and I'm not goingto throw it.

The worlds’ oldest football was confirmed to be from the period between

1540 and 1570, and found during the mid- 1970s in a wall of a room used

Mary, Queen of Scotts. It is dated to be at least 436 years old.

“The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”

By Randall Jarrell

A ball turret was a small space, enclosed in plexiglass, on the underside of the fuselage of certain WWII bombers, which held a small man and two machine guns. When the bomber was attacked by a plane below, the gunner would fire his guns from an upside-down, hunched-up position.

“The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”

By Randall Jarrell

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

(Flak is anti-aircraft fire.)

“The Nature Poem”

by Richard Brautigan

The moonis Hamleton a motorcyclecoming downa dark road.He is wearinga black leatherjacket andboots.I have nowhereto go.I will rideall night.

These are the days when Birds come back

THESE are the days when Birds come back-- A very few--a Bird or two-- To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resume The old--old sophistries of June-- A blue and gold mistake. Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee-- Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief. Till ranks of seeds their witness bear-- And softly thro' the altered air Hurries a timid leaf. Oh Sacrament of summer days, Oh Last Communion in the Haze-- Permit a child to join. Thy sacred emblems to partake-- Thy consecrated bread to take And thine immortal wine!

Emily Dickinson (1864) first published as October

The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.

PreludesI.The winter's evening settles downWith smells of steaks in passageways.Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days.And now a gusty shower wrapsThe grimy scrapsOf withered leaves across your feetAnd newspapers from vacant lots;The showers beatOn empty blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the streetA lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

-- T. S. Eliot

A narrow fellow in the grassOccasionally rides;You may have met him, -did you not?His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,A spotted shaft is seen;And then it closes at your feetAnd opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,A floor too cool for corn.Yet when a child, and barefoot,I more than once, at morn,

By Emily Dickinson

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lashUnbraiding in the sun, - When, stooping to secure it,It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's peopleI know, and they know me;I feel for them a transportOf cordiality;

But never met this fellow,Attended or alone,Without a tighter breathing,And zero at the bone.

Footballby Charles Ghigna

SweatMudDirtBlood

SnowRainFearPain

WinYellLoseHell

Tackle by Charles Ghigna

A grizzly bear in shoulder pads,he growls at the line of scrimmage,snarls into the face of the offense,and glares into the eyesof the opposing quarterback.

Hike!And he explodesover the line,bursts throughthe whirling blitzof cracking helmets,his legs churning forwardin a fury of motionhis arms flailingthrough the backfieldfor anything that moves.

Soccerby Charles Ghigna

The long kick comesand out of the packthe midfielder rises,

his eyes on the ball,his forehead set like a fistready to punch it home.

Hunting Boysby Charles Ghigna

It happens every yearfrom autumn to spring—a dozen or so are lost,good ole boys, every one:boys from Butler Country,Bibb, Clarke,and Cullman,boys from Bullock and Clay,boys who stay up lateevery November eveningrubbing oil and dreamsinto the steel of old guns,boys who leave warm homesto walk cold woods, forever.

Ants Never Cry “Uncle”by Charles Ghigna

Consider the little ant.He never says, “I can’t.”And so it comes as no surprise,He carries things ten times his size.

Balloon Manby Charles Ghigna

He sells his breathin shiny rubber bags.They call him concession-

aire.

The Fireflyby Charles Ghigna

The firefly is quite a sightUpon the summer wind.Instead of shining where he goes,He lights up where he’s been.

Artby Charles Ghigna

Art is undefinable,A mystery of creationInspired by a pigmentOf your imagination

The Porcupine Poemby Charles Ghigna

Porcupines can raise their quills, turn around,and run backward into their prey.

Just when you thinkyou are done with it,the poem turns on you,

charges back for more,pricks you with itsfiner points,

reminds youthings are notwhat they seem,

that the past is not pastuntil it turns and showsits sharp, uncompromising side.

What’s a Poem?by Charles Ghigna

A whisper,a shout,thoughts turnedinside out.

A laugh,a sigh,an echopassing by.

A rhythm,a rhyme,a momentcaught in time.

A moon,a star,a glimpseof who you are.

so much dependsupon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the whitechickens.

The Red Wheelbarrow

By William Carlos Williams

Confession of the Born-Again Puristby Greg Keeler

Forgive me for I have beenin the company of wormsand have carried them in a canand have touched themwith my fingersand have made them to part in small piecesand have pierced those pieceswith the barbs of hooks.And I have had impure thoughtsabout the body of a fishand have desired to make itpart of my body.

Thus I made a pierced pieceof worm to dangle before itso that it ate hereof,and I made it tocome unto my hand,and I smote itwith a large sickto make it still,and I slit it with my knife,and I plucked the entrailsfrom its belly,and I made my thumbto run up its spine,and I rinsed itthat it might be free of blood,and I made it to rollin cornmeal and flour,and I let it fall in hot grease,and I held it unto my lips,and I ate thereof.

Confidenceby J. Ruth Gendler

Confidence ignores “No Trespassing” signs. It is asif he doesn’t see them. He is an explorer, committedto following his own direction. He studied mathe-matics in France and still views his life as a series ofexperiments. The only limits he respects are hisown. He is honest and humble and very funny. Afterall these years, his sister doesn’t understand why hestill ice skates with Doubt.

Defeatby J. Ruth Gendler

Defeat sits in his chair staring at the grey doves onthe porch. He holds his hand underneath his heart,fingers curled tightly into themselves, glued togetherin a paralyzed rage. He is unwilling to go forwardand unable to let go. He is not blind or deaf, but it is unclear who he sees or what he hears. He had a stroke six years ago and sleeps most of the day. Inresponse to questions he answers yes or no inter-changeably. Speech has lost its meaning.

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

 I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislikeI am not cruel, only truthful –The eye of a little god, four-cornered.Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so longI think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.Faces and darkness separate us over and over. 

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.Searching my reaches for what she really is.Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.I see her back, and reflect it faithfullyShe rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.I am important to her. She comes and goes.Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old womanRises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Those Winter Sundaysby Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up earlyAnd put his clothes on in the blueback cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.When the rooms were warm, he'd call,and slowly I would rise and dress,fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I knowof love's austere and lonely offices?

Storm Windows by Howard Nemerov

People are putting up storm windows now, Or were, this morning, until the heavy rain Drove them indoors. So, coming home at noon, I saw storm windows lying on the ground, Frame-full of rain; through the water and glass I saw the crushed grass, how it seemed to stream Away in lines like seaweed on the tide Or blades of wheat leaning under the wind.

The ripple and splash of rain on the blurred glass Seemed that it briefly said, as I walked by, Something that I should have liked to say to you, Something . . .the dry grass bent under the pane Brimful of bouncing water . . . something of A swaying clarity which blindly echoes This lonely afternoon of memories And missed desires, while the wintry rain (Unspeakable the distance in the mind!) Runs on the standing windows and away.

My Mistress’ Eyes

My Mistress' Eyes 

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, Coral is more red than her lips red,If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damask'd*, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground; And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.  *damask'd -- patterned with red and white (damask is a patterned fabric)

1. Who wrote the poem? When? Why do you think so? 2. What are the things that the poet compares his "girlfriend"

to?3. Is this a love poem? Why do you think so? 4. How many lines are there in this poem? 5. Number the lines, starting at 1. Now divide the poem into

sections. How many sections do you have? _____6. Did you divide the poem by how it rhymes or by meaning? 7. Explain why you picked the divisions that you did.  

This is an example of an Elizabethan or Shakespearean sonnet. Read the poem carefully and try to decide what are the things

that make this poem a sonnet.

• A sonnet is aaa fourteen-line poem in iambic pentameter. Iambic refers to the name of the foot, which is composed of a weaker syllable followed by an accented syllable.

• The Shakespearean sonnet consists of three quatrains (four-line stanzas), rhyming abab cdcd efef, and a couplet (a two-line stanza), rhyming gg.

My Mistress' Eyes My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, ACoral is more red than her lips red, BIf snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; AIf hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. BI have seen roses damask'd*, red and white, CBut no such roses see I in her cheeks; DAnd in some perfumes is there more delight CThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks. D I love to hear her speak, yet well I know EThat music hath a far more pleasing sound; FI grant I never saw a goddess go; EMy mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground; FAnd yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, GAs any she belied with false compare. G  *damask'd -- patterned with red and white (damask is a patterned fabric)