English 30 APPoetry Journal

Semester II

In a Station of the Metro (1916)by Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crows;Petals on a wet, black bough.

Quotes About Poetry

A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility. -- Thomas Carlyle

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

For a good poet’s made as well as born.-- Ben Jonson

We hold that the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilized age.

-- On Milton, Thomas B. Macauley

Well, write poetry, for God’s sake, it’s the only thing that matters.-- Edward Estlin Cummings

While pensive poets painful vigils keep,Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.

-- Alexander Pope

The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,Th’ assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering.

-- Geoffrey Chaucer

If I can read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that it is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that it is poetry.

-- Emily Dickinson

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry. That is: prose – words in their best order; poetry – the best words in their best order.

-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

How does a poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they?-- Thomas Carlyle

There is pleasure in poetic pains

Which only poets know.-- William Cowper

Poetry is a means to a certain kind of knowledge, and there is a certain kind of knowledge to which it is the only means.

-- Archibald MacLeish

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!--The Poets, who on earth have made us heirsOf truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.

-- William Wordsworth

Poetry begins in delight and ends in wisdom.-- Robert Frost

I’m always saying something that’s just the edge of something more.-- Robert Frost

Poetry is language that tells us, through a more or less emotional reaction, something that cannot be said.

-- Edwin Arlington Robinson

The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.

-- Mark Twain

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the best and happiest minds.-- Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poetry is rhythmical, imaginative language expressing the invention, taste, thought, passion, and insight of the human soul.

-- Edmund Clarence Stedman

I write half the poem; the reader writes the other half.-- Paul Valery

Poetry is the shape and shade and size of words as they hum, strum, jig and gallop along.-- Dylan Thomas

The TP-CASTT Method for Poetry Analysis

Title Examine the title before reading the poem. Consider any

connotations in the words.

Paraphrase Read the poem through twice. Briefly (one or two sentences) translate what happens in the

poem into your own words, resisting the urge to interpret meaning. A failure to understand what is happening in a poem can lead to an interpretive misunderstanding.

In determining what is happening in a poem, it is helpful to look for syntactical units (complete sentences rather than line-by-line). Look to see if the poem is end-stopped or uses enjambment.

Connotation Examine the poem for meaning beyond the literal meaning. Look for: - diction

- examples of imagery, especially metaphor, simile, and personification, which are the most common

- symbolism- irony, paradox, understatement, oxymoron- allusions- sound devices – alliteration, onomatopoeia, rhyme,

etc.

Attitude Determine the tone of the poem. Examine the speaker’s and the

poet’s attitudes. Do not confuse author and persona. Look for the speaker’s attitude toward self, other characters, and

the subject. Look for attitudes of characters other than the speaker. Look for the poet’s attitude toward the speaker, other

characters, the subject, and the reader.

Shifts Note any shifts in speaker or attitudes. Look for - the occasion of the poem (time and place)

- key shift words (but, yet)- punctuation that might indicate a shift (dash,

period, colon, ellipsis)- stanza divisions- changes in line or stanza length- irony- the effect of structure on meaning. Is the poem a

recognizable poetic form (sonnet, ballad) which might give a clue to meaning? (a sonnet is often about love)

Title Examine the title again, this time on an interpretive level

Theme List what the poem is about (subjects), then determine what the

poet is saying about each of the subjects. What the poet is saying will be the theme.

Express the theme in a complete sentence. Avoid clichés. Now that the poem has been analyzed, read it one more time to

appreciate its effectiveness.

AP English

Terms for Poetry Analysis

Persona (Voice) – the speaker or narrator of a poem who is doing the talking – often not the poet

Poetic License – while most often used to describe the poet’s liberty to depart from formal writing conventions to achieve a desired effect, poetic license also includes the freedom for creative deviations from historical fact in the subject matter, such as the use of anachronisms

Poetic Devices (Figurative Language) – the use of words, phrases, symbols, and ideas in such a way as to evoke mental images and sense impressions; often characterized by the use of figures of speech, elaborate expressions, sound devices, or changes in syntax

Denotation – the precise dictionary definition of a word

Connotation – the emotional implication, suggestion, or association of a word (e.g., the word home denotes the place where one lives, but by connotation suggests security, family, love and comfort)

Neologism – the use of new words or new meanings for old words not yet included in standard definitions, as in the recent application of the word phat to denote good, excellent or fashionable, where cool was used in the fifties and groovy in the sixties; some neologisms disappear from usage; others remain in the language

Diction – the choice of words, phrases, sentence structures, and figurative language in a poem; the diction of a poem can range from colloquial to formal, from literal to figurative, or from concrete to abstract

Theme – the central idea, topic, or didactic quality of a work

Mood – the emotional environment or atmosphere created by the poet

Tone – the poet’s or persona’s attitude in style or expression toward the subject or towards the audience (e.g., loving, ironic, bitter, pitying, fanciful, solemn, etc); not the same as mood – a poem may have a Gothic mood but a satiric tone

Shift – a change in the movement or tone of a poem resulting from an epiphany, realization, or insight gained by the speaker, a character, or the reader

Crux – the most crucial line(s) in a poem, the part that best shows the main point

Closure – a sense of finality, balance, and completeness which leaves the reader with a sense of fulfilled expectations; though the term is sometimes employed to describe the effects of individual repetitive elements, such as rhyme, metrical patterns, parallelism,

refrains, and stanzas, its most significant application is in reference to the concluding portion of the entire poem

Nick – a particular word, phrase, line, or stanza that grabs the reader’s eye and/or imagination, and charges the rest of the poem with meaning

Volta – the place at which a distinct turn of thought occurs, most commonly to refer to the transition point in a sonnet, as between the octave and sestet of an Italian sonnet

Epiphany – a moment of sudden insight or revelation

Pathos – a scene or passage in a work evoking pity, sorrow, or compassion in the audience or reader

in medea res – a Latin expression meaning in the middle of things, a technique of beginning or ending a story at a crucial point in the middle of a series of events, rather than beginning at the beginning and ending at the end

Convention – a time honoured way of doing something (by convention, a limerick has five lines, a sonnet has fourteen)

Motif – a recurring theme, pattern or idea throughout a long poem or a series of poems

Ubi Sunt – a literary motif dealing with the transitory nature of things, like life, beauty, and youth

Archetype – a basic pattern or concept common to people of different times and cultures, such as a creation story, or characters such as The Hero, The Wise Old Man, and The Evil King

Canon – in a literary sense, the authoritative works of a particular writer; also, an accepted list of works perceived to represent a cultural, ideological, historical, or Biblical grouping

Muse – a source of inspiration, a guiding genius; in Greek mythology, the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne were called the Muses, each of whom was identified with an individual art or science (Calliope, Muse of epic poetry; Erato, Muse of lyric and love poetry; Polymnia, Muse of sacred poetry); many classical poems begin with an invocation of the muse, where the poet calls on his muse for inspiration

AP English

Poetic DevicesImagery - the use of unusual word combinations to create in the reader’s mind a mental image of what is being described, or to produce an emotional reaction in the reader

Compression - trying to produce the maximum description or feeling from a minimum of words; excepting visual appearance, compression is the major difference between poetry and prose

Poetic devices are a combination of imagery and compression. Poetic devices are often called figures of speech or figurative language. The following terms are poetic devices:

Simile - a comparison of two different things through the use of the words like or as (e.g., He was as strong as an ox. He fought like a lion.)

Metaphor – a direct comparison; a comparison of two unlike things not using like or as (e.g., the fog comes on little cat feet.)

Conceit – a form of metaphor that likens one thing to something else that is seemingly very different; the metaphor is usually extended throughout the entire poem (e.g., Shakespeare’s, Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? or Emily Dickinson’s, There is no frigate like a book)

Mixed Metaphor – a metaphor whose elements are either incongruent or contradictory, usually for fantastical or absurd effect (the dog pulled in its horns or to take arms against a sea of troubles)

Synecdoche – a form of metaphor in which: a) a part of something is used to signify the whole (e.g., all hands on deck) b) the reverse, in which the whole can represent a part (e.g., Canada played the United States in the Olympic final) c) the container represents the thing being contained (e.g., the pot is boiling) d) the material from which an object is made represents the object itself (e.g., the quarterback tossed the pigskin)

Metonymy – the name of one thing is applied to another thing with which it is closely associated (e.g., the pen is mightier than the sword)

Trope – The use of a word or expression in a different sense from its proper use (metaphor, synecdoche, and metonymy are all examples of trope)

Personification – a kind of metaphor that gives inanimate objects or abstract ideas human characteristics (e.g., the lonely wind cried in the dark)

Apostrophe – a form of personification in which an absent or dead person is spoken to as if present, or an abstract or inanimate object is spoken to as if living (e.g., Death, take me now)

Anthropomorphism – a form of personification in which human characteristics are given to animals Paradox – a seemingly contradictory statement that may prove true upon close examination (e.g., standing is more tiring than walking or damned with faint praise)

Oxymoron – a form of paradox that combines a pair of opposite terms into a single unusual expression (e.g., sweet sorrow or cold fire)

Juxtaposition – two or more things usually not associated with one another put side to side(e.g., What do you want? An autograph? A bone?)

Antithesis – a direct juxtaposition of structurally parallel words, phrases, or clauses for the purpose of contrast (e.g., sink or swim or to be or not to be)

Chiasmus – a balancing pattern where the main elements are reversed (e.g., fair is foul and foul is fair)

Allusion - a reference to mythological, literary, Biblical, historical, or popular characters, places, or events, that the author expects the reader to recognize (e.g., he met his Waterloo)

Symbol - an object, person, place, or action that has both a meaning in itself and that represents something larger than itself, such as a quality, attitude, belief, or value (e.g., a heart is symbolic of love)

Hyperbole – a deliberate, extravagant, and often outrageous exaggeration (e.g., the shot heard ’round the world)

Litotes (Meiosis) – understatement, or the opposite of hyperbole; a kind of irony that deliberately represents something as being much less than it actually is (e.g., I could probably manage to survive on three million dollars a year)

Sarcasm – a type of irony in which a person is appears to be praising something while he is actually insulting the thing, with the intention to injure or hurt (e.g., in Julius Caesar, Marc Antony says of Brutus, who has helped assassinate Caesar, Brutus is an honourable man)

Pun – a play on words which are identical or have similar sounds, but which have sharply diverse meanings (e.g., as Mercutio is dying in Romeo and Juliet, he says, Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man)

Asyndeton – omitting conjunctions, articles, or pronouns for the sake of speed or economy (e.g., the conjunction and is removed in I came, I saw, I conquered)

Polysyndeton – the opposite of asyndeton; the repetition of conjunctions (e.g., running and falling and running and leaping)

Synesthesia – the description of one kind of sense impression in words normally used to describe a different sense (e.g., sweet voice, velvety smile; or when Emily Dickinson describes a bee’s buzz as blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz)

Epithet – nickname or appellation (e.g., Richard the Lion-Hearted, or in Christopher Marlowe, Helen of Troy is the face that launched a thousand ships)

Homeric Epithet – named after the Greek poet, Homer, a one word adjective to describe a character; the one word attempts to encapsulate the essence of the character (e.g., in the course of Shakespeare’s play, brave Macbeth becomes black Macbeth)

Euphemism – the use of a pleasant sounding word or phrase to avoid talking about the unpleasant reality (e.g., using passed away, gone to his reward, or no longer with us instead of died)

Dysphemism – the opposite of euphemism, a crude or shocking word or expression used in place of socially accepted language

Anachronism – the placement of an event, person, or thing out of its proper chronological relationship

The remaining poetic devices are often called Sound Devices, since they refer to the sound of words or groups of words.

Onomatopoeia - (sometimes called imitative harmony) the use of words that mimic the sounds they describe (e.g., hiss, buzz, or bang)

Euphony - the use of soft or sweet sounding words to imply calm or gentleness

Cacophony - the use of harsh sounding words or a discord of sounds

Alliteration - the practice of beginning several consecutive or neighbouring words with the same sound (e.g., the twisting trout twinkled in the twilight)

Assonance - the repetition of accented vowel sounds in a series of words (e.g., He cried a sigh of high denial)

Consonance - the repetition of consonant sounds within a series of words, especially at the ends of words (e.g., and each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds)

Rhyme – the pairing of similar sounding words, within or at the ends of lines of poetry

Rhythm – a repeating pattern of accented and unaccented syllables in lines of poetry

AP English

Poetic Styles and Movements

Classicism – poetry that follows the principles and ideals of beauty that are characteristic of Greek and Roman art, architecture, and literature; characterized by formality, simplicity, and emotional restraint (John Dryden, Alexander Pope)

Baroque – an elaborate, extravagantly complex, sometimes grotesque, style prevalent in the late 16th to early 18th Centuries (John Milton)

Metaphysical – of or relating to a group of 17th Century poets whose verse was distinguished by an intellectual and philosophical style, with extended metaphors or conceits comparing very dissimilar things (John Donne, Henry Vaughan, Andrew Marvell)

Romanticism – popular in the late 18th and early 19th Centuries, Romanticism was a reaction to the classicism of the early 18th Century; it favored feeling over reason and placed great emphasis on the subjective, personal experience of the individual; nature was a major theme (William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, John Keats)

Impressionism – a late 19th Century movement embracing imagism and symbolism, which sought to portray the poet’s impressions of, rather than the objective characteristics of, life and events (Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud)

Imagism – a 20th Century movement advocating free verse, new rhythmic effects, colloquial language, and the expression of ideas and emotions, with clear, well-defined images, rather than through romanticism or symbolism (Amy Lowell, Ezra Pound)

Dadaism – a short-lived World War II European movement based on deliberate irrationality and the negation of traditional artistic values (Andre Breton, Paul Elvard,Louis Arogon)

Cummingese – a word coined to describe the poetic language developed by e. e. cummings (Edward Estlin Cummings, 1894-1962)

Gothic – poetry that has the atmosphere of a horror story, with ghosts, mystery, horrible happenings, and the macabre (Edgar Allen Poe)

Realism – the poet chooses to present life as it actually is, without exaggeration or disguise; the endeavor to portray an accurate portrayal of nature and real life without

the imaginative representation of idealization (Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Robert Browning, Thomas Hardy)Idealism – poetry that affirms the preeminent values of ideas and imagination, as compared with the faithful portrayal of nature in realism

Surrealism – from the French word meaning above realism, an artistic movement that originated in France that says that true art and creativity come from the subconscious; in surrealism, writing is irrational and dreamlike, and narrative is abandoned in favour of ungoverned imagery

Minimalism – Less is more; a movement in which poetry is reduced to its basic, most direct expression – no unnecessary words or images clutter the picture

Avant-garde – from the French for advance guard, a term referring to poets who are innovators in thought, style, and form

Black Humour – a style of writing that derives humour from serious topics such as cruelty, insanity, murder, death, and other painful realities

Satire – a work exposing the follies and weaknesses of a person or an institution in an attempt to bring about reform by ridiculing human frailties and customs

Zeitgeist – from the German phrase meaning time spirit, an attempt to capture the spirit or the preoccupation of a special period or era

AP English

Types of Poetry

Literature courses like AP are usually concerned with narrative and lyric poetry which is considered the two main types. Light verse, nonsense poems and nursery rhymes are generally not considered by scholars and critics to be serious literature.

Narrative Poetry – a poem which tells a story, usually organized around a time sequence with plot, characters, and a setting

Lyric Poetry – the expression of human feelings in poetic form; an expression of the poet’s mood, emotions, and reflections in poetic language; a look at the world through the poet’s eyes

Light Verse – poetry whose main purpose is to delight and entertain

Nonsense Verse – light-hearted verse in which the topics are silly and the rhyme sometimes ridiculous

Nursery Rhyme – a short poem for children written in rhyming verse and handed down in folklore

Types of Narrative Poems

Traditional Ballad – a folk song or story in poetic form, usually tercets of iambic verse with second and fourth lines rhyming; usually with an unknown author, because until the Renaissance, when ballads began to be written down, they were passed orally from generation to generation, most often by minstrels

Ballad (Literary Ballad) – a poem by a classical poet in direct imitation of the traditional ballad form

Modern Ballad – any poem or song which tells a story, often about love

Ballade – a poem usually with three stanzas of seven, eight, or ten lines and a shorter final stanza (called an envoy) of four or five lines and all stanzas ending with the same one-line refrain

Epic – a long narrative poem that tells the story of a heroic figure performing deeds requiring great courage, usually written in a consistently dignified or elevated style and involving a serious theme of universal significance

Idyll (or Idyl) – similar to an epic, a long poem that tells a story about heroic deeds or extraordinary events set in the distant past

Types of Lyric Poems

Pastoral – a poem that depicts rural life in a peaceful, idealized way

Elegy – a lament for the death of someone dear to the poet or a poem written to honour the dead; in modern poetry, a sad and thoughtful poem

Pastoral Elegy – the poet is represented as a shepherd mourning the death of another shepherd; there is a rural setting and references to nature and the mythological gods; the poem usually ends with the hope that the dead person has been granted immortality

Dirge – a poem of grief or lamentation, especially one intended to accompany funeral or memorial rites; in contrast to an elegy, the principle aim of the dirge is to lament the dead, rather than to console survivors

Epitaph – an inscription on a tomb; a poem about the dead; a poem written to be inscribed upon a tombstone

Ode – an elaborate celebration of a serious theme, often inspired by an important occasion and expressing lofty ideas and exalted feelings; in English literature, almost any poem of fair length and elaborate subject matter may be called an ode

Sonnet – a fourteen line poem in iambic pentameter with specific rules for stanza and rhyme according to type (English or Italian – see the handout on Sonnets); probably the most esteemed poetic form

Shakespearean (English) Sonnet Italian Sonnets (Petrarchan & Spenserian) Curtel Sonnet

Sonnet Sequence – a series of sonnets written by one poet on a particular theme or topic (William Shakespeare’s 154 Sonnets, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets From the Portuguese)

Shakespearean (English) - the English sonnet has the simplest and most flexible pattern of all sonnets, consisting of 3 quatrains of alternating rhyme and a couplet: abab abab efef gg.

Petrarchan Sonnet - a verse form that typically refers to a concept of unattainable love. It was first developed by the Italian humanist and writer, Francesco Petrarca. The form for the octave is abba, abba. The remaining sestet and can have either two or three rhyming sounds, arranged in a variety of ways: cdcdcd, cddcdc, cdecde, cdeced, cdcedc.

Spenserian Sonnet – invented by Edmund Spenser; the sonnet in which the lines are grouped into three interlocked quatrains and a couplet and the rhyme scheme is abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee.

Curtal Sonnet – developed by Gerard Manley Hopkins in 1877, a shortened (or curtailed) form of the sonnet with only eleven lines – one stanza of six lines followed by a stanza of four and one-half lines

Carpe Diem – from the Latin expression meaning seize the day, a poem that urges the reader (or the person to whom it is addressed) to live for today and enjoy the pleasures of the moment

Epithalamium (or Epithalamion) – a poem in honour of a bride and bridegroom

Interior Monologue – one person’s inner thoughts and feelings – the flow of thoughts or the stream of consciousness is sometimes linear and sometimes a non-linear weaving of inner realities

Types of Light Verse

Limerick – a light, humorous poem of five usually anapestic lines with the rhyme scheme of aabba

Epigram – a short poem (often only two lines) that is wise, satirical, or witty

Parody – a poem that achieves a humorous effect by mimicking the structure or content of a serious, well-known poem

Special Poetic Forms

Dramatic Monologue – a speaker who is not the poet utters the entire poem at a crucial moment in an important situation to a specific audience; the underlying theme is that the speaker unintentionally reveals his true characterHaiku – an ancient Japanese poem composed of three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables, often reflecting on some aspect of nature; haikus translated from Japanese often do not exactly match the syllable structure

Senryu – a short Japanese poem that is similar to a haiku in structure but is about human beings rather than nature; often humorous or satiric

Rondeau – a poem usually in iambic tetrameter with the following rhyme scheme and stanza structure: aabba aab refrain aabba refrain

Sestina – a poem consisting of six six-line (usually unrhymed) stanzas in which the end words of the first stanza recur as end words of the following five stanzas in a successively rotating order and as the middle and end words of each of the lines of a concluding envoy in the form of a tercet

Concrete Poem – poetry which forms an original visual shape, usually abstract, through the use of reduced language, fragmented letters, symbols, and other typographical variations to create an extreme graphic impact on the reader’s attention; the essence is in the visual appearance on the page rather than in the written text; intended to be perceived as a visual whole and often cannot be effective when read aloud

Found Poem – poems created from prose found in a non-poetic context, such as advertising copy, brochures, newspapers, product labels, etc.; the lines are arbitrarily rearranged into a form patterned on the rhythm and appearance of poetry

Villanelle – a rigid poetic form of nineteen lines with only two rhymes throughout the poem; five tercets are followed by a concluding quatrain; lines 1, 6, 12, and 18 are the same, and lines 3, 9, 15, and 19 are the same

Pantoum – a poem consisting of a varying number of four-line stanzas; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated to form the first and third lines of the succeeding stanza; the first and third lines of the first stanza form the second and fourth of the last stanza, but in reverse order, so that the opening and closing lines of the poem are identical

Light Verse

Sick Shel Silverstein

“I cannot go to school today,”Said little Peggy Ann McKay.“I have the measles and the mumps,A gash, a rash and purple bumps.My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,I'm going blind in my right eye.My tonsils are as big as rocks,I've counted sixteen chicken poxAnd there’s one more – that’s seventeen,And don’t you think my face looks green?My leg is cut – my eyes are blueIt might be instamatic flu.I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,I’m sure that my left leg is broke –My hip hurts when I move my chin,My belly button’s caving in,My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,My ’pendix pains each time it rains.My nose is cold, my toes are numb.I have a sliver in my thumb.My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,I hardly whisper when I speak.My tongue is filling up my mouth,I think my hair is falling out.My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,My temperature is one-o-eight.My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,There is a hole inside my ear.I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?What's that? What's that you say?You say today is…Saturday?G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

Nonsense Verse

JabberwockyLewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunThe frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:Long time the manxome foe he sought—So rested he by the Tumtum tree,And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.

“And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

Traditional Ballad

The Ballad of Nathan HaleAnonymous

The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, A-saying “oh! hu-ush!” a-saying “oh! hu-ush!” As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush.

“Keep still!” said the thrush as she nestled her young,In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.“For the tyrants are near, and with them appearWhat bodes us no good, what bodes us no good.”

The brave captain heard it, and thought of his homeIn a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.With mother and sister and memories dear,He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.

Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,To make his retreat; to make his retreat.

He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves.As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood;And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.

The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.They took him and bore him afar from the shore,To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.

No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.But he trusted in love, from his Father above.In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.

An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by:“The tyrant’s proud minions most gladly rejoice,For he must soon die; for he must soon die.”

The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,--The cruel general! the cruel general!--His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,And said that was all; and said that was all.

They took him and bound him and bore him away,Down the hill’s grassy side; down the hill’s grassy side.’Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,His cause did deride; his cause did deride.

Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,For him to repent; for him to repent.He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.

The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale’s blood, As his words do presage, as his words do presage.

“Thou pale king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave.”

Literary Ballad

The Rime of the Ancient MarinerSamuel Taylor Coleridge

PART IAn ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.

It is an ancient Mariner,And he stoppeth one of three.“By thy long beard and glittering eye,Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ?

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,And I am next of kin ;The guests are met, the feast is set :May’st hear the merry din.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,“There was a ship,” quoth he.“Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !”Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.

He holds him with his glittering eye--The Wedding-Guest stood still,And listens like a three years’ child:The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:He cannot choose but hear;And thus spake on that ancient man,The bright-eyed Mariner.

“The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,Merrily did we dropBelow the kirk, below the hill,Below the lighthouse top.”

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner continues for more than seven parts and one hundred verses, telling the story of the sailor killing an albatross and the bad luck that follows. The poem includes the well know line, Water, water, everywhere/Nor any drop to drink.

Ballade

A Ballade of Suicide G. K. Chesterton

The gallows in my garden, people say,Is new and neat and adequately tall;

I tie the noose on in a knowing wayAs one that knots his necktie for a ball;But just as all the neighbours—on the wall—

Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”The strangest whim has seized me…After all

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay—My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall—

I see a little cloud all pink and grey—Perhaps the rector's mother will not call—I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall

That mushrooms could be cooked another way—I never read the works of Juvenal—

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;The decadents decay; the pedants pall;

And H.G. Wells has found that children play,And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,Rationalists are growing rational—

And through thick woods one finds a stream astraySo secret that the very sky seems small—

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;

Even to-day your royal head may fall, I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Epic

The IliadHomer, translated from Greek by Stanley Lombardo

Part One – The Rage of Achilles

Sing, Goddess, of Achilles’ rage,Black and murderous, that cost the GreeksIncalculable pain, pitched countless soulsOf heroes into Hades’ dark,And left their bodies to rot as feastsFor dogs and birds, as Zeus’ will was done. Begin with the clash between Agamemnon –The Greek warlord – and godlike Achilles. Which of the immortals set these two At each other’s throats? Apollo, Zeus’ son and Leto’s, offendedBy the warlord. Agamemnon had dishonoredChryses, Apollo’s priest, so the godStruck the Greek camp with plague,And the soldiers were dying of it. Chryses had come to the Greek beachhead campHauling a fortune for his daughter’s ransom.Displaying Apollo’s sacral ribbonsOn a golden staff, he made a formal pleaTo the entire army, but especiallyThe commanders, Atreus’ two sons:“Sons of Atreus and Greek heroes all:May the gods on Olympus grant you plunderOf Priam’s city and a safe return home.But give me my daughter back…

Homer’s epic poem The Iliad continues for about 600 more pages, telling the story of The Trojan War.

IdyllThe Idylls of the KingAlfred, Lord Tennyson

Prologue – The Coming of Arthur Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less, till Arthur came. For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, And after him King Uther fought and died, But either failed to make the kingdom one. And after these King Arthur for a space, And through the puissance of his Table Round, Drew all their petty princedoms under him. Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned. And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallowed in the gardens of the King. And ever and anon the wolf would steal The children and devour, but now and then, Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat To human sucklings; and the children, housed In her foul den, there at their meat would growl, And mock their foster mother on four feet, Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men, Worse than the wolves.

The Prologue of Tennyson’s The Idylls of the King continues for several hundred lines, and is followed by Books 1 to 12, each of which also contains several hundred lines of poetry. The entire idyll tells the story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

Pastoral

The Idle Shepherd BoysWilliam Worsdworth

The valley rings with mirth and joy; Among the hills the echoes play A never never ending song, To welcome in the May. The magpie chatters with delight; The mountain raven's youngling brood Have left the mother and the nest; And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food; Or through the glittering vapours dart In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two boys are sitting in the sun; Their work, if any work they have, Is out of mind--or done. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas hymn; Or with that plant which in our dale We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, Their rusty hats they trim: And thus, as happy as the day, Those Shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the wood, And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, and more than all, Those boys with their green coronal; They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race." --Away the shepherds flew; They leapt--they ran--and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, Seeing that he should lose the prize, "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries-- James stopped with no good will: Said Walter then, exulting, "Here You'll find a task for half a year.

"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross-- Come on, and tread where I shall tread." The other took him at his word,

And followed as he led. It was a spot which you may see If ever you to Langdale go; Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: The gulf is deep below; And, in a basin black and small, Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan-- Again!--his heart within him dies-- His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, And, looking down, espies A lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The cataract had borne him down Into the gulf profound. His dam had seen him when he fell, She saw him down the torrent borne; And, while with all a mother's love She from the lofty rocks above Sent forth a cry forlorn, The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer to that plaintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was, That sent this rueful cry; I ween The Boy recovered heart, and told The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferred their task; Nor was there wanting other aid-- A Poet, one who loves the brooks Far better than the sages' books, By chance had thither strayed; And there the helpless lamb he found By those huge rocks encompassed round.

He drew it from the troubled pool, And brought it forth into the light: The Shepherds met him with his charge, An unexpected sight! Into their arms the lamb they took, Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; Then up the steep ascent they hied, And placed him at his mother's side; And gently did the Bard Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade.

Elegy

Elegy Written in a Country ChurchyardThomas Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire’s return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:-The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’applause of list’ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;Along the cool sequester’d vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’unletter’d Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th’unhonour’d dead,Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

‘The next with dirges due in sad arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

The EpitaphHere rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode(There they alike in trembling hope repose),The bosom of his Father and his God.

Break, Break, Breakby Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O, well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

Daddyby Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not doAny more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a footFor thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.You died before I had time--Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,Ghastly statue with one gray toeBig as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish AtlanticWhere it pours bean green over blueIn the waters off beautiful Nauset.I used to pray to recover you.Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish townScraped flat by the rollerOf wars, wars, wars.But the name of the town is common.My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.So I never could tell where youPut your foot, your root,I never could talk to you.The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.Ich, ich, ich, ich,I could hardly speak.I thought every German was you.And the language obscene

An engine, an engineChuffing me off like a Jew.A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.I began to talk like a Jew.I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of ViennaAre not very pure or true.With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luckAnd my Taroc pack and my Taroc packI may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.And your neat mustacheAnd your Aryan eye, bright blue.Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastikaSo black no sky could squeak through.Every woman adores a Fascist,The boot in the face, the bruteBrute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,In the picture I have of you,A cleft in your chin instead of your footBut no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,And they stuck me together with glue.And then I knew what to do.I made a model of you,A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.And I said I do, I do.So daddy, I'm finally through.The black telephone's off at the root,The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--The vampire who said he was youAnd drank my blood for a year,Seven years, if you want to know.Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heartAnd the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

Pastoral Elegy

There Was a BoyWilliam Wordsworth

There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye CliffsAnd Islands of Winander! – many a time,At evening, when the stars had just begunTo move along the edges of the hills,Rising or setting, would he stand alone,Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake,And there, with fingers interwoven, both handsPress’d closely palm to palm and to his mouthUplifted, he, as through an instrument,Blew mimic hootings to the silent owlsThat they might answer him. And they would shoutAcross the wat’ry vale and shout againResponsive to his call, with quivering peals,And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loudRedoubled and redoubled, a wild scene

Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chancedThat pauses of deep silence mock’d his skill,Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hungListening, a gentle shock of mild surpriseHas carried far into his heart the voiceOf mountain torrents, or the visible sceneWould enter unawares into his mindWith all its solemn imagery, its rocks,Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv’dInto the bosom of the steady lake.

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangsUpon a slope above the village school,And there along that bank when I have pass’dAt evening, I believe, that near his graveA full half-hour together I have stood,

Mute – for he died when he was ten years old.

Dirge

Winter: A DirgeRobert Burns

The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw;Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw:While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae;And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,” The joyless winter dayLet others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May:The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join;The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil,Here firm I rest; they must be best, Because they are Thy will!Then all I want – O do Thou grant This one request of mine! –Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

Ode

Ode on a Grecian UrnJohn Keats Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

Shakespearean (English) Sonnet

Sonnet 18William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Petrarchan (Italian) Sonnet

How Do I Love Thee?Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day’sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for right.I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.

Spenserian SonnetSonnet LIV Edward Spenser

Of this World's theatre in which we stay, My love like the Spectator idly sits, Beholding me, that all the pageants play, Disguising diversely my troubled wits. Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in mirth like to a Comedy; Soon after when my joy to sorrow flits, I wail and make my woes a Tragedy. Yet she, beholding me with constant eye, Delights not in my mirth nor rues my smart; But when I laugh, she mocks: and when I cry She laughs and hardens evermore her heart. What then can move her? If nor mirth nor moan, She is no woman, but a senseless stone.

Curtal Sonnet

Pied BeautyGerald Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls, finches’ wings, Landscape plotted and pieced, fold, fallow and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

Carpe Diem

To the Virgins, To Make Much of TimeRobert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting,The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may go marry: For having lost but once your prime You may forever tarry.

Epithalamium

Epithalamium John Gardiner Calkins Brainard I saw two clouds at morning, Tinged with the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on, And mingled into one: I thought that morning cloud was blest, It moved so sweetly to the west. I saw two summer currents Flow smoothly to their meeting, And join their course, with silent force, In peace each other greeting: Calm was their course through banks of green, While dimpling eddies played between. Such be your gentle motion, Till life’s last pulse shall beat; Like summer’s beam, and summer’s stream, Float on, in joy, to meet A calmer sea, where storms shall cease – A purer sky, where all is peace.

Interior Monologue

PatternsAmy Lowell

I walk down the garden-paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden-pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden-paths.My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only whalebone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime-tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the splashing of waterdropsIn the marble fountainComes down the garden-paths.The dripping never stops.Underneath my stiffened gownIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,A basin in the midst of hedges grownSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,But she guesses he is near,And the sliding of the waterSeems the stroking of a dearHand upon her.What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,And he would stumble after,Bewildered by my laughter.I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.I would chooseTo lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover.Till he caught me in the shade,And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,And the plopping of the waterdrops,All about us in the open afternoon--I am very like to swoon

With the weight of this brocade,For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossomIn my bosom,Is a letter I have hid.It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke."Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord HartwellDied in action Thursday se'nnight."As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,The letters squirmed like snakes."Any answer, Madam," said my footman."No," I told him."See that the messenger takes some refreshment.No, no answer."And I walked into the garden,Up and down the patterned paths,In my stiff, correct brocade.The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,Each one.I stood upright too,Held rigid to the patternBy the stiffness of my gown.Up and down I walked,Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.In a month, here, underneath this lime,We would have broke the pattern;He for me, and I for him,He as Colonel, I as Lady,On this shady seat.He had a whimThat sunlight carried blessing.And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walkUp and downThe patterned garden-pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.The squills and daffodilsWill give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.I shall goUp and downIn my gown.Gorgeously arrayed,Boned and stayed.And the softness of my body will be guarded from embraceBy each button, hook, and lace.For the man who should loose me is dead,Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,In a pattern called a war.Christ! What are patterns for?

Limerick

There once was a man with a beard Who said, “It is just as I feared! –

Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren

Have all built their nests in my beard.”Edward Lear

A diner while dining at CreweFound quite a large mouse in his stew.

Said the waiter, “Don’t shoutAnd wave it about,

Or the rest will be wanting one, too.”Anonymous

There was a young fellow named FisherWho was fishing for fish in a fissure,

When a cod with a grinPulled the fisherman in.

Now they’re fishing the fissure for Fisher.Anonymous

Epigram

What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole, Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

When I am dead, I hope it may be said:His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.

Hilaire Belloc

Here lies my wife: here let her lie!Now she’s at rest – and so am I.

John Dryden

I mean the opposite of what I say.You've got it now? No, it's the other way.

Bruce Bennett

Oscar WildeDorothy Parker

If, with the literate, I amImpelled to try an epigram,I never seek to take the credit;We all assume that Oscar said it.

The PhilosopherAnonymous

I?Why?

Parody

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,How I wonder what you are.Through the dirty, smog-filled sky,You can’t be seen by naked eye.

Kevin Breault

The End of the Raven by Edgar Allan Poe’s Cat (a parody of Poe’s The Raven)

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,“There is nothing I like more.”

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headedTowards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;For his house is crammed with trinkets, curious and weird décor –Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents’ worth –“Nevermore.”

While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore –Only this and not much more.

“Oooo!” my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;How I’ve wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kittyPut an end to that damned ditty” – then I heard him start to snore.Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,

Jumped – and smashed it on the floor.

Dramatic Monologue

My Last DuchessRobert Browning

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,Looking as if she were alive. I callThat piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said‘Frà Pandolf’ by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts byThe curtain I have drawn for you, but I)And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,How such a glance came there; so, not the firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas notHer husband’s presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhapsFrà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle lapsOver my Lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘PaintMust never hope to reproduce the faintHalf-flush that dies along her throat’: such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad,Too easily impressed; she liked whate’erShe looked on, and her looks went everywhere.Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,The dropping of the daylight in the West,The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white muleShe rode with round the terrace – all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, – good! but thankedSomehow – I know not how – as if she rankedMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old nameWith anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech – (which I have not) – to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just thisOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,Or there exceed the mark’ -- and if she letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,– E’en then would be some stooping, and I chooseNever to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,Whene’er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meetThe company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master’s known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll goTogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Haiku

as the wind does blow the red blossom bendsacross the trees, I see the and drips its dew to the groundbuds blooming in May like a tear it falls

with a crunching soundthe praying mantis devoursthe face of a bee

Senryu

at the height long commuter ride of the argument the old couple a stranger discusses pour each other tea his incontinence

Rondeau

In Flanders Fields Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae In Flanders Fileds the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

Villanelle

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good NightDylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Pantoum

Night of the Little GodsDiana Weiss

Harmonious, flutes entwine within adobe walls. Shadows cast to call the spirit of wandering Kokopelli.

Within adobe walls voices rise in song of wandering Kokopelli. Couples sway, entranced and warmed,

voices rise in song. Readying themselves, couples sway, entranced and warmed; anticipate the mating yet to come.

Readying themselves, recalling promise of fertility, anticipate the mating yet to come, reach out ancestral hands.

Recalling promise of fertility, shadows cast to call the spirit, reach out ancestral hands. . . Harmonious, flutes entwine.

Sestina

Will’s Place Robert G. Shubinski

Jus’ down the road a piece is ol’ Will’s place; on t’other side a his propity’s an ol’ trail takes y’ down t’ the river. Try it next time y’r lookin’ t’ do some dandy trout fishin’. I used t’ drag my pole down there ev’ry spring; nice ’n shady, too – fish don’t much like a lot a sunlight.

Y’ can’t see it from here; just foller the ribbon a sunlight sneakin’ out ’tween yonder trees; that’s Will’s place all right; used t’' get his water from a spring, Will did, but she’s dried up now. Anyways, that ol’ trail takes some fierce walkin’, but the river ain’t far and the fishin’ is ’bout as good as any I seen ’round here in my time.

Matter a fact, I c’n recollect the first time I caught a big ol’ brookie there; the sunlight was jus’ pokin’ his face up and I was fly fishin’ a rocky flat in the stream, out back a Will’s place. Broke branches n’ weeds ’d ’os’ buried the trail; that was the year of all them stormy days in the spring.

Took some doin’, it did; ol’ Mr. trout, he judged he’d jus’ spring up t’ eyeball my Blue Dun fly when I flicked ’er out the first time; more ’quisitive, he was, th’n hungry, so I laid ’er out agin ’side a trail of spangly water, where some yeller freckles a sunlight glinted off a rock and, by Judas, he whomped it! Back a Will’s place, the river mebbe ain’t the purtiest f’r lookin’, but it sure is purty f’r fishin’.

I heer’d tell ol’ Will hisself was not much inta fishin’; a course, y’ can’t ask him no more ’cause he died, spring of ’36, think it was. Ain’t nobody else ever lived in Will’s place since then, so’s it’s damn well ramshackled these days; time don’t do no paintin ’r fixin’ up by itself ’n now the sunlight peppers through cracks as bountiful as fall leaves on the trail.

Well, I’m getting’ along my own self now – legs stiffen up on the trail; if I did make it t’ the river, I’d prob’ly jus’ sit, ’stead a fishin – ’n mebbe do some thinkin’ – ’n watch the flickerin’ a sunlight on the silver skin a the stream. Could be ’long ’bout next spring I’ll do jus’ that – but like as not, I won’t. Tell y’ the truth, time works on me ’bout the same ’s it works on ol’ Will’s place.

So if y’ c’n tromp that ol’ trail, soon’s it’s come spring agin, go wet y’r line; fishin’s prob’bly still good’s the time I use t’ dip a fly there, in the sunlight of my days, out back a Will’s place.