The Power of Poetry

The Power of Poetry Lux Middle School 8th Grade Poetry Unit

Sitting silently, Doing nothing, Spring comes, And the grass grows by itself. -Osho

Haiku • Traditional Japanese Form • Composed of 17 syllables 5/7/5 • Acts as a “snapshot” • Must include elements from nature.

Glint of dragonflies Here and there, beside the reeds Of the Red River. -Phil Adams On a withered bough A crow alone is perching, Autumn evening now. -Basho

Sunset papa has gone his limelight, a green flash of tequila going down in Key West -Cindy Tebo

Cinquain • American Form • Composed of 5 lines of 2/4/6/8/2 syllables or 1/2/3/4/1 words • Each line carries a different meaning: • Theme • Description of theme • Action of theme • Author’s feeling about the theme • Restate the theme

Happiness Feeling great Fun with friends Happiness is very desirable Bliss -Logan Samuelson typhoon dark rain and wind seas on the port quarter for three days we heave, roll and pitch sea sick -Darrell Byrd

Casey At The Bat by Ernest L. Thayer The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast. They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that. We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake; and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake. So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat; for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all. And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball. And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat; for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -- "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore."Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand, and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone, he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew, but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!" "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout, but there is no joy in Mudville -- mighty Casey has struck out.

Ballad • Traditional Form popular in both Europe and the Americas • Typically composed of rhyming couplets or quatrain verses • Easily set to music • Tells a story about a comedic or tragic figure.

Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, Th' associates and co-partners of our loss, Lie thus astonished on th' oblivious pool, And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion, or once more With rallied arms to try what may be yet Regained in Heaven, or whatmore lostin Hell?" -Milton From Paradise Lost

Blank Verse • Composed of non-rhyming couplets in iambic pentameter • Iambic pentameter is a meter using ten syllables with a da-DA da-DA da-DA da-DA da-DA rhythm • Often featured in epic poems and elegies.

To be, or not to be--that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep-- No more--and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-- To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. Hamlet’s Soliloquy-Shakespeare

From When Lilacs last in the Door-yard Bloom’d -Whitman WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring; Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. O powerful, western, fallen star! O shades of night! O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul! In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings, Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard, With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig, with its flower, I break.

Elegy • Began as Greek and Roman poem written in a specific meter • Dates back to 7th cent. B.C. in Greece. • Later taken up and developed in Roman poetry, it was widely used by Latin poets. • In English poetry the term elegy designates a reflective poem of lamentation or regret, with no set metrical form, generally of melancholy tone, often on death. The elegy can mourn one person or it can mourn humanity in general.

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 the 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.

I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. The Hollow Men -T.S. Eliot II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer -- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom

III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.

V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper

The Skeleton in Armor-Longfellow "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?" Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. "I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee. "Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. "Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. "Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing. "Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. "She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armèd hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, 'Death without quarter!' Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, 130 Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" Thus the tale ended.

Epic • A long narrative poem celebrating a hero • Found in many cultures including India, Greece, Rome, Babylonia, and Arabia • Famous epics: The Gilgamesh, The Iliad, Beowulf • Typically long and written in a consistent rhyme and meter popularized by the culture of the poet • Often includes moral lessons like fables and myths

From Beowulf -author unknown Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings, leader beloved, and long he ruled in fame with all folk, since his father had gone away from the world, till awoke an heir, haughty Healfdene, who held through life, sage and sturdy, the Scyldings glad. Then, one after one, there woke to him, to the chieftain of clansmen, children four: Heorogar, then Hrothgar, then Halga brave; and I heard that —— was ——’s queen, the Heathoscylfing’s helpmate dear. To Hrothgar was given such glory of war, such honor of combat, that all his kin obeyed him gladly till great grew his band of youthful comrades. From The Odyssey -Homer Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, O daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flower beds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. Digging-Heaney By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s Bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.

Free Verse • Poetry without regular meter or rhyme • Employed in most “modern poetry” • Focuses more on images and meaning than word patterns

Touched by An Angel -Maya Angelou We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free. Not Waving But Drowning -Stevie Smith Nobody heard him, the dead man But still he lay moaning: I was further out than you thought And not waving but drowning Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he’s dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

Larry the Monster -M. Catron There once was a monster named Larry Who so desp’rately tried to be scary He’d rant and he’d roar But his victims would snore So now he makes cheese in a dairy.

Limerick • An English form named for “Limerick” Ireland • Contains 5 lines with an AABBA rhyme scheme. • Each Line contains roughly 9-9-5-5-9 syllables • Should be humorous

Our novels get longa and longa Their language gets stronga and stronga There’s much to be said For a life that is led In illiterate places like Bonga -H. G. Wells There was a young soldier called Edser When wanted was always in bed sir One morning at one They fired the gun And Edser, in bed sir, was dead sir! -Spike Milligan

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud -Wordsworth The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Lyric • Adopted from a Greek form • Has no specific rhyme or meter though most lyrics rhyme and have a sing-song rhythm. • Expresses the poet’s personal feelings • Most classical Lyrics describe joy though the poems may be about any emotion.

The Fly -Blake Little Fly Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brush’d away Am not I A fly like thee Or art not thou A man like me For I dance And drink & sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing If thought is life And strength & breath, And the want Of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die. Stay Together For The Kids -Blink 182 Its hard to wake up When the shades have been pulled shut This house is haunted It's so pathetic It makes no sense at all I'm ripe with things to say the words rot and fall away If a stupid poem could fix this home, I'd read it every day The anger hurts my ears Been running strong for seven years Rather then fix the problem They never solve them It makes no sense at all I see them everyday We get along so why can't they? If this is what he wants And its what she wants Then whys there so much pain? So here's your holiday Hope you enjoy it this time You gave it all away It was mine So when your dead and gone Will you remember this night Twenty years now lost It's not right

Ode to a Nightingale -Keats MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,— That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. Oh for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self. Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades. Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

Ode • A classical form of expression popular in Romantic poetry • Very much like a lyric • Expresses the poet’s personal feelings about a specific thing • Rich in poetic devices and imagery • Often, each stanza takes a different approach to the subject

I spotted you under fluorescent lights You were sorting out your darks and your whites On top of your machine lay a bottle of Cheer In your sweatpants and t-shirt, you looked so dear The dryers were spinning and it was time to be Bold I felt my opening line was as good as gold You threw in some sheets so the fabric would soften I said "Hey baby, do you come here often?" You rolled your eyes and told me to "Get lost" And made me think about the line I had crossed Was it something I said? Was it foolish pride? Whatever it was, I couldn't turn the Tide Some say laundromats are a good place to meet But I beg to differ with that old conceit If you want to ask, think twice before you try Forget the suds or you'll be hung out to dry Ode To The Laundromat Woman-Hester

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far 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 demask’d, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear to hear her speak, yet well I know That 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 she belied with false compare.

Sonnet • A classical English form designed to represent the natural patterns of the English language • Composed of 14 lines of iambic pentameter. Three 4-line stanzas and one 2-line stanza • Sonnets must rhyme. • Much like and Ode, a Sonnet serves as a tribute • The last two lines typically employ humor or a change in perspective

Sonnet for Lowenstein -unknown Tis wondrous how so sudden things grow strange When brief held friendships springs to something new And how unending far my free thoughts range To places unseen occupied by you. And yet at “strange” my lips should hesitate And seek a word that might my thoughts reveal That my heartfelt delight would indicate And not an awkwardness I do not feel. For though the time’s been brief, it has not been While my fond brain has puzzled the attempt If I should dare to dare in judging when I’d know if I’d meet welcome or content. Your new attention, sudden but not strange A long anticipated welcome change.

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold This is Just to Say-Williams

Found Poetry • An American Form popularized by “minimalist” poets • Found poetry converts normal writing into verse by adding line breaks and stanzas to non-poetical forms (letters, instructions, essays, etc.) • Much harder than it seems

And yet no force, however great, can stretch a cord, however fine, into a horizontal line that shall be absolutely straight. Untitled-Unknown (found in a physics text book)

Our art teacher, Mr. Shaw, Really knows how to draw. But his awful paintings Have caused many faintings.

Clerihew • A recent English form • Composed of two rhyming couplets • The first line must include a person’s name (typically a famous person) • Should offer a humorous description of that person.

The Power of Poetry