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Writing Sonnets

Explore the rules and structure of classic sonnets through the works of Petrarch, Spenser, and Shakespeare. Learn about their rhyme schemes, beat/rhythm, and the 14-line format.

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Writing Sonnets

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  1. Writing Sonnets

  2. If you know what you’re talking about, you don’t need a Powerpoint presentation… - Steve Jobs

  3. Sonnets: The Rules! • Petrarchan; Spenserian; Shakespearean. • 14 Lines • 8+6 • 4+4+4+2 • Definite rhyme schemes • Certain beat/rhythm

  4. Sonnet 18 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 fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

  5. Sonnet 18 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 fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

  6. Anthem for Doomed Youth What passing bells for these who die as cattle? - Only the monstrous anger of the guns. - Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; nor prayers nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning, save the choirs, The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers, the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

  7. Long Distance Though my mother was already two years deadDad kept her slippers warming by the gas,put hot water bottles her side of the bedand still went to renew her transport pass.You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime.He couldn't risk my blight of disbeliefthough sure that very soon he'd hear her keyscrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.I believe life ends with death, and that is all.You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call.

  8. Clearances In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984When all the others were away at MassI was all hers as we peeled potatoes.They broke the silence, let fall one by oneLike solder weeping off the soldering iron:Cold comforts set between us, things to shareGleaming in a bucket of clean water.And again let fall. Little pleasant splashesFrom each other's work would bring us to our senses.So while the parish priest at her bedsideWent hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dyingAnd some were responding and some cryingI remembered her head bent towards my head,Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

  9. Mothering Sundays In memoriam A.N. , 1906-1988 Each Sunday afternoon she stayed Behind her daughter’s board ’til tea: Her worn palm pushed the hot flat blade; A ritual kept religiously. This willing skivvy would insist Then grin in jumbled mock complaint And claim that she’s be surely missed – Who else could keep their creases straight? She died soon after we were wed And now her daughter is our guest For Sunday lunch; no sooner fed The board goes up without request. The hot flat blade moves steadily, In tacit continuity.

  10. DIFFERENT STROKES (for Kate) His choice of pen remained the same From undergraduate Cambridge days To signing his headmaster’s name - A Waterman in mottled beige. The cursive blacksmith’s art had honed The ink-filled gold into a tool For use by him and him alone - His hand made them inseparable. Gold outlasts all. The pen was left A legacy, bequeathed to her Whose writing pleased the family most: But straining through the unknown curves It snapped, to leave the nib’s new host Mourning afresh, doubly bereft.

  11. DIFFERENT STROKES (for Kate) His choice of pen remained the same From undergraduate Cambridge days To signing his headmaster’s name - A Waterman in mottled beige. The cursive blacksmith’s art had honed The ink-filled gold into a tool For use by him and him alone - His hand made them inseparable. Gold outlasts all. The pen was left A legacy, bequeathed to her Whose writing pleased the family most: But straining through the unknown curves It snapped, to leave the nib’s new host Mourning afresh, doubly bereft.

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