POETRY TERMS TO KNOW
Rhyme Scheme
Onomatopoeia
Prosody
Connotation / Denotation
Scanning / Scansion
Caesura
Enjambment
Ballad
Tone
Couplet
Heroic Couplet
Quatrain / Sestet / Octet
Lyric
Imagist Lyric
Elegy
Epigram
Epigraph
Slant Rhyme vs. True Rhyme
Narrative Poetry
Free Verse
Blank Verse
Poetic License
Sonnet (Three most common types: Shakespearean, Italian, Spenserian)
Volta
Villanelle
Ekphrastic Poetry
Assonance
Consonance
Sibilance
Euphony
Cacophony how to quote poetry
Masculine/Feminine syllables (“stress”)
Iambic
Trochaic
Spondaic
Anapestic
Dactylic

bored brisk bristling brusque calm candid caressing caustic cavalier childish child-like clipped apprehensive approving arch ardent argumentative audacious awe-struck bantering begrudging bemused benevolent biting bitter blithe boastful abashed abrasive abusive acquiescent accepting acerbic admiring adoring affectionate aghast allusive amused angry anxious apologetic
TONE MAP (because we can do better than “happy” and “sad”) enthusiastic eulogistic exhilarated exultant facetious fanciful fearful flippant fond forceful frightened frivolous detached devil-may-care didactic disbelieving discouraged disdainful disparaging disrespectful distracted doubtful dramatic dreamy dry ecstatic entranced cold complimentary condescending confident confused coy contemptuous conversational critical curt cutting cynical defamatory denunciatory despairing mistrustful mocking mysterious naïve neutral nostalgic objective peaceful pessimistic pitiful playful poignant indifferent indignant indulgent ironic irreverent joking joyful languorous languid laudatory light-hearted lingering loving marveling melancholy ghoulish giddy gleeful glum grim guarded guilty happy harsh haughty heavy-hearted hollow horrified humorous hypercritical sarcastic sardonic satirical satisfied seductive self-critical self-dramatizing self-justifying self-mocking self-pitying self-satisfied sentimental serious severe sharp pragmatic proud provocative questioning rallying reflective reminiscing reproachful resigned respectful restrained reticent reverent rueful sad shocked silly sly smug solemn somber stern straightforward stentorian strident stunned subdued swaggering sweet sympathetic taunting tense thoughtful threatening tired touchy trenchant uncertain understated upset urgent vexed vibrant wary whimsical withering wry zealous

TPCASTT Annotations (TPCASTT explanation taken from several online sources)
The majority of your grade for this unit will come from your annotations of these poems.
The TPCASTT method is an excellent way to gather your thoughts on what a poem (and a poet) is aiming to accomplish. I should see evidence of this level of analysis on every poem.
T
S
Title
Shifts
Before you even think about reading the poetry or trying to analyze it, speculate on what you think the poem might be about based upon the title. Often time authors conceal the meaning in the title and give clues in the title. Jot down what you think this poem will be about.
P Paraphrase
Before you begin thinking about the meaning or trying to analyze the poem, don’t overlook the literal meaning of the poem. One of the biggest problems that students often make in poetry analysis in jumping to conclusions before understanding what is taking place in the poem.
When you paraphrase a poem, write in your own words exactly as it happens in the poem. Look at the number of sentences in the poem—your paraphrase should have exactly the same number. This technique is especially helpful for poems written in the 17 th and 19 th centuries.
Sometimes your teacher may allow you to summarize what happens in the poem. Make sure that you understand the difference between paraphrase and a summary .
C Connotation
Although this term usually refers solely to the emotional overtones of word choice, for this approach the term refers to any and all poetic devices, focusing on how such devices contribute to the meaning, the effect, or both of a poem. You may consider imagery, figures of speech
(simile, metaphor, personification, symbolism, etc.), diction, point of view, and sound devices
(alliteration, onomatopoeia, rhythm, and rhyme). It is not necessary that the ones you do identify should be seen as a way of supporting the conclusions you are going to draw.
A Attitude
Having examined the poem’s devices and clues closely, you are now ready to explore the multiple attitudes that may be present in the poem. Examination of diction, images, and details suggests the speaker’s attitude and contributions to the understanding. You may refer to the list of words on our Tone Map . That will help you. Remember that usually the tone or attitude cannot be named with a single word. Think complexity .
Rarely does a poem begin and end the poetic experience in the same place. As is true of most of us, the poet’s understanding of an experience is a gradual realization, and the poem is a reflection of that understanding or insight. Watch for the following keys to shifts:
· Key words (but, yet, however, although)
· Punctuation (dashes, periods, colons, ellipsis)
· Stanza divisions
· Change in line or stanza length or both
· Irony
· Changes in sound that may indicate changes in meaning
· Changes in diction
T Title
T Theme
Now look at the title of the poem again, but this time on an interpretive level. What new insight does the title provide in understanding the poem?
What is the poem saying about the human experience, motivation, or condition? What subject or subjects does the poem address? What do you learn about those subjects? What idea does the poet want you to take away with you concerning these subjects? Remember that the theme of any work of literature is stated in a complete sentence.

Practice with TPCASTT
My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,

Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house.
Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well,
What did I know, what did I know
Of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The More Loving One by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
1

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster;
Places and names, where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! My last, or next-to-last of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture of love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master, though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
1

A Locked House by W.D. Snodgrass
As we drove back, crossing the hill,
The house still
Hidden in the trees, I always thought—
A fool’s fear—that it might have caught
Fire, someone could have broken in.
As if things must have been
Too good here. Still, we always found
It locked tight, safe and sound.
I mentioned that, once, as a joke;
No doubt we spoke
Of the absurdity
To fear some dour god’s jealousy
Of our good fortune. From the farm
Next door, our neighbors saw no harm
Came to the things we cared for here.
What did we have to fear?
Maybe I should have thought: all
Such things rot, fall—
Barns, houses, furniture.
We two are stronger than we were
Apart; we’ve grown
Together. Everything we own
Can burn; we know what counts—some such
Idea. We said as much.
We’d watched friends driven to betray;
Felt that love drained away
Some self they need.
We’d said love, like a growth, can feed
On hate we turn in and disguise;
We warned ourselves. That you might despise
Me—hate all we both loved best—
None of us ever guessed.
The house still stands, locked, as it stood
Untouched a good
Two years after you went.
Some things passed in the settlement;
Some things slipped away. Enough’s left
That I come back sometimes. The theft
And vandalism were our own.
Maybe we should have known.
2

Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heaney
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
2

by Robert Frost
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them 'Supper'. At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all-
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart-
He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then -- the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little -- less -- nothing! -- and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
3

The Orange by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
3

Equator by D.C. Stone
The natives of this region built a temple
On the equator, centuries ago.
How on earth, I wonder, did they know
They'd found the heart of things, in times so simple?
The two of us were never as aware.
This photo shows us there, your palm to mine,
On either side of the imagined line,
Shadowless and hot, the laughing pair.
I know. I should have built a monument
To you; I should have learned to honor years
With stone cathedrals, though I never thought as much.
This photograph now seems a testament
That we were always split by hemispheres,
Even there, even as we touched.
Industry by Marta Rijn Finch
Perfection’s been achieved. With our machines what once was made by hand a bit askew – the crippled stool, the candlestick that leans – can be, in massive quantities, made true.
The pure white cotton shirt stays wrinkle-free with all its surface blemishes effaced; products with (whose?) lifetime guarantee are purchased polyethylene-encased.
It’s said that in the Orient, hand-tied tribal rugs by design were flawed. The gaps would let the demons out. A lofty guide, but not for us, victims of our own traps – stuck in a world of goods that can’t allow loopholes for escaping evils now.
4

New Year by Alfred Nicol
“Even such is man”
- Henry King, “Sic Vita”
Like an engaging lady's whim,
Or like a tabby's morning swim;
Like an accountant's spending spree,
A starlet's popularity,
A daughter's mood, a boy's regrets,
An open box of chocolates;
Like morning mist; like cradlesong:
My resolution lasts as long.
The cat keeps three paws on the deck
The clerk, too, keeps himself in check;
The whim passes; the crowd moves on;
The boyfriend calls; the candy's gone;
A boy forgets; the sun breaks through;
The baby sleeps: I stay with you.
The Cross of Snow by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died, and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
Benedight = blessed
4

Cambridge Now by Andrew Sofer
Our living room and dining room are gone as is the Garden Room where I would play the sick piano, bored on my half-terms, while Mr. Sadler sweated on the lawn.
He’d tip his cap and shift his eyes away, muttering Sir, and I would turn beet-red – knowing that I was younger than his son.
I helped him pick our apples where they lay beneath the tree, checking the worst for worms, their musty bulk rotting the garden shed.
I find the study where my parents worked, desks side by side, hers in a messy pile of papers, Freud’s complete works, a small fern.
My father’s desk was neat. I often lurked until he left and raided his velvet file for drawing paper. It put him in a rage.
He’d shout at me until my shoulders jerked with tears; then he’d recover, gravely smile and say he was sorry, but I had to learn the hidden cost of every wasted page.
My mother’s room smelled faintly of cologne and medicine. Surrounded by her books, she’d lay in bed with all the blinds pulled down, pretending she was talking on the phone.
She used to joke about our firing Cook but still served Campbell’s soup day after day, then crept upstairs to have a bite alone.
In later years her chap would catch my look at table, quickly tie his dressing-gown and help her clear the dirty plates away.
The owner leads me up the creaking stairs.
Perched on a step, I’d read for hours on end, picking the worn green lino into shreds – our family never went in for repairs.
My fingers trace the banister round its bend past the dim landing to my bedroom door.
I open it expecting stained blue chairs, the broken spacecraft built for my best friend, my vampire collection, typewriter, bunk beds.
We put our kitchen on the second floor .
I sit down at a table of stripped pine and force myself to look. The room is bright with sun cascading through the window pane and cheery with a warmth that isn’t mine.
It used to get so dark in here at night
I made my parents put a light outside the door I had to close when I was nine.
My hand shakes, spilling tea. Are you all right?
I nod – but at the cracked sink once again,
I rinse my eyes, like when my father died.
5

The Midnight Skaters by Edmund Blunden
The hop-poles* stand in cones,
The icy pond lurks under,
The pole-tops steeple to the thrones
Of stars, sound gulfs of wonder;
But not the tallest tree, 'tis said,
Could fathom to this pond's black bed.
Then is not death at watch
Within those secret waters?
What wants he but to catch
Earth's heedless sons and daughters?
With but a crystal parapet
Between, he has his engines set.
Then on, blood shouts, on, on,
Twirl, wheel and whip above him,
Dance on this ball-floor thin and wan,
Use him as though you love him;
Court him, elude him, reel and pass,
And let him hate you through the glass.
* “hop poles” are simply temporary posts used to support vines, or in this case, lanterns
Poem by Simon Armitage
And if it snowed and snow covered the drive he took a spade and tossed it to one side.
And always tucked his daughter up at night
And slippered her the one time that she lied.
And every week he tipped up half his wage.
And what he didn't spend each week he saved.
And praised his wife for every meal she made.
And once, for laughing, punched her in the face.
And for his mum he hired a private nurse.
And every Sunday taxied her to church.
And he blubbed when she went from bad to worse.
And twice he lifted ten quid from her purse.
Here's how they rated him when they looked back: 
 sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that. ten quid = ten pounds (approx $15)
5

Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems

First Lesson by Philip Booth
Lie back daughter, let your head be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread your arms wide, lie out on the stream and look high at the gulls. A deadman's float is face down. You will dive and swim soon enough where this tidewater ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe me, when you tire on the long thrash to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you and let go, remember when fear cramps your heart what I told you: lie gently and wide to the light-year stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.
Swimming Lesson by Mary Oliver
Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves
Reaching around my life, I moved my arms
And coughed, and in the end saw land.
Somebody, I suppose,
Remembering the medieval maxim,
Had tossed me in,
Had wanted me to learn to swim,
Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back
From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising,
Ever learned anything at all
About swimming, but only
How to put off, one by one,
Dreams and pity, love and grace, --
How to survive in any place.
6

by William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon: that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing; she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason— her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting, alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—, then pushed her over the edge into the river.
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
6

To a Mouse on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785 by Robert Burns (textual assistance provided in parentheses – hint: read it out loud)
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Th need na start awa sae hasty,
(with a lot of noise) Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma'request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave ,
(a small piece of a larger amount)
(the remainder, the rest)
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell--
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou are no thy lane ,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley ,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An forward, tho' I canna see,
(to build)
(both bitter and sharp)
(plow)
(to suffer)
(frosty)
(you are not alone)
(often go wrong)
I guess an' fear!
7

By Maryann Corbett
The point is that tomorrow they will be killed, those soldiers gambling in the center foreground while at the back, in a mist of pastels, to the right of the vanishing point, Peter is sprung from prison by the angel.
You, viewer, are presumed to know this – to be a burgher of Antwerp, in 1650 or so, and all too familiar with the concept of dying on account of religion.
Herod, the offstage villain, finding Peter gone, will interrogate the soldiers and order their execution.
A verse of Acts will detonate like a bomb at the roadside.
A hard sentence. Most artists play it down.
Their soldiers sleep, look drunk, sprawl over stairs, low and off-center, out of the focal point, arms flung across their faces, guilty. Footnotes.
Not Teniers. Notice what love he shows them – these soldiers dragged into someone else’s struggle – by painting not the world of anno Domini 44 but the world he knows how to paint, the dailiness of the Northern Baroque:
That coxcomb, front and center, with his curls his fashionable broad sash, his pink hose-points, his eyes locked on the dice, who will lose his money tonight and his life tomorrow – see with what care Teniers has rendered the folds of the soft, thin leather of his boots.
In the patina of cuirasses and gorgets, see what pain he takes with the light of the world.
He has given his gifts entirely to them, knowing they too will give everything,
Holy Innocents of a different kind, collateral damage of the blast of glory.
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
To see the painting that inspired this poem, scan here:
7

(a paraphrase from T. S. Eliot)
When you memorize a poem, it often sticks with you forever. Recent studies have even proven that memorizing poems is a good way to ward off Alzheimer’s Disease and dementia. Since many of you are fairly demented, this is really a public health project that I am undertaking. Just kidding. No, I am serious. So… here is your chance to strengthen your minds and become more cultured.
Memorization – The first and most important part of this project is your accuracy. In poetry, much more attention is paid to the individual word than is done in prose, so you should have the same focus as well. You will be graded holistically on how accurately you recite your poem(s). The length requirements run as follows:
ANY POEM THAT YOU MEMORIZE MUST BE AT LEAST 8 LINES LONG
You can only receive an A if you memorize 20 lines of poetry. If you memorize less than that, you can still receive a B if you memorize at least 15 lines (I will make an exception if you memorize a sonnet, which is a 14-line traditional form). See the grading sheet for penalties. You may memorize more than one poem, as long as you follow the above rule.
Also, I reserve veto power over any poems with ridiculously short lines OR an insane amount of repetition . On my web page is a short list of poetry that I really like, but feel free to go with something that is not on the list. Make it personal – make it yours. Also, on the day of your memorization, you must bring me a copy of your poem.
Additional guidelines: No song lyrics, No Walt Whitman poems (I hate him)
Recitation – This is not a matter of standing up in front of the class and saying a bunch of words. You are reciting a poem!!!
Treat it with the dignity that it deserves. We will go over the fundamentals of public speaking together, and while I am not looking for perfect orators, I will expect that you are presenting your poem well.
Interpretation – Along with your recitation, I am expecting you to complete a TPCASTT sheet analyzing your poem, using the same type of close reading that we will be practicing in class (If you recite more than one poem, your response must focus on only one of them).
What is the poet doing? What poetic devices does he/she use? What is working well within the poem? BE SPECIFIC. Also, if your poem can’t stand up to an analysis, select a new one.
Immediately before your recitation begins, I will ask for you to explain your poem to the class briefly. What is it about, and what, as an audience, should we keep our ears open for
(i.e. symbolism, a metaphorical interpretation, difficult vocabulary, etc)? Give us a running start, don’t just jump right in, or we’ll be lost. Good luck!
For POL competitors: THIS IS NOT A MONOLOGUE COMPETITION, NOR IS IT
A POETRY SLAM! I am weary of performances that focus on the performer, not the poet. Don’t act. In the event of a tie, I will always side with the poem that doesn’t rely on comic timing, employing accents, creating characters, etc. I encourage you to judge the same way.

NAME_______________________________________
POEM:_______________________________________
POET _______________________________________
(fill in everything above the line – failure to do so will be a 3-point penalty – come on…)
ACCURACY (40 POINTS)
____ Major Errors (-3) ____ Minor Errors (-1) ____Forgot the line (-5)
Total = _______/40
CATEGORY
THE POEM (30 POINTS)
AMAZING V. GOOD FAIR WEAK
Clarity (comprehensibility)
Accuracy (proof of understanding)
15
15
10
10
5
5
THE PRESENTATION (15 POINTS)
Eye Contact 5 4 2 0
Posture
Absence of Theatricality
5
5
(this score will also be used as my first tiebreaker)
ANALYSIS (15 POINTS) (will not count toward POL)
TPCASST Sheet 15
TOTAL NUMBER OF LINES (Penalties & Rewards)
20 Lines
15-19 Lines OR a sonnet
11-14 Lines
Fewer than 10 lines
No Penalty
-10
-20
-30
4
4
10
2
2
5
0
0
0
More than 30 lines (Go For It!) +5
Walt Whitman poem
Late Penalty
Ineligible poem (see below)
-30 Also, any poem that mentions Walt Whitman = -15
-15 per day
-50 Whoa. Are you daft? Why would you take this risk?
TOTAL SCORE = ______________________________
0
0

NOT ELIGIBLE = Paul Revere’s Ride, Casey at the Bat, The Cremation of Sam McGee, song lyrics, the poem you memorized last year for Poetry Out Loud, a poem YOU wrote.