POETRY TERMS TO KNOW
Rhyme Scheme
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
Onomatopoeia
how to quote poetry
Masculine/Feminine syllables (“stress”)
Iambic
Trochaic
Spondaic
Anapestic
Dactylic
TONE MAP (because we can do better than “happy” and “sad”)
abashed
cold
ghoulish
pragmatic
swaggering
abrasive
complimentary
giddy
proud
sweet
abusive
condescending
gleeful
provocative
sympathetic
acquiescent
confident
glum
questioning
taunting
accepting
confused
grim
rallying
tense
acerbic
coy
guarded
reflective
thoughtful
admiring
contemptuous
guilty
reminiscing
threatening
adoring
conversational
happy
reproachful
tired
affectionate
critical
harsh
resigned
touchy
aghast
curt
haughty
respectful
trenchant
allusive
cutting
heavy-hearted
restrained
uncertain
amused
cynical
hollow
reticent
understated
angry
defamatory
horrified
reverent
upset
anxious
denunciatory
humorous
rueful
urgent
apologetic
despairing
hypercritical
sad
vexed
apprehensive
detached
indifferent
sarcastic
vibrant
approving
devil-may-care
indignant
sardonic
wary
arch
didactic
indulgent
satirical
whimsical
ardent
disbelieving
ironic
satisfied
withering
argumentative
discouraged
irreverent
seductive
wry
audacious
disdainful
joking
self-critical
zealous
awe-struck
disparaging
joyful
self-dramatizing
bantering
disrespectful
languorous
self-justifying
begrudging
distracted
languid
self-mocking
bemused
doubtful
laudatory
self-pitying
benevolent
dramatic
light-hearted
self-satisfied
biting
dreamy
lingering
sentimental
bitter
dry
loving
serious
blithe
ecstatic
marveling
severe
boastful
entranced
melancholy
sharp
bored
enthusiastic
mistrustful
shocked
brisk
eulogistic
mocking
silly
bristling
exhilarated
mysterious
sly
brusque
exultant
naïve
smug
calm
facetious
neutral
solemn
candid
fanciful
nostalgic
somber
caressing
fearful
objective
stern
caustic
flippant
peaceful
straightforward
cavalier
fond
pessimistic
stentorian
childish
forceful
pitiful
strident
child-like
frightened
playful
stunned
clipped
frivolous
poignant
subdued
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
P
Title
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.
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 19th 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.
S
Shifts
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
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?
Theme
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.
T
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
The Barnacle
by A.E. Stallings
The barnacle is rather odd —
It’s not related to the clam
Or limpet. It’s an arthropod,
Though one that doesn’t give a damn.
Cousin to the crab and shrimp,
When larval, it can twitch and swim,
And make decisions — tiny imp
That flits according to its whim.
Once grown, with nothing more to prove
It hunkers down, and will remain
Stuck fast. And once it does not move,
Has no more purpose for a brain.
Its one boast is, it will not budge,
Cemented where it chanced to sink,
Sclerotic, stubborn as a grudge.
Settled, it does not need to think.
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.
3
Fog
by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Mother to Son
by Langston Hughes
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
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”
4
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
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
5
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. (approx $15)
Here's how they rated him when they looked back:
sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that.
ten quid = ten pounds
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
Traveling Through the Dark
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 the poem out loud)
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Th need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
(with a lot of noise)
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,
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,
I guess an' fear!
(a small piece of a larger amount)
(the remainder, the rest)
(to build)
(both bitter and sharp)
(plow)
(to suffer)
(frosty)
(you are not alone)
(often go wrong)
7
The Man with the Hoe
By Edwin Markham
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes.
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this —
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed —
More filled with signs and portents for the soul —
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world.
A protest that is also a prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream,
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings —
With those who shaped him to the thing he is —
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world.
After the silence of the centuries?
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems – if you reply to the Markham poem, please see the
painting on the next page
7
The Man with the Hoe by Jean-François Millet
Blizzard
Bag #1
Bagpipe Music
by Louis MacNiece
It's no go the merry-go-round, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.
John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.
It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky1,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.
Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.
The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay2 declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."
It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh3,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.
Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran4 when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish5.
It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.
It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.
It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.
1
A famous mystic from the 19th century
In Scotland & Ireland, this is the term for New Year’s Eve
3
Rhymes with “daily” – this basically means “a drunken celebrtation”
4
An amount of herring
5
Essentially the same as saying “went on welfare” (italics not in the original poem)
2
Blizzard
Bag #1
The Panther
by Rainer Maria Rilke
In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly – an image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
The Skimming Stone
by Timothy Steele
in memory of Billy Knight,
who died of a heart attack, age 38
The factory on the river, during lunch
We’d skim stones to a current brown and slow.
The shore was pebbles that our boots would scrunch
As we searched back and forth for stones to throw.
Most of the stones were poor New England slate;
A few had – smooth and round – the proper weight,
And we’d spin off long runs and argue weather
To count concluding skips that merged together.
Once, when the whistle called us from the shore,
You pocketed a stone. Was it for luck?
Or did you feel a specially close rapport
That day with life, with youth? Or were you struck
Merely that the stone’s smooth warmth implied
A longer rather than a shorter ride?
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
To an Athlete Dying Young
by A. E. Housman
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.
Blizzard
Bag #2
Blizzard
Bag #2
The Second Coming
by W. B. Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Analytical thesis about ONE of these poems
“JANUARY IS THE COOLEST MONTH”
(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
AMAZING
V. GOOD
FAIR
WEAK
THE POEM (30 POINTS)
Clarity (comprehensibility)
15
10
5
0
Accuracy (proof of understanding)
15
10
5
0
Eye Contact
5
4
2
0
Posture
5
4
2
0
Absence of Theatricality
5
(this score will also be used as my first tiebreaker)
4
2
0
10
5
0
THE PRESENTATION (15 POINTS)
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
More than 30 lines (Go For It!) +5
Walt Whitman poem
Late Penalty
Ineligible poem (see below)
No Penalty
-10
-20
-30
-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 = ______________________________
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.