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
Ballad Meter
Assonance
Consonance
Sibilance
Euphony
Cacophony
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
cavalier
facetious
mistrustful
sentimental
abrasive
childish
fanciful
mocking
serious
abusive
child-like
fearful
mysterious
severe
acquiescent
clipped
flippant
naïve
sharp
accepting
cold
fond
neutral
shocked
acerbic
complimentary
forceful
nostalgic
silly
admiring
condescending
frightened
objective
sly
adoring
confident
frivolous
peaceful
smug
affectionate
confused
ghoulish
pessimistic
solemn
aghast
coy
giddy
pitiful
somber
allusive
contemptuous
gleeful
playful
stern
amused
conversational
glum
poignant
straightforward
angry
critical
grim
pragmatic
stentorian
anxious
curt
guarded
proud
strident
apologetic
cutting
guilty
provocative
stunned
apprehensive
cynical
happy
questioning
subdued
approving
defamatory
harsh
rallying
swaggering
arch
denunciatory
haughty
reflective
sweet
ardent
despairing
heavy-hearted
reminiscing
sympathetic
argumentative
detached
hollow
reproachful
taunting
audacious
devil-may-care
horrified
resigned
tense
awe-struck
didactic
humorous
respectful
thoughtful
bantering
disbelieving
hypercritical
restrained
threatening
begrudging
discouraged
indifferent
reticent
tired
bemused
disdainful
indignant
reverent
touchy
benevolent
disparaging
indulgent
rueful
trenchant
biting
disrespectful
ironic
sad
uncertain
bitter
distracted
irreverent
sarcastic
understated
blithe
doubtful
joking
sardonic
upset
boastful
dramatic
joyful
satirical
urgent
bored
dreamy
languorous
satisfied
vexed
brisk
dry
languid
seductive
vibrant
bristling
ecstatic
laudatory
self-critical
wary
brusque
entranced
light-hearted
self-dramatizing
whimsical
calm
enthusiastic
lingering
self-justifying
withering
candid
eulogistic
loving
self-mocking
wry
caressing
exhilarated
marveling
self-pitying
zealous
caustic
exultant
melancholy
self-satisfied
Read the following poem and write down the emotion(s)
of each line. The emotion does not necessarily have to
change every line, but it is good practice to assume that
it does. Don’t be lazy…
As you mark up your poems, locating the tone is a good
place to start. ***IT IS NOT THE ONLY THING YOU
SHOULD BE WRITING DOWN*** This exercise may
also help with Poetry Out Loud preparation.
Jenny Kissed Me
by Leigh Hunt
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old, but addJenny kissed me!
FOR YOUR MARKUPS, also consider:
Unusual word choice
Unfamiliar words (look them up)
shifts in diction/perspective
Connotation & tone
Connections to other points in the poem
The unstated (reading between the lines) Effective line breaks/enjambments
The effect of poetic devices, not merely their employment
“Text-to-self” connections
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.
Three critical questions about 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.
Three critical questions about these poems
2
Out, Out
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 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?
In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Three critical questions about these poems
3
Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
The Soldier
by Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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 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.
Three critical questions about these poems
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 thee, '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.
Three critical questions about 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.
Three critical questions about 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)
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 remainer, the rest)
(to build)
(both bitter and sharp)
(plow)
(to suffer)
(frosty)
(you are not alone)
(often go wrong)
7
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.
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.
Three critical questions about these poems
7
“FEBRUARY 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. 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 a complete markup that
analyzes 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. For an example of a strong markup, see my webpage.
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)
Accuracy ____ Major Errors (-3) ____ Minor Errors (-1) ____Forgot the line (-5)
Accuracy Total = _______/40 points
CATEGORY
AMAZING
V. GOOD
GOOD
POOR
DICTION – Pronunciation
Clarity (comprehensibility)
10
7
4
1
Accuracy (proof of understanding)
10
7
4
1
DEPORTMENT – Pose and mien of speaker
Eye Contact
10
7
4
1
Posture
10
7
4
1
4
2
0
Absence of Theatricality
5
(this score will also be used as my first tiebreaker)
COMPREHENSION – Understanding of the Language of the poem (will not count toward POL)
Poetic Devices (markup)
15
10
5
0
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!)
Walt Whitman poem
Late Penalty
Outlawed poem (see below)
No Penalty
-10
-20
-30
+5
-25
-15 per day
-50
TOTAL SCORE = ______________________________
NOT ELIGIBLE = Paul Revere’s Ride, Casey at the Bat, The Cremation of Sam McGee,
Any song lyrics, the poem you memorized last year for Poetry Out Loud.