Chapter 1 - Reading a Poem, Chapter 2 - Listening to a Voice, Chapter 3 - Words, Chapter 4 - Saying and Suggesting, Chapter 5 - Imagery, Chapter 6 - Figures of Speech, Chapter 9 - Rhythm, Chapter 8 - Sound, Chapter 10 - Closed Form, The Sonnet, Other...

spondee

/ /

sonnet

14 lines, traditionally written in iambic pentameter and rimed throughout

Shakespearean sonnet (English sonnet)

3 quatrains and a concluding couplet a b a b c d c d e f e f gg

quatrain

4-line stanza

All day I hear by James Joyce

All day I hear the noise of waters Making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is when, going Forth alone, He hears the winds cry to the water's Monotone. The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing Where I go. I hear the noise of many waters Far below. All day, all night, I hear them flowing To and fro.

Coward by A.R. Ammons

Bravery runs in my family.

Fatigue by Hilaire Belloc

I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme. But Money gives me pleasure all the time.

Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

On my boat to Lake Cayuga by William Cole

On my boat to Lake Cayuga I have a horn that goes "Ay-oogah!" I'm not the sort of modern creep Who has a horn that goes "beep-beep."

The Panther by Ogden Nash

The panther is like a leopard, Except it hasn't been peppered. Should you behold a panther crouch, Prepare to say Ouch. Better yet, if called by a panther, Don't anther.

Of Treason by Sir John Harrington

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

eye rime

a "false" rime in which the spelling of the words is alike, but the pronunciations differ

feminine rime

a rime of two or more syllables with stress on a syllable other than the last

lyric poem

a short poem expressing the thoughts and feelings of a single speaker, often written in first person, traditionally has a songlike immediacy and emotional force

dramatic irony

a situation in which the larger implications of character's words, actions, or situation are unrealized by that character but seen by the author and the reader or audience

metaphor

a statement that one thing is something else, creates close association between the two entities and underscores some important similarity between them

sarcasm

a style of bitter irony intended to hurt or mock its target

fixed form

a traditional verse form requiring certain predetermined elements of structure-a stanza pattern, set meter, or predetermined line length

couplet

a two-line stanza in poetry, usually rimed and with lines of equal length

broken bowl by Penny Harter

broken bowl the pieces still rocking.

exact rime

full rime in which sounds following the initial letters of the words are identical in sound

iambic pentameter

most common meter in English verse

end rime

rime that occurs at the ends of lines

imagery

the collective set of images in a poem or other literary work

Ballad of Birmingham by Dudley Randall (ballad)

"Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play, And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today?" "No, baby, no, you may not go, For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren't good for a little child." "But, mother, I won't be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free." "No, baby, no, you may not go, For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children's choir." She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes on her feet. The mother smiled to know her child Was in the sacred place, But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face. For when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child. She clawed through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out a shoe. "O, here's the shoe my baby wore, But, baby, where are you?"

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wbe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome for he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh, Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wbe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Unknown Citizen by W.H. Auden

(To JS/07 M 378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

Shakespearean Sonnet by R.S. Gwynn

(With a first line taken from the tv listings) A man is haunted by his father's ghost. A boy and girl love while their families fight. A Scottish king is murdered by his host. Two couples get lost on a summer night. A hunchback murders all who block his way. A ruler's rivals plot against his life. A fat man and a prince make rebels pay. A noble Moor has doubts about his wife. An English king decides to conquer France. A duke learns that his best friend is a she. A forest sets the scene for this romance. An old man and his daughters disagree. A Roman leader makes a big mistake. A sexy queen is bitten by a snake.

trochee

/ u

dactyl

/ u u

heroic couplet (closed couplet)

2 rimed lines of iambic pentameter that usually contain an independent and complete thought or statement

Rubai XII by Omar Khayyam

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread-and Thou Besides me singing in the Wilderness- Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enough!

Villanelle

A French verse form consisting of five three-line stanzas and a final quatrain, with the first and third lines of the first stanza repeating alternately in the following stanzas. These two refrain lines form the final couplet in the quatrain.

Cavalry Crossing a Ford by Walt Whitman

A LINE in long array, where they wind betwixt green islands; They take a serpentine course—their arms flash in the sun—Hark to the musical clank; Behold the silvery river—in it the splashing horses, loitering, stop to drink; Behold the brown-faced men—each group, each person, a picture—the negligent rest on the saddles; Some emerge on the opposite bank—others are just entering the ford—while, Scarlet, and blue, and snowy white, The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind.

Ballad

A popular narrative song passed down orally. In the English tradition, it usually follows a form of rhymed (abcb) quatrains alternating four-stress and three-stress lines. Folk (or traditional) ballads are anonymous and recount tragic, comic, or heroic stories with emphasis on a central dramatic event

As I Walked Out One Evening by W.H. Auden (ballad)

As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: 'Love has no ending. 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street, 'I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky. 'The years shall run like rabbits, For in my arms I hold The Flower of the Ages, And the first love of the world.' But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime: 'O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time. 'In the burrows of the Nightmare Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow And coughs when you would kiss. 'In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or to-day. 'Into many a green valley Drifts the appalling snow; Time breaks the threaded dances And the diver's brilliant bow. 'O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed. 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead. 'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes And the Giant is enchanting to Jack, And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, And Jill goes down on her back. 'O look, look in the mirror, O look in your distress: Life remains a blessing Although you cannot bless. 'O stand, stand at the window As the tears scald and start; You shall love your crooked neighbour With your crooked heart.' It was late, late in the evening, The lovers they were gone; The clocks had ceased their chiming, And the deep river ran on.

Rite of Passage by Sharon Olds

As the guests arrive at our son's party they gather in the living room— short men, men in first grade with smooth jaws and chins. Hands in pockets, they stand around jostling, jockeying for place, small fights breaking out and calming. One says to another How old are you? —Six. —I'm seven. —So? They eye each other, seeing themselves tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their throats a lot, a room of small bankers, they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you up, a seven says to a six, the midnight cake, round and heavy as a turret behind them on the table. My son, freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks, chest narrow as the balsa keel of a model boat, long hands cool and thin as the day they guided him out of me, speaks up as a host for the sake of the group. We could easily kill a two-year-old, he says in his clear voice. The other men agree, they clear their throats like Generals, they relax and get down to playing war, celebrating my son's life.

Aunt Jennifer's Tigers by Adrienne Rich

Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen, Bright topaz denizens of a world of green. They do not fear the men beneath the tree; They pace in sleek chivalric certainty. Aunt Jennifer's finger fluttering through her wool Find even the ivory needle hard to pull. The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by. The tigers in the panel that she made Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

Beat! Beat! Drums! by Walt Whitman

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying, Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

I Shall Paint My Nails Red by Carole Satyamurti

Because a bit of color is a public service. Because I am proud of my hands. Because it will remind I'm a woman. Because I will look like a survivor. Because I can admire them in traffic jams. Because my daughter will say ugh. Because my lover will be surprised. Because it is quicker than dyeing my hair. Because it is a ten-minute moratorium. Because it is reversible.

Break, Break, Break by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

Buffalo Bill's by E. E. Cummings

Buffalo Bill 's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blue-eyed boy Mister Death

Lonely Hearts by Wendy Cope

Can someone make my simple wish come true? Male biker seeks female for touring fun. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Gay vegetarian whose friends are few, I'm into music, Shakespeare and the sun. Can someone make my simple wish come true? Executive in search of something new— Perhaps bisexual woman, arty, young. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Successful, straight and solvent? I am too— Attractive Jewish lady with a son. Can someone make my simple wish come true? I'm Libran, inexperienced and blue— Need slim, non-smoker, under twenty-one. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Please write (with photo) to Box 152. Who knows where it may lead once we've begun? Can someone make my simple wish come true? Do you live in North London? Is it you?

Lonely Hearts by Wendy Cope (villanelle)

Can someone make my simple wish come true? Male biker seeks female for touring fun. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Gay vegetarian whose friends are few, I'm into music, Shakespeare and the sun. Can someone make my simple wish come true? Executive in search of something new— Perhaps bisexual woman, arty, young. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Successful, straight and solvent? I am too— Attractive Jewish lady with a son. Can someone make my simple wish come true? I'm Libran, inexperienced and blue— Need slim, non-smoker, under twenty-one. Do you live in North London? Is it you? Please write (with photo) to Box 152. Who knows where it may lead once we've begun? Can someone make my simple wish come true? Do you live in North London? Is it you?

Carnation Milk (Anonymous)

Carnation Milk is the best in the land; Here I sit with a can in my hand— No tits to pull, no hay to pitch, You just punch a hole in the son of a bitch.

The Times They are a-Changing by Bob Dylan (villanelle)

Come gather 'round people Wherever you roam And admit that the waters Around you have grown And accept it that soon You'll be drenched to the bone If your time to you is worth savin' Then you better start swimmin' or you'll sink like a stone For the times they are a-changin' Come writers and critics Who prophesize with your pen And keep your eyes wide The chance won't come again And don't speak too soon For the wheel's still in spin And there's no tellin' who that it's namin' For the loser now will be later to win For the times they are a-changin' Come senators, congressmen Please heed the call Don't stand in the doorway Don't block up the hall For he that gets hurt Will be he who has stalled There's a battle outside and it is ragin' It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls For the times they are a-changin' Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don't criticize What you can't understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is rapidly agin' Please get out of the new one if you can't lend your hand For the times they are a-changin' The line it is drawn The curse it is cast The slow one now Will later be fast As the present now Will later be past The order is rapidly fadin' And the first one now will later be last For the times they are a-changin'

Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas (villanelle)

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Down, Wanton, Down! by Robert Graves

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame That at the whisper of Love's name, Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise Your angry head and stand at gaze? Poor Bombard-captain, sworn to reach The ravelin and effect a breach - Indifferent what you storm or why, So be that in the breach you die! Love may be blind, but Love at least Knows what is man and what mere beast; Or Beauty wayward, but requires More delicacy from her squires. Tell me, my witless, whose one boast Could be your staunchness at the post, When were you made a man of parts To think fine and profess the arts? Will many-gifted Beauty come Bowing to your bald rule of thumb, Or Love swear loyalty to your crown? Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!

The Heart by Jill Alexander Essbaum

Four simple chambers. A thousand complicated doors. One of them is yours.

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things - For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.

Luke Havergal by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, And in the twilight wait for what will come. The leaves will whisper there of her, and some, Like flying words, will strike you as they fall; But go, and if you listen she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies— In eastern skies. Out of a grave I come to tell you this, Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. Out of a grave I come to tell you this— To tell you this. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go, for the winds are tearing them away,— Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.

Dream Boogie by Langston Hughes

Good morning, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely: You'll hear their feet Beating out and beating out a — You think It's a happy beat? Listen to it closely: Ain't you heard something underneath like a — What did I say? Sure, I'm happy! Take it away! Hey, pop! Re-bop! Mop! Y-e-a-h!

First Love: A Quiz by A. E. Stallings

He came up to me: a. in his souped-up Camaro b. to talk to my skinny best friend c. and bumped my glass of wine so I wore the ferrous stain on my sleeve d. from the ground, in a lead chariot drawn by a team of stallions black as crude oil and breathing sulfur: at his heart, he sported a tiny golden arrow. He offered me: a. a ride b. dinner and a movie, with a wink at the cliché c. an excuse not to go back alone to the apartment with its sink of dirty knives d. a narcissus with a hundred dazzling petals that breathed a sweetness as cloying as decay. I went with him because: a. even his friends told me to beware b. I had nothing to lose except my virginity c. he placed his hand in the small of my back and I felt the tread of honeybees d. he was my uncle, the one who lived in the half-finished basement, and he took me by the hair The place he took me to: a. was dark as my shut eyes b. and where I ate biter seed and became ripe c. and from which my mother would never take me wholly back, though she wept and walked the earth and made the bearded ears of barley wither on their stalks and the blasted flowers drop from their sepals d. is called by some men hell and others love e. all of the above

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause. VII O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? VIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know. IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds. XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam

I Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heaven, and strikes The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light VII Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter-and the Bird is on the Wing. XIII Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! LXXI The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. XCIX Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits-and then Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog by Alexander Pope

I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Variations on Belloc's "Fatigue" by Wendy Cope

I hardly ever tire of love or rhyme- That's why I'm poor and have a rotten time.

Acquainted with the Night by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.

First Poem For You by Kim Addonzio

I like to touch your tattoos in complete darkness, when I can't see them. I'm sure of where they are, know by heart the neat lines of lightning pulsing just above your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you to me, taking you until we're spent and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss the pictures in your skin. They'll last until you're seared to ashes; whatever persists or turns to pain between us, they will still be there. Such permanence is terrifying. So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.

The Hippopotamus by Hilaire Belloc

I shoot the Hippopotamus with bullets made of platinum, Because if I use leaden ones his hide is sure to flatten 'em.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee; And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Metaphors by Sylvia Plath

I'm a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising. Money's new-minted in this fat purse I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf. I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Bonny Barbara Allan (Anonymous) (ballad)

IT was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a falling, That Sir John Græme, in the West Country, Fell in love with Barbara Allan. He sent his man down through the town, To the place where she was dwelling: "O haste and come to my master dear, Gin ye be Barbara Allan." O hooly, 1 hooly rose she up, To the place where he was lying, And when she drew the curtain by, "Young man, I think you're dying." "O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick, And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan:" "O the better for me ye's never be, Tho your heart's blood were a spilling. "O dinna ye mind, young man," said she, "When ye was in the tavern a drinking, That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan?" He turned his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealing: "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allan." And slowly, slowly raise she up, And slowly, slowly left him, And sighing said, she coud not stay, Since death of life had reft him. She had not gane a mile but twa, When she heard the dead-bell ringing, And every jow that the dead-bell gied, It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan! "O mother, mother, make my bed! O make it saft and narrow! Since my love died for me to-day, I'll die for him to-morrow."

Blandeur by Kay Ryan

If it please God, let less happen. Even out Earth's rondure, flatten Eiger, blanden the Grand Canyon Make valleys slightly higher, widen fissures to arable land, remand your terrible glaciers and silence their calving, halving or doubling all geographical features toward the mean. Unlean against our hearts. Withdraw your grandeur from these parts.

The Dance by William Carlos Williams

In Breughel's great picture, The Kermess, the dancers go round, they go round and around, the squeal and the blare and the tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles tipping their bellies (round as the thick- sided glasses whose wash they impound) their hips and their bellies off balance to turn them. Kicking and rolling about the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those shanks must be sound to bear up under such rollicking measures, prance as they dance in Breughel's great picture, The Kermess.

In the Desert by Stephen Crane

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, "Is it good, friend?" "Is it bitter-bitter," he answered; "But I like it Because it is bitter And because it is my heart."

Let me not to the marriage of true minds by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

For My Daughter by Weldon Kees

Looking into my daughter's eyes I read Beneath the innocence of morning flesh Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed. Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands; The night's slow poison, tolerant and bland, Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen That may be hers appear: foul, lingering Death in certain war, the slim legs green. Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting Of others' agony; perhaps the cruel Bride of a syphilitic or a fool. These speculations sour in the sun. I have no daughter. I desire none.

Song of the Powers by David Mason

Mine, said the stone, mine is the hour. I crush the scissors, such is my power. Stronger than wishes, my power, alone. Mine, said the paper, mine are the words that smother the stone with imagined birds, reams of them, flown from the mind of the shaper. Mine, said the scissors, mine all the knives gashing through paper's ethereal lives; nothing's so proper as tattering wishes. As stone crushes scissors, as paper snuffs stone and scissors cut paper, all end alone. So heap up your paper and scissor your wishes and uproot the stone from the top of the hill They all end alone as you will, you will.

Not Waving but Drowning by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

Salutation by Ezra Pound

O generation of the thoroughly smug and thoroughly uncomfortable, I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun, I have seen them with untidy families, I have seen their smiles full of teeth and heard ungainly laughter. And I am happier than you are, And they were happier than I am; And the fish swim in the lake and do not even own clothing.

Smell! by William Carlos Williams

Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed nose of mine! what will you not be smelling? What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose, always indiscriminate, always unashamed, and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth beneath them. With what deep thirst we quicken our desires to that rank odor of a passing springtime! Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors for something less unlovely? What girl will care for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways? Must you taste everything? Must you know everything? Must you have a part in everything?

On the one-ton temple bell by Taniguchi Buson

On the one-ton temple bell a moonmoth, folded into sleep, sits still.

Rubaiyat

Persian form of several quatrains in each quatrain, the 2nd line rhymes with the 1st and the 4th line rhymes with the 1st and 2nd lines are accentual-syllabic, usually tetrameter/pentameter Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam translated by Edward Fitzgerald

Recital by John Updike

ROGER BOBO GIVES RECITAL ON TUBA -Headline in the Times Eskimos in Manitoba, Barracuda off Aruba, Cock an ear when Roger Bobo Starts to solo on the tuba. Men of every station -- Pooh-Bah, Nabob, bozo, toff, and hobo -- Cry in unison, "Indubi- Tably, there is simply nobo- Dy who oompahs on the tubo, Solo, quite like Roger Bubo!"

Résumé by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? by William Shakespeare

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 dimmed; And every fair from fair sometimes declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breath or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

For a Lady I Know by Countee Cullen

She even thinks that up in heaven Her class lies late and snores, While poor black cherubs rise at seven To do celestial chores.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part by Michael Drayton

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

Ask Me by William Stafford

Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made. I will listen to what you say. You and I can turn and look at the silent river and wait. We know the current is there, hidden; and there are comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness exactly before us. What the river says, that is what I say.

Epitaph on a dentist (Anonymous)

Stranger, approach this spot with gravity; John Brown is filling his last cavity.

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?

We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

Tears, Idle Tears by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, 'Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace -- all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark' -- and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, -- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet The company below then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

In a Station of the Metro by Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.

"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 him 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.

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.

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures. People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.

The Measures Taken by Erich Fried

The lazy are slaughtered the world grows industrious The ugly are slaughtered the world grows beautiful The foolish are slaughtered the world grows wise The sick are slaughtered the world grows healthy The sad are slaughtered the world grows merry The old are slaughtered the world grows young The enemies are slaughtered the world grows friendly The wicked are slaughtered the world grows good

White Lies by Natasha Trethewey

The lies I could tell, when I was growing up light-bright, near-white, high-yellow, red-boned in a black place, were just white lies. I could easily tell the white folks that we lived uptown, not in that pink and green shanty-fled shotgun section along the tracks. I could act like my homemade dresses came straight out the window of Maison Blanche. I could even keep quiet, quiet as kept, like the time a white girl said (squeezing my hand), Now we have three of us in this class. But I paid for it every time Mama found out. She laid her hands on me, then washed out my mouth with Ivory soap. This is to purify, she said, and cleanse your lying tongue. Believing her, I swallowed suds thinking they'd work from the inside out.

The piercing chill I feel by Taniguchi Buson

The piercing chill I feel: my dead wife's comb, in our bedroom, under my heel . . .

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.

The winter evening settles down by T.S. Eliot

The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

God's Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs — Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

To see a world in a grain of sand by William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour.

Dog Haiku (Anonymous)

Today I sniffed Many dog behinds—I celebrate By kissing your face. I sound the alarm! Paper boy—come to kill us all— Look! Look! Look! Look! Look! How do I love thee? The ways are numberless as My hairs on the rug.

Tyger, Tyger by William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Visitor's Room by Lee Gurga

Visitor's Room- everything bolted down except my brother.

We Wear the Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar (rondeau)

We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!

English con Salsa by Gina Valdés

Welcome to ESL 100, English Surely Latinized, inglés con chile y cilantro, English as American as Benito Juárez. Welcome, muchachos from Xochicalco, learn the language of dólares and dolores, of kings and queens, of Donald Duck and Batman. Holy Toluca! In four months you'll be speaking like George Washington, in four weeks you can ask. More coffee? in two months you can say. May I take your order? In one year you can ask for a raise, cool as the Tuxpan river. Welcome, muchachas from Teocaltiche, in this class we speak English refrito, English con sal y limón, English thick as mango juice, English poured from a clay jug, English tuned like a requinto from Uruapan, English lighted by Oaxacan dawns, English spiked with mezcal from Mitla, English with a red cactus flower blooming in its heart. Welcome, welcome, amigos del sur, bring your Zapotec tongues, your Nahuatl tones, your patience of pyramids, your red suns and golden moons, your guardian angels, your duendes, your patron saints, Santa Tristeza, Santa Alegría, Santo Todolopuede. We will sprinkle holy water on pronouns, make the sign of the cross on past participles, jump like fish from Lake Pátzcuaro on gerunds, pour tequila from Jalisco on future perfects, say shoes and shit, grab a cool verb and a pollo loco and dance on the walls like chapulines. When a teacher from La Jolla or a cowboy from Santee asks you, Do you speak English? You'll answer, Sí, yes, simón, of course. I love English! And you'll hum a Mixtec chant that touches la tierra and the heavens.

What lips my lips have kissed... by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

When I was one-and-twenty by A.E. Housman

When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

Triolet by Robert Bridges

When first we met we did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master; Of more than common friendliness When first we met we did not guess. Who could foretell this sore distress, This irretrievable disaster When first we met — We did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master.

When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? by Howard Moss

Who says you're like one of the dog days? You're nicer. And better. Even in May, the weather can be gray, And a summer sub-let doesn't last forever. Sometimes the sun's too hot; Sometimes it is not. Who can stay young forever? People break their necks or just drop dead! But you? Never! If there's just one condensed reader left Who can figure out the abridged alphabet, After you're dead and gone, In this poem you'll live on!

Turtle by Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it? A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet, she can ill afford the chances she must take in rowing toward the grasses that she eats. Her track is graceless, like dragging a packing-case places, and almost any slope defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical, she's often stuck up to the axle on her way to something edible. With everything optimal, she skirts the ditch which would convert her shell into a serving dish. She lives below luck-level, never imagining some lottery will change her load of pottery to wings. Her only levity is patience, the sport of truly chastened things.

You fit into me by Margaret Atwood

You fit into me like a hook into an eye a fish hook an open eye

Sine Qua Non by A.E. Stallings

Your absence, father, is nothing. It is naught- The factor by which nothing will multiply, The gap of a dropped stitch, the needle's eye Weeping its black thread. It is the spot Blindly spreading behind the looking glass. It is the startled silences that come When the refrigerator stops its hum, And crickets pause to let the winter pass. Your absence, father, is nothing-for it is Omega's long last O, memory's elision, The fraction of impossible division, The element I move through, emptiness, The void stars hang in, the interstice of lace, The zero that still holds the sum in place.

summary

a brief condensation of the main idea or plot of a work

allusion

a brief, sometimes indirect, reference in a text to a person, place, or thing; act as a literary shorthand to enrich the meaning of a text

simile

a comparison of two things using like or as

theme

a generally recurring subject or idea noticeably evident in a literary work

slant rime (consonance)

a kind of rime in which the linked words share similar consonant sounds but have different vowel sounds

run-on line

a line of verse that does not end in punctuation, but carries on grammatically to the next lin

end-stopped line

a line of verse that ends in a full pause, indicated by a mark of punctuation

epic

a long narrative poem tracing the adventures of a popular hero. usually written in a consistent form and meter throughout

Rondeau

a mainly octosyllabic poem consisting of between 10 and 15 lines and three stanzas. It has only two rhymes, with the opening words used twice as an unrhyming refrain at the end of the second and third stanzas. The 10-line version rhymes ABBAABc ABBAc The 15-line version often rhymes AABBA AABc AABAc.

implied metaphor

a metaphor that uses neither connectives nor the verb to be (John crowed over his victory indicates that John is a rooster, metaphorically speaking)

verbal irony

a mode of expression in which the speaker or writer says the opposite of what is really meant

dialect

a particular variety of language spoken by an identifiable regional group or social class of persons

didactic poem

a poem intended to teach a moral lesson or impart a body of knowledge

dramatic monologue

a poem written as a speech made by a character at some decisive moment, speaker is usually addressing a silent listener

masculine rime

a rime of one-syllable words or a rime on the stressed final syllables

concrete poetry

a visual poetry composed exclusively for the page in which a picture or image is made of printed letters and words. attempts to blur the line between language and visual objects, relying on puns and cleverness.

image

a word or series of words that refers to any sensory experience, a direct or literal recreation of physical experience and adds immediacy to literary language

connotation

an association or additional meaning that a word, image, or phrase may carry, apart from its literal denotation or dictionary definition

onomatopoeia

an attempt to represent a thing or action by a word that imitates the sound associated with it

stress

an emphasis or accent placed on a syllable in speech

verse

any single line of poetry or any composition written in separate lines of more or less regular rhythm, in contrast to prose

foot

basic unit of measurement in metrical poetry

Learning to Love America by Shirley Geok-lin Lim

because it has no pure products because the Pacific Ocean sweeps along the coastline because the water of the ocean is cold and because land is better than ocean because I say we rather than they because I live in California I have eaten fresh artichokes and jacaranda bloom in April and May because my senses have caught up with my body my breath with the air it swallows my hunger with my mouth because I walk barefoot in my house because I have nursed my son at my breast because he is a strong American boy because I have seen his eyes redden when he is asked who he is because he answers I don't know because to have a son is to have a country because my son will bury me here because countries are in our blood and we bleed them because it is late and too late to change my mind because it is time.

colloquial English

casual/informal but correct language of ordinary native speakers, conversational in tone

Sestina

complex French verse form, usually unrimed, consisting of 6 stanzas of 6 lines each and a three-line envoy, end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as ends words in the subsequent five stanzas 1 2 3 4 5 6 6 1 5 2 4 3 3 6 4 1 2 5 5 3 2 6 1 4 4 5 1 3 6 2 2 4 6 5 3 1 (6 2) (1 4) (5 3)

Petrarchan sonnet (Italian sonnet)

contains octave and sestet, volta after octave a b b a a b b a c d e c d e

cosmic irony

contrast between a character's position or aspiration and the treatment he/she receives at the hands of a seemingly hostile fate

apostrophe

direct address to an inanimate object, a dead/absent person, or an abstract thing

irony

discrepancy between what is expected and what occurs

poetic diction

elevated language intended for poetry rather than common use

personification

endowing of a thing, an animal, or an abstract term with human characteristics

hyperbole

extreme exaggeration, overstatement

metonymy

figure of speech in which the name of a thing is substituted for that of another closely associated with it

meter

fixed rhythm in a poem

closed form

generic term that describes poetry written in a pattern of meter, rime, lines, or stanzas. adheres to a set structure

euphony

harmonious effect when the sounds of the words connect with the meaning in a way pleasing to the ear and mind

cacophony

harsh, discordant sound often mirroring the meaning of the context in which it is used

formal English

heightened, impersonal language of educated persons, usually only written

understatement

ironic figure of speech that deliberately describes something in a way that is less than the case

haiku

japanese verse form that has 3 unrhymed lines of 5-7-5, often serious and spiritual in tone, relying mostly on imagery, usually set in one of the four seasons

persona

latin for "mask," a fictitious character created by an author to be the speaker of a literary work

cesura

light but definite pause w.in a line of verse

denotation

literal, dictionary meaning of a word

vulgate

lowest level of diction, language of the common people

subject

main topic of a work, whatever the work is "about"

general English

ordinary speech of educated native speakers

narrative poem

poem that tells a story (ballad/epic are 2 common forms of this)

open form (free verse)

poems that have neither a rime scheme nor a basic meter

prose poetry

poetic language printed in prose paragraphs, but displaying the careful attention to sound, imagery, and figurative language characteristics of poetry

satiric poetry

poetry that blends criticism with humor to convey a message, usually through the use of irony and a tone of detached amusement, withering contempt, and implied superiority

free verse

poetry whose lines follow no consistent meter, may be rimed (usually not)

scansion

practice used to describe rhythmic patterns in a poem by separating metrical feet, counting syllables, marking accents, and indicating cesuras

rhythm

recurring pattern of stresses and pauses in a poem

alliteration

repetition of a consonant sound in a line of verse or prose (may occur initially or internally)

assonance

repetition of two or more vowel sounds in successive words ((may occur initially or internally)

internal rime

rime that occurs within a line of poetry

paradox

statement that at first strikes one as self-contradictory, but that on reflection reveals some deeper sense, usually achieved by a play on words

prosody

study of metrical structures in poetry

form

the design of a poem

Tone

the mood or manner of expression in a literary work, which conveys an attitude toward the work's subject; helps to establish the reader's relationship to the character or ideas presented in the work

paraphrase

the restatement in one's own words of what one understands a poem to say or suggest

rime

two or more words that contain an identical or similar vowel sound, usually accented, with following consonant sounds identical as well

iamb

u /

anapest

u u /

blank verse

unrimed iambic pentameter

slack syllable

unstressed syllable in a line of verse

synecdoche

use of a significant part of a thing to stand for the whole of it or vice-versa

enjambment

use of run-on lines

Mixed metaphor

usually intentional combining of two or more incompatible metaphors, resulting in ridiculousness or nonsense

accentual meter

verse meter based on # of stresses per line, not # of syllables

free verse (open form)

verse that has no set scheme-no regular meter, rime, or stanzaic pattern

epigram

very short, comic poem, often turning at the end with some sharp wit or unexpected stinger

diction

word choice or vocabulary

abstract diction

words that express general ideas or concepts

concrete diction

words that specifically name or describe things or persons, able to be immediately perceived with our senses