Poetry

Epistle

Epistle a letter, especially a formal or didactic one; written communication. This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me, The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty. Her message is committed To hands, I cannot see; For love of hers, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me! ~Emily Dickinson this an epistle because its a letter to the world "Open Letter to the South" White workers of the South Miners, Farmers, Mechanics, Mill Hands, Shop girls, Railway men, Servants, Tobacco workers, Sharecroppers, GREETINGS! I am the black worker, Listen: That the land might be ours, And the mines and the factories and the office towers At Harlan, Richmond, Gastonia, Atlanta, New Orleans; That the plants and the roads and the tools of power Be ours: Let us forget what Booker T. said, "Separate as the fingers." Let us become instead, you and I, One single hand That can united rise To smash the old dead dogmas of the past- To kill the lies of color That keep the rich enthroned And drive us to the time-clock and the plow Helpless, stupid, scattered, and alone-as now- Race against race, Because one is black, Another white of face. Let us new lessons learn, All workers, New life-ways make, One union form: Until the future burns out Every past mistake Let us together, say: "You are my brother, black or white, You my sister-now-today!" For me, no more, the great migration to the North. Instead: migration into force and power- Tuskegee with a new flag on the tower! on every lynching tree, a poster crying FREE Because, O poor white workers, You have linked your hands with me. We did not know that we were brothers. Now we know! out of that brotherhood Let power grow! We did not know That we were strong. Now we see In union lies our strength. Let unions be The force that breaks the time-clock, Smashes misery, Takes land, Takes factories, Takes office towers, Takes tools and banks and mines. Railroads, ships and dams, Until the forces of the world Are ours! White worker, Here is my hand. Today, We're Man to Man.

Sestina

I was assigned Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop Love is Forever is an example of a sestina poem Sestina: Form of French poetry. This poem consist of six stanzas and each stanza contains six lines. After the sixth stanza a three line stanza follows that contains all of the repeated last words. There is no rhyme within the stanzas. The end words in the first stanza are repeated throughout each stanza in a different order each time. A sestina poem is written in a specific order. In the first stanza the end words go in regular order from one to six. In the second stanza the end word is in order as 6,1,5,2,4,3. The third stanzas end words are 3,6,4,1,2,5. Fourth stanza are 5,3,2,6,1,4. Fifth stanza are 4,5,1,3,6,2. Sixth stanza are 2,4,6,5,3,1. Poem: Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears. She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child, It's time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle's small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove. It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother. But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house. Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house. Love is Forever Frederic Parker In a world where hearts open and doves fly out I'll ask "Take my hand, dance with me forever" Motion creates motion, always fluid sensual Floating in a realm of space from a word Spinning faster and faster, as time becomes small While passion the connecting thread, weaves the dance As we cross the floor of time in rhythmic dance Movement brings its own pace, as it plays out While time pushes motion, becoming small Turning minutes into dreams that seem forever Two hearts search for the softest word And a world once gray turns red, sensual The warmest moments cling, they become sensual And the need to be loved the calling dance Understanding so gentle comes from a poetic word Creating emotion that keeps loneliness out As lovers, we shall worship truth, forever And emptiness once felt becomes small Love is a universe that never grows small It contains the deep oceans of the sensual Where the horizons stretch on forever And the lovers there reflect their dance This moment of beauty pushes darkness out And they write in their heart a gentle word Like a slender shaft of light from a written word Reveals the plummage worn by a pain turned small Closely arranged until its lines fade out From the mind and emotion of the sensual When the hand was taken to begin the dance And the fullness of love, now seems forever Though yearning and dreams can want forever They align parallel on life's hidden word And give life and color to this dance Carried away from a past now small To the arms of a lover, most sensual As each breath comes faster, releasing out The length of forever leaves life ever small As words from a poem strokes the heart so sensual Making the dance last, until final breath is out "Love is Forever" is a sestina type of poem because it is built up by six stanzas that each contain six lines. This is also a sestina poem because it repeats the last word from the first stanza in each of the following stanzas in a different order. Love is Forever is also followed by a three line stanza that contains all the end words.

Ode

Ode Ode to the West Wind Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792 - 1822 I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened Earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Example : Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood William Wordsworth, 1770 - 1850 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;-- Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May-morning; And the children are culling On every side In a thousand valleys far and wide Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! --But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,-- Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed, without the sense of sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thoughts where we in waiting lie; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 0 joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-- --Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us--cherish--and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither-- And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. This poem is talking about how people have no pity towards polluting earth by changing, taking, and making earth into their own. It has feeling towards the way humans are turning earth to the way it is now. It has detail of the smallest things, things people don't pay attention to. It is praising how beautiful earth is. What is an Ode poem ? An ode is a poem that is about one specific thing that you think is truly amazing and praiseworthy. This type of poem can be centered upon a person, an object, or something abstract like a feeling or an idea.They are usually very long. Most odes do usually rhyme, and making your ode rhyme would be a fun challenge, but you can also write irregular odes, which don't have to rhyme or maintain a perfect rhythm.

The Prose Poem

"The Prose Poem" by Campbell McGrath Handout On the map it is precise and rectilinear as a chessboard, though driving past you would hardly notice it, this boundary line or ragged margin, a shallow swale that cups a simple trickle of water, less rill than rivulet, more gully than dell, a tangled ditch grown up throughout with a fearsome assortment of wildflowers and bracken. There is no fence, though here and there a weathered post asserts a former claim, strands of fallen wire taken by the dust. To the left a cornfield carries into the distance, dips and rises to the blue sky, a rolling plain of green and healthy plants aligned in close order, row upon row upon row. To the right, a field of wheat, a field of hay, young grasses breaking the soil, filling their allotted land with the rich, slow-waving spectacle of their grain. As for the farmers, they are, for the most part, indistinguishable: here the tractor is red, there yellow; here a pair of dirty hands, there a pair of dirty hands. They are cultivators of the soil. They grow crops by pattern, by acre, by foresight, by habit. What corn is to one, wheat is to the other, and though to some eyes the similarities outweigh the differences it would be as unthinkable for the second to commence planting corn as for the first to switch over to wheat. What happens in the gully between them is no concern of theirs, they say, so long as the plough stays out, the weeds stay in the ditch where they belong, though anyone would notice the wind-sewn cornstalks poking up their shaggy ears like young lovers run off into the bushes, and the kinship of these wild grasses with those the farmer cultivates is too obvious to mention, sage and dun-colored stalks hanging their noble heads, hoarding exotic burrs and seeds, and yet it is neither corn nor wheat that truly flourishes there, nor some jackalopian hybrid of the two. What grows in that place is possessed of a beauty all its own, ramshackle and unexpected, even in winter, when the wind hangs icicles from the skeletons of briars and small tracks cross the snow in search of forgotten grain; in the spring the little trickle of water swells to welcome frogs and minnows, a muskrat, a family of turtles, nesting doves in the verdant grass; in summer it is a thoroughfare for raccoons and opossums, field mice, swallows and black birds, migrating egrets, a passing fox; in autumn the geese avoid its abundance, seeking out windrows of toppled stalks, fatter grain more quickly discerned, more easily digested. Of those that travel the local road, few pay that fertile hollow any mind, even those with an eye for what blossoms, vetch and timothy, early forsythia, the fatted calf in the fallow field, the rabbit running for cover, the hawk's descent from the lightning-struck tree. You've passed this way yourself many times, and can tell me, if you would, do the formal fields end where the valley begins, or does everything that surrounds us emerge from its embrace? Campbell McGrath What is Prose Poem? Prose poetry is anything that is written down that does not have poetic meter. Poetic meter is the rhyme in the poem. A Prose poem is usually written in a paragraph form. they do not rhyme. Other Poem written in Prose: Natural Processes by Jack Jordan Natural Processes Natural Processes That basket, the one that sets here, on this table, this table where he leans, leaning heavily upon his elbow, khaki left leg cocked-up. Where is it, his self-sought? In that rack of pipes from which he gestures, gesticulates with the stems, smoke, hot air? In that Bentley, in the basement carved out under the deck cantilevered over the brook that once powered a factory and made ribbons, is in pieces, in pieces in precise order? In that life lived under shadows, in the long partnership not waiting for answers not found in his corner, his pipes, his pronouncements? Is that the arrogance of the commonplace, refuge of the soon forgotten, those natural processes? I hesitate to carry on, carry on fearing what I might find in that brook, that basement, under the shadows? Prose Poems are mainly written in paragraph form. That is why this is a prose poem because it is in paragraph form.

Free Verse

-Free Verse Young Mothers I That look of attention on the face of the young mother like an animal, bending over the carriage, looking up, ears erect, eyes showing the whites all around. Startled as a newborn, she glances from side to side. She has pushed, lying alone on a bed, sweating, isolated by pain, splitting slowly. She has pressed out the child in her. It lies, separate, opening and closing its mouth, its hands wrinkled with long immersion in salt water. Now the mother is the other one, breasts hard bags of rock salt, the bluish milk seeping out, her soul there in the small carriage, the child in her risen to the top, like cream, and skimmed off. Now she is alert for violation, hearing acute as a deer's, her pupils quick, her body bent in a curve, wet rope which has dried and tightened, a torture in some cultures. She dreams of death by fire, death by falling, death by disemboweling, death by drowning, death by removal of the head. Someone starts to scream and it wakes her up, the hungry baby wakes and saves her. :: Sharon Olds, Satan Says (1980) This fits my poetry because it doesn't have any meter. After the Sea-Ship by Walt Whitman After the Sea-Ship—after the whistling winds; After the white-gray sails, taut to their spars and ropes, Below, a myriad, myriad waves, hastening, lifting up their necks, Tending in ceaseless flow toward the track of the ship: Waves of the ocean, bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying, Waves, undulating waves—liquid, uneven, emulous waves, Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant, with curves, Where the great Vessel, sailing and tacking, displaced the surface; Type of Poetry: Free verse means a poem with no meter and no rhyme Meter or Rhythm: There is no meter nor rhythm in this poem and they don't have a set pattern.

Limerick

A limerick is a form of poetry that's usually humorous, but sometimes indecent & also inconsiderate. Its a stanza of five lines & it has a strict rhyme scheme, AABBA, & its usually in a anapestic meter. Lines 1, 2, and 5 rhyme with each other & lines 3 and 4 rhyme with each other. Since its anapestic, there's a rhythm in these types of poems where it consists of two short syllables followed by a long one, or two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed one. Book Of Nonsense 1,10,11 by Edward Lear -- this is an examples of a Limerick because it has the rhyme scheme of aabba & its also funny since about things that are crazy & couldn't actually happen. 1. There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!-- Two Owls and a Hen, Four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard!" 10. There was an Old Man in a tree, Who was horribly bored by a Bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! "It's a regular brute of a Bee!" 11. There was a Young Lady whose chin, Resembled the point of a pin: So she had it made sharp, And purchased a harp, And played several tunes with her chin. There Was A Small Boy of Quebec by Rudyard Kipling -- it follows the rhyme scheme of aabba & its humorous. THERE was a small boy of Quebec, Who was buried in snow to his neck; When they said. "Are you friz?" He replied, "Yes, I is— But we don't call this cold in Quebec."

Acrostic

Alice Pleasance Liddell By: Lewis Carroll A boat beneath a sunny sky, Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July-- Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear- Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die. Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream-- Lingering in the golden gleam-- Life, what is it but a dream? Acrostic poem is where the first letter of each line spells a word usually, using the name of the title, and all lines of the poem should relate to or describe the poem. An acrostic poem doesn't have to have a rhyme scheme or meter. Another Example: Heartbreaking By: Kody Kuperavage He broke my heart Every piece, shattered All I wanted was his love Real, as he promised True, as mine for him But he walked away Right in the middle of paradise Every beat of my heart Aches for his love Keeping the flame aglow I will wait by the light Never losing the hope God will send him back to me This is poem is acrostic poem because the first letter of each line spells out the title and all of the lines are relating to the main topic.

Ballads

Ballads "The 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? "Ballad of the Cool Fountain" (Author Anonymous) Fountain, coolest fountain, Cool fountain of love, Where all the sweet birds come For comforting-but one, A widow turtledove, Sadly sorrowing. At once the nightingale, That wicked bird, came by, And spoke these honied words: "My lady, if you will, I shall be your slave." "You are my enemy: Begone, you are not true! Green boughs no longer rest me, Nor any budding grove. Clear springs, where there are such, Turn muddy at my touch. I want no spouse to love Nor any children either. I forego that pleasure And their comfort too. No, leave me; you are false And wicked-vile, untrue! I'll never be your mistress! I'll never marry you!" A lyrical ballad is the narration of a story in the form of a poem or song Examples: "The Tyger" (My assignment): It tells the legend of the Tyger's birth or creation with rhyme and rhythm "Ballad of the Cool Fountain": It tells a love story in the form of a narrative song A ballad's meter is usually iambic tetrameter or iambic trimeter with a rhyme scheme of aabb, abab, or abcb.

Pastoral

Christopher Marlowe The Passionate Shepherd to His Love COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks 5 And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, 10 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair linèd slippers for the cold, 15 With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love. 20 Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 25 For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love. Midnight Garden The garden, it is fast asleep, Or so it would appear-- I wonder what the roses dream, Of dewdrops cool, and clear? So peacefully they are folded For their midnight reverie-- Still as day without a breeze Or a waveless azure sea. And I watch, though from a distance, As I'm curious to know-- What dreams entice the Daffodil As they slumber sweetly so? -Mel Merril These poems are both alike because they both have to do with the pasture and other things that have to do in the field. Such as the animals and all the other farm animals that live there. Pastoral Definition: of or relating to the countryside or to the lives of people who live in the country. The poem is written in AABB and is an Iambic Tetrameter.

Cinquain

Cinquain A cinquain is a five-line poem To Helen By Edgar Allan Poe Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicéan barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy-Land! American Cinquain Snow by Adelaide Crapsey : Look up... From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind...look up, and scent The snow! This poem is american cinquain because the amount of stressed and unstressed are The first line has one stress, which was usually iambic meter with the first syllable unstressed and the second stressed. Line two has two stresses. Line three has three stresses. Line four has four stresses. Line five has one stress. and has the right amount of syllables which are Line one had two syllables. Line two had four syllables. Line three had six syllables. Line four had eight syllables. Line five had two syllables. Stresses Per Line The first line has one stress, which was usually iambic meter with the first syllable unstressed and the second stressed. Line two has two stresses. Line three has three stresses. Line four has four stresses. Line five has one stress. Syllables Per Line Following the invention of this form, Crapsey made changes to the form and included a certain number of syllables per line. Line one had two syllables. Line two had four syllables. Line three had six syllables. Line four had eight syllables. Line five had two syllables. Even though iambic feet were typically used in these cinquains, it was not a requirement of the structure.

Elgy

Elegy "To An Athlete Dying Young" 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. To-day, 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. "My Dying Moth" by Raja Nosherwan Do pray with me my dying moth for we are not forgiven yet, till we don't shed the silken cloth and both our wings to fire set. Do pray for me while you are there, inside your grief our holy land, how can I for redemption care! While my own touch the sinking sand. Still pray, for life is short and ill, can't empty minds the gardens find, I might not my transgressions kill, while praise the earth that burns my kind. But you are ill and cannot fly, like a beggars eye do you bargain; a day, a life, why do you try and go through the forsaken pain. If pray you must, do pray for me, have yet to earn my deepest sin, though a creature wise you cannot see a moment through the human skin. Please pray, as once had for life prayed in the calmest of your timeless age, we paint our stay with our own shade and in this blank find all the rage. Pray with those burnt out wings so pure, and ask for me the holy balm, that does to men the sense restore, but to this man the senseless calm. Do pray as I will die one day, until that day I cannot live, just dream that you may live to pray, and to my moth a purpose give. An Elegy is a poem that is typically a lament for the dead, a poem about grief and sorrow for the dead Examples of Elegy are in "To An Athlete Dying Young", because its about a young boy who won the town race and never got to see the day someone beat his record This poem has a Iambic Tetrameter, and a rhyme scheme of a,a,b,b,c,c The poem "My Dying Moth" has a rhyme scheme of a,b,a,b,c,d,c,d

Epigram

Epigram= is a short satire poem usually written as a couplet or quatrain but can also just be a one lined phrase. It is a brief and forceful remark with a funny ending. Example 1: by: John Donne I am unable, yonder beggar cries, To stand, or move; if he say true, he lies. "On My First Son" by Ben Johnson Example:2 Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry." For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much. by: Ben Johnson

Ghazal

Ghazal "Even the Rain" By Agha Shaid Ali What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain? But he has bought grief's lottery, bought even the rain. "our glosses / wanting in this world" "Can you remember?" Anyone! "when we thought / the poets taught" even the rain? After we died--That was it!--God left us in the dark. And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain. Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house. For mixers, my love, you'd poured--what?--even the rain. Of this pear-shaped orange's perfumed twist, I will say: Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain. How did the Enemy love you--with earth? air? and fire? He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain. This is God's site for a new house of executions? You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain? After the bones--those flowers--this was found in the urn: The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain. What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world? A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain. How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames-- to help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain. He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves, he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain. New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me-- to make this claim Memory's brought even the rain. They've found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these? No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain. Open Ghazal by Len Anderson Kiss the hand and cheek, kiss the lips that open. Kiss the eyes and tears, kiss the wounds that open. The nuclei of our atoms are so small, we are mostly nothing. Whoever did this made our stone walls out of windows always open. In a thicket: A bag too dark to see, too big to lift, too familiar to walk away from. God grant me strength to drag it into the open. 6:10, stuck on the freeway again. Love is singing with window and throat wide open. My friend refused to greet the stranger in black, was brought to the surgeon, who cut his heart open. Go ahead, I dare you, take another breath. Each one is full of what 14 billion years ago blew this world open. We safecracker poets sand fingertips, pass long nights on our knees. All to feel those clicks that mean the door will spring open. Len says, I love the night sky, but I adore the Milky Way: It is the edge of Her robe. See how gently it opens. This poem fits good because it rhymes & they share the same lengths. They have the rhyming couplets with each line. and is repeating the refrain. Ghazal is a poetic with rhyming couplets each line sharing the same lengths. It has to has a minimum of five couplets. It introduces a scheme made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line of the first stanza. The last couplets sometimes includes the poet's signature.

Dramatic Monologue

MUMMY OF A LADY NAMED JEMUTESONEKH XXI DYNASTY A poem other than the one I read is "my last duchess"the writer of that is Robert Browning.It fits the same catogory because the definition of a dramatic monologue is a poem in the form of a speech or narrative by an imagined person, in which the speaker reveals aspects of their character while describing a particular situation or series of events.That relates to "my last duchess" because that poem is mainy about a person and their life it relates back to my poem because they both talk about someones life in details.If my poem is a dramatic monologue than "the last duchess" is also.A dramatic monologue is usually written in freestyle but could also be written in other forms. MUMMY OF A LADY NAMED JEMUTESONEKH XXI DYNASTY My body holds its shape. The genius is intact. Will I return to Thebes? In that lost country The eucalyptus trees have turned to stone. Once, branches nudged me, dropping swollen blossoms, And passionflowers lit my father's garden. Is it still there, that place of mottled shadow, The scarlet flowers breathing in the darkness? I remember how I died. It was so simple! One morning the garden faded. My face blacked out. On my left side they made the first incision. They washed my heart and liver in palm wine— My lungs were two dark fruit they stuffed with spices. They smeared my innards with a sticky unguent And sealed them in a crock of alabaster. My brain was next. A pointed instrument Hooked it through my nostrils, strand by strand. A voice swayed over me. I paid no notice. For weeks my body swam in sweet perfume. I came out Scoured. I was skin and bone. Thy lifted me into the sun again And packed my empty skull with cinnamon. They slit my toes; a razor gashed my fingertips. Stitched shut at last, my limbs were chaste and valuable, Stuffed with a paste of cloves and wild honey. My eyes were empty, so they filled them up, Inserting little nuggets of obsidian. A basalt scarab wedged between my breasts Replaced the tinny music of my heart. Hands touched my sutures. I was so important! They oiled my pores, rubbing a fragrance in. An amber gum oozed down to soothe my temples. I wanted to sit up. My skin was luminous, Frail as the shadow of an emerald. Before I learned to love myself too much, My body wound itself in spools of linen. Shut in my painted box, I am a precious object. I wear a wooden mask. These are my eyelids, Two flakes of bronze, and here is my new mouth, Chiseled with care, guarding its ruby facets. I will last forever. I am not impatient — My skin will wait to greet its old complexions. I'll lie here till the world swims back again. When I come home the garden will be budding, White petals breaking open, clusters of night flowers, The far-off music of a tambourine. A boy will pace among the passionflowers, His eyes no longer two bruised surfaces. I'll know the mouth of my young groom, I'll touch His hands. Why do people lie to one another? MY LAST DUCHESS 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!

Ekphrasis

Ode to a Grecian Urn By: John Keats Ekphrasis - a vivid description of a scene or more commonly, a work of art. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearièd, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' Example: A Man of God A man of God is a priceless treasure Worth more than frankincense or myrrh A man of God is the fairest in the land Who can behold his beauty? Inner strength Exuding peace A simple harmony Fully reliant upon his Lord A man of God is a precious commodity As he journeys to the heart of his Creator this poem shows that men are art work created by God, thats what makes it an ekphrasis.

Pantoum

Parent's Pantoum Carolyn Kizer, 1925 - 2014 for Maxine Kumin Where did these enormous children come from, More ladylike than we have ever been? Some of ours look older than we feel. How did they appear in their long dresses More ladylike than we have ever been? But they moan about their aging more than we do, In their fragile heels and long black dresses. They say they admire our youthful spontaneity. They moan about their aging more than we do, A somber group--why don't they brighten up? Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity They beg us to be dignified like them As they ignore our pleas to brighten up. Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention Then we won't try to be dignified like them Nor they to be so gently patronizing. Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention. Don't they know that we're supposed to be the stars? Instead they are so gently patronizing. It makes us feel like children--second-childish? Perhaps we're too accustomed to be stars. The famous flowers glowing in the garden, So now we pout like children. Second-childish? Quaint fragments of forgotten history? Our daughters stroll together in the garden, Chatting of news we've chosen to ignore, Pausing to toss us morsels of their history, Not questions to which only we know answers. Eyes closed to news we've chosen to ignore, We'd rather excavate old memories, Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors. Why do they never listen to our stories? Because they hate to excavate old memories They don't believe our stories have an end. They don't ask questions because they dread the answers. They don't see that we've become their mirrors, We offspring of our enormous children. What is Pantoum Poem? It comes from Malaysia created in the fifteenth-century. composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first. It All Started With A Packet of Seeds It all started with a packet of seeds, To be planted with tenderness and care, At the base of an Oak, free from all weeds. They will produce such beauty and flare. To be planted with tenderness and care, A cacophony of colorful flowers, They will produce such beauty and flare. With an aroma that can continue for hours. A cacophony of colorful flowers, Bright oranges with yellows and reds, With an aroma that can continue for hours, Delivered from their fresh flower beds. Bright oranges with yellows and reds, At the base of an oak, free from all weeds, Delivered from their fresh flower beds, At all started with a packet of seeds. Sally Ann RobGerts Line 2 and 4 repeat as 1 and 3 in the next stanza

Petrarchan Sonnet

Petrarchan Sonnet- "London, 1802" by William Wordsworth Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. Petrarchan Sonnet- It was named after the Italian poet Petrarch. the Petrarchan sonnet is a 14-line poem uses iambic pentameter divided into two stanzas, the first 8 lines (called the octave) followed by the answering sestet (the final six lines). It has rhyme scheme in it usually has the same pattern in the first 8 lines, ABBA ABBA Starts a new pattern but also follows it in the last 6 lines , CDCDCD or CDECDE The Petrarchan presents an argument,observation,question, or some other answerable charge in the octave, volta,which is the turn of thought, occurs between eighth and ninth lines. Emma Lazarus "The New Colossus" 'Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, (a) With conquering limbs astride from land to land; (b) Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand (b) A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame (a) Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name (a) Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand (b) Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command (b) The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. (a) 'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she (c) With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor, (d) Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, (c) The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. (d) Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, (c) I lift my lamp beside the golden door!' (d) This is a Petrarchan Sonnet because there are 2 two things that this poem shows that it is this type of Sonnet. One reason is that this poem has 14 lines which is needed to be a Petrarchan Sonnet. Also because it has rhyme scheme which also is needed in order to become a Petrarchan. the first eight lines in the poem have told about an idea, question, or problem, usually that can be answered later on in the poem. Also in the last six line it provides a solution or something new that changes the poem a bit. This is what a volta is which is Italian for "change". This poem fills all those requirements to become a Petrarchan.

Triolet

Poetry Project Handout Roses and Larkspur by: Amy Lowell Assigned Poem Tanka: Roses and Larkspur. by Amy Lowell Roses and larkspur And slender, serried lilies; I wonder whether These are worth your attention. Consider it, and if not— Example Poem War By: M.L. Kiser Rendezvous with death, War ravages everyone; Carnage for vultures. There are survivors, untouched; Emotions are ravaged, through.Explanation The reason I compared Roses and Larkspur by Amy Lowell and War by M.L. Kiser is that the poem War has the five syllables in line 1 and 3, also it has 7 syllables in the other lines. Definition tan·ka1 ˈtäNGkə/ noun a Japanese poem consisting of five lines, the first and third of which have five syllables and the other seven, making 31 syllables in all and giving a complete picture of an event or mood. Patterns 5 lines 1st and 3rd lines= 5 syllables, other lines= 7 syllables 31 syllables total for picture of event or mood

Shakespearean Sonnet

Shakespearean Sonnet Sonnet 131 by William Shakespeare Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st, to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith some say, that thee behold, Thy face hath not the pow'r to make love groan. To say they err I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to myself alone; And to be sure that is not false, I swear A thousand groans but thinking on thy face; One on another's neck do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. Sonnet 132 by William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head; I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some pérfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. A sonnet is a poem with 14 lines with a rhyme scheme. It is an Iambic Pentameter. William Shakespeare has written 154 sonnets that differ from the normal sonnet. The scheme is abab, cdcd, efef, gg (the last two lines are a conclusion) Here it is clear that this is a Shakespearean Sonnet because of the rhyme scheme, as the abab, cdcd, efef, scheme is continuous until the last 2 lines (gg), which represent a conclusion to the poem.

Spenserian Sonnet

Spenserian Sonnet The poem that I was assigned was "Sonnet 75". An example of a spenserian sonnet is the poem "Amoretti" by Edmund Spenser. This is a good example if spenserian sonnet because is has a pattern of abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee. Also it has a the same unstressed and stressed syllables that "Sonnet 75" has. There are fourteen lines in a Spenserian sonnet. The first twelve lines are divided into three quatrains with four lines each. In the three quatrains the poet establishes a theme or problem and then resolves it in the final two lines. The rhyme scheme of the quatrains is abab bcbc cdcd, with the couplet ee at the end. Amoretti Is it her nature or is it her will, To be so cruel to an humbled foe? If nature, then she may it mend with skill, If will, then she at will may will forgo. But if her nature and her will be so, that she will plague the man that loves her most: And take delight t'increase a wretch's woe, Then all her nature's goodly gifts are lost. And that same glorious beauty's idle boast, Is but a bait such wretches to beguile: As being long in her love's tempest tossed, She means at last to make her piteous spoil. Of fairest fair let never it be named, That so fair beauty was so foully shamed. Sonnet 75 One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Agayne I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. "Vayne man," sayd she, "that doest in vaine assay. A mortall thing so to immortalize, For I my selve shall lyke to this decay, and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize." "Not so," quod I, "let baser things devize, To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens wryte your glorious name. Where whenas death shall all the world subdew, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

TERZA RIMA

TERZA RIMA 1 Hail-spurting sky sun splashing off persimmons left in the quit garden of the quit house The realtor's swaying name against this cloudheap this surrendered acre I would so help me tell you if I could how some great teacher came to my side and said: Let's go down into the underworld --the earth already crazed Let me take your hand --but who would that be? already trembling on the broken crust who would I trust? I become the default derailed memory-raided limping teacher I never had I lead and I follow Terza Rima is a rhyming verse stanza form that consists of an interlocking three-line rhyme scheme, it was first used by the Italian poet Dante Alighieri. There are three lines usually in iambic pentameter. Example: Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-42) My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin, They sang sometimes a song of the field mouse, That for because their livelihood was but so thin Would needs go seek her townish sister's house. She thought herself endured to much pain: The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse... http://tinyurl.com/l8xo8fe

Tithonus

Tithonus, by: Lord Alfred Tennyson Tithonus BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man— So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd To his great heart none other than a God! I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.' Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men, who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills, And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? 'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.' Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch—if I be he that watch'd— The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave: Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. A PLACE TO LAY MY HEAD: Oh for a place to lay my weary head To seek a haven from the stormy strife With certainty to give my love and life And know that I'm adored on sacred bed Oh for a place to lay my body down To disrobe of the doubts and naked lie In opulence of love to gratify And have true kisses for my head a crown Oh for a place where doubt dare not appear Where I can be the one and only dream Where passion's not a trickle but a stream Where arms of love hold all that heart holds dear I'm wearied from my search for blissful rest My armor weights me down, my fears assail From rended heart breaks forth lamenter's wail The hope of love from me the world did wrest Give me a place upon your chest to sleep Ensure me that your love will steadfast be Vouch safe to me your ardent constancy Then with your lips set seal and promise keep Eileen Manassian This poem fits in with Tithonus because they both don't have rhyme because they are blank verse and blank verse don't rhyme because they have unrhymed lines. unrhymed but has meter has iambic pentameter Blank Verse is poetry written in unrhymed lines in iambic pentameters.

Triolet

Triolet How Great My Grief By: Thomas Hardy "How great my grief, my joys how few, Since first it was my fate to know thee! Have the slow years not brought to view How great my grief, my joys how few, Nor memory shaped old times anew, Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee How great my grief, my joys how few, Since first it was my fate to know thee?" Untitled 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 the sore distress, The inevitable disaster, When first we met? We did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master." This poem is a triolet for four reasons:There are 8 lines in this poem, these 8 lines have 8 syllables in them all combined, the first line is the same as the 4th and 7th and the second line is the same as the 8th, and lastly the poem is written with an ABAAABAB rhyme scheme. A triolet is a poem with eight lines and eight syllables on each line. This type of poem rhymes ABAAABAB and this poem is structured where the first line recurs as the fourth and seventh and the second as the eighth. A triolet is written with the rhyme scheme of ABAAABAB and all lines are usually written in iambic tetrameter.

VILLANELLE

VILLANELLE POETRY ("If I Could Tell You") By: WH Auden A villanelle (also known as villanesque) is a nineteen-line poetic form consisting of five tercets (a set or group of three lines of verse rhyming together or connected by rhyme with an adjacent tercet.) followed by a quatrain (tercet is composed of three lines of poetry, forming a stanza or a complete poem.) There are two refrains and two repeating rhymes, with the first and third line of the first tercet repeated alternately until the last stanza, which includes both repeated lines. The poem that I was assigned to is "If I Could Tell You" By: WH Auden. This Type of poem is a Villanelle. Examples of Villanelle Poetry will be like: The Caged Thrush Freed and Home Again By: Thomas Hardy "Men know but little more than we, Who count us least of things terrene,: How happy days are made to be! "Of such strange tidings what think ye, O birds in brown that peck and preen? Men know but little more than we! "When I was borne from yonder tree In bonds to them, I hoped to glean How happy days are made to be, "And want and wailing turned to glee; Alas, despite their mighty mien: Men know but little more than we! "They cannot change the Frost's decree, They cannot keep the skies serene; How happy days are made to be "Eludes great Man's sagacity No less than ours, O tribes in treen! Men know but little more than we How happy days are made to be. The Poem "If I Could Tell You" and "The Caged Thrush Freed and Home Again" are similar and fits good with "If I Could Tell You" is because they both are Villanelle, besides that they also have two refrains and two repeating rhymes EXAMPLE: "Men know but little more than we,: A1 Who count us least of things terrene,: b How happy days are made to be!: A2 "Of such strange tidings what think ye,: a O birds in brown that peck and preen?: b Men know but little more than we!: A1 (refrain) "When I was borne from yonder tree: a In bonds to them, I hoped to glean: b How happy days are made to be,: A2 (refrain)

Haiku

haiku; haiku in english is a short poem inspired by the Japanese haiku , A typical haiku is a three-line observation about nature. The original haiku is a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables, first line: 5 syllables second line: 7 syllables third line: 5 syllables Heather Burns The leaves of Autumn lovely gold and brown colors painting the landscape. Explanation: it has 5 syllables then 7 and in the end it has 5 syllables. also because it talks about nature, like when it says stuff about summer. Anselm Hollo follow that airplane of course I'm high this is an emergency § giant Scots terrier I thought I saw was known as Taxicab Mountain § brown photo legend "serene enjoyment" they suck pipes bones crumbled back § night train whistles stars over a nation under mad temporal czars § round lumps of cells grow up to love porridge later become The Supremes § lady I lost my subway token we must part it's faster by air § "but it's our world" tiny blue hands and green arms your thought in my room § sweet bouzouki sound another syntax for heads up to the aether § in you the in moon its rays entwined in my mind's hair hangs down right in § viewing the dragon there they ride slim through my dream Carpaccio's pair § slow bloom inside you the mnemonics of loving incessant chatter § far shore Ferris wheel turning glowing humming love in our lit-up heads § switch them to sleep now the flying foxes swarm out great it's flurry time § wind rain you and me went looking for a new house o the grass grows loud