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POETRY TERMS TO KNOW Rhyme Scheme Onomatopoeia Prosody Connotation / Denotation Scanning / Scansion Caesura Enjambment Ballad Tone Couplet Heroic Couplet Quatrain / Sestet / Octet Lyric Imagist Lyric Elegy Epigram Epigraph Slant Rhyme vs. True Rhyme Narrative Poetry Free Verse Blank Verse Poetic License Sonnet (Three most common types: Shakespearean, Italian, Spenserian) Volta Villanelle Ballad Meter Assonance Consonance Sibilance Euphony Cacophony how to quote poetry Masculine/Feminine syllables (“stress”) Iambic Trochaic Spondaic Anapestic Dactylic TONE MAP (because we can do better than “happy” and “sad”) abashed cold ghoulish pragmatic swaggering abrasive complimentary giddy proud sweet abusive condescending gleeful provocative sympathetic acquiescent confident glum questioning taunting accepting confused grim rallying tense acerbic coy guarded reflective thoughtful admiring contemptuous guilty reminiscing threatening adoring conversational happy reproachful tired affectionate critical harsh resigned touchy aghast curt haughty respectful trenchant allusive cutting heavy-hearted restrained uncertain amused cynical hollow reticent understated angry defamatory horrified reverent upset anxious denunciatory humorous rueful urgent apologetic despairing hypercritical sad vexed apprehensive detached indifferent sarcastic vibrant approving devil-may-care indignant sardonic wary arch didactic indulgent satirical whimsical ardent disbelieving ironic satisfied withering argumentative discouraged irreverent seductive wry audacious disdainful joking self-critical zealous awe-struck disparaging joyful self-dramatizing bantering disrespectful languorous self-justifying begrudging distracted languid self-mocking bemused doubtful laudatory self-pitying benevolent dramatic light-hearted self-satisfied biting dreamy lingering sentimental bitter dry loving serious blithe ecstatic marveling severe boastful entranced melancholy sharp bored enthusiastic mistrustful shocked brisk eulogistic mocking silly bristling exhilarated mysterious sly brusque exultant naïve smug calm facetious neutral solemn candid fanciful nostalgic somber caressing fearful objective stern caustic flippant peaceful straightforward cavalier fond pessimistic stentorian childish forceful pitiful strident child-like frightened playful stunned clipped frivolous poignant subdued TPCASTT Annotations (TPCASTT explanation taken from several online sources) The majority of your grade for this unit will come from your annotations of these poems. The TPCASTT method is an excellent way to gather your thoughts on what a poem (and a poet) is aiming to accomplish. I should see evidence of this level of analysis on each of your poems. T P Title Before you even think about reading the poetry or trying to analyze it, speculate on what you think the poem might be about based upon the title. Often time authors conceal the meaning in the title and give clues in the title. Jot down what you think this poem will be about. Paraphrase Before you begin thinking about the meaning or trying to analyze the poem, don’t overlook the literal meaning of the poem. One of the biggest problems that students often make in poetry analysis in jumping to conclusions before understanding what is taking place in the poem. When you paraphrase a poem, write in your own words exactly as it happens in the poem. Look at the number of sentences in the poem—your paraphrase should have exactly the same number. This technique is especially helpful for poems written in the 17 th and 19th centuries. Sometimes your teacher may allow you to summarize what happens in the poem. Make sure that you understand the difference between paraphrase and a summary. C Connotation Although this term usually refers solely to the emotional overtones of word choice, for this approach the term refers to any and all poetic devices, focusing on how such devices contribute to the meaning, the effect, or both of a poem. You may consider imagery, figures of speech (simile, metaphor, personification, symbolism, etc.), diction, point of view, and sound devices (alliteration, onomatopoeia, rhythm, and rhyme). It is not necessary that the ones you do identify should be seen as a way of supporting the conclusions you are going to draw. A Attitude Having examined the poem’s devices and clues closely, you are now ready to explore the multiple attitudes that may be present in the poem. Examination of diction, images, and details suggests the speaker’s attitude and contributions to the understanding. You may refer to the list of words on our Tone Map. That will help you. Remember that usually the tone or attitude cannot be named with a single word. Think complexity. S Shifts Rarely does a poem begin and end the poetic experience in the same place. As is true of most of us, the poet’s understanding of an experience is a gradual realization, and the poem is a reflection of that understanding or insight. Watch for the following keys to shifts: · Key words (but, yet, however, although) · Punctuation (dashes, periods, colons, ellipsis) · Stanza divisions · Change in line or stanza length or both · Irony · Changes in sound that may indicate changes in meaning · Changes in diction T Title Now look at the title of the poem again, but this time on an interpretive level. What new insight does the title provide in understanding the poem? T Theme What is the poem saying about the human experience, motivation, or condition? What subject or subjects does the poem address? What do you learn about those subjects? What idea does the poet want you to take away with you concerning these subjects? Remember that the theme of any work of literature is stated in a complete sentence. Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house. Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well, What did I know, what did I know Of love’s austere and lonely offices? The More Loving One by W. H. Auden Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. 1 One Art by Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster; Places and names, where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! My last, or next-to-last of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture of love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master, though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. Three critical questions about these poems 1 A Locked House by W.D. Snodgrass As we drove back, crossing the hill, The house still Hidden in the trees, I always thought— A fool’s fear—that it might have caught Fire, someone could have broken in. As if things must have been Too good here. Still, we always found It locked tight, safe and sound. I mentioned that, once, as a joke; No doubt we spoke Of the absurdity To fear some dour god’s jealousy Of our good fortune. From the farm Next door, our neighbors saw no harm Came to the things we cared for here. What did we have to fear? Maybe I should have thought: all Such things rot, fall— Barns, houses, furniture. We two are stronger than we were Apart; we’ve grown Together. Everything we own Can burn; we know what counts—some such Idea. We said as much. We’d watched friends driven to betray; Felt that love drained away Some self they need. We’d said love, like a growth, can feed On hate we turn in and disguise; We warned ourselves. That you might despise Me—hate all we both loved best— None of us ever guessed. The house still stands, locked, as it stood Untouched a good Two years after you went. Some things passed in the settlement; Some things slipped away. Enough’s left That I come back sometimes. The theft And vandalism were our own. Maybe we should have known. 2 Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heaney I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying-He had always taken funerals in his stride-And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble," Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year. Three critical questions about these poems 2 Out, Out by Robert Frost The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them 'Supper'. At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh. As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all-- Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man's work, though a child at heart-- He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!' So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then -- the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little -- less -- nothing! -- and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs. 3 The Second Coming by W. B. Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand; A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens Three critical questions about these poems 3 Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed, And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. The Soldier by Rupert Brooke If I should die, think only this of me; That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 4 New Year by Alfred Nicol “Even such is man” - Henry King, “Sic Vita” Like an engaging lady's whim, Or like a tabby's morning swim; Like an accountant's spending spree, A starlet's popularity, A daughter's mood, a boy's regrets, An open box of chocolates; Like morning mist; like cradlesong: My resolution lasts as long. The cat keeps three paws on the deck The clerk, too, keeps himself in check; The whim passes; the crowd moves on; The boyfriend calls; the candy's gone; A boy forgets; the sun breaks through; The baby sleeps: I stay with you. The Panther by Rainer Maria Rilke In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris His vision, from the constantly passing bars, has grown so weary that it cannot hold anything else. It seems to him there are a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world. As he paces in cramped circles, over and over, the movement of his powerful soft strides is like a ritual dance around a center in which a mighty will stands paralyzed. Only at times, the curtain of the pupils lifts, quietly – an image enters in, rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles, plunges into the heart and is gone. Three critical questions about these poems 4 Cambridge Now by Andrew Sofer Our living room and dining room are gone as is the Garden Room where I would play the sick piano, bored on my half-terms, while Mr. Sadler sweated on the lawn. He’d tip his cap and shift his eyes away, muttering Sir, and I would turn beet-red – knowing that I was younger than his son. I helped him pick our apples where they lay beneath the tree, checking the worst for worms, their musty bulk rotting the garden shed. I find the study where my parents worked, desks side by side, hers in a messy pile of papers, Freud’s complete works, a small fern. My father’s desk was neat. I often lurked until he left and raided his velvet file for drawing paper. It put him in a rage. He’d shout at me until my shoulders jerked with tears; then he’d recover, gravely smile and say he was sorry, but I had to learn the hidden cost of every wasted page. My mother’s room smelled faintly of cologne and medicine. Surrounded by her books, she’d lay in bed with all the blinds pulled down, pretending she was talking on the phone. She used to joke about our firing Cook but still served Campbell’s soup day after day, then crept upstairs to have a bite alone. In later years her chap would catch my look at table, quickly tie his dressing-gown and help her clear the dirty plates away. The owner leads me up the creaking stairs. Perched on a step, I’d read for hours on end, picking the worn green lino into shreds – our family never went in for repairs. My fingers trace the banister round its bend past the dim landing to my bedroom door. I open it expecting stained blue chairs, the broken spacecraft built for my best friend, my vampire collection, typewriter, bunk beds. We put our kitchen on the second floor. I sit down at a table of stripped pine and force myself to look. The room is bright with sun cascading through the window pane and cheery with a warmth that isn’t mine. It used to get so dark in here at night I made my parents put a light outside the door I had to close when I was nine. My hand shakes, spilling tea. Are you all right? I nod – but at the cracked sink once again, I rinse my eyes, like when my father died. 5 The Midnight Skaters by Edmund Blunden The hop-poles* stand in cones, The icy pond lurks under, The pole-tops steeple to the thrones Of stars, sound gulfs of wonder; But not the tallest thee, 'tis said, Could fathom to this pond's black bed. Then is not death at watch Within those secret waters? What wants he but to catch Earth's heedless sons and daughters? With but a crystal parapet Between, he has his engines set. Then on, blood shouts, on, on, Twirl, wheel and whip above him, Dance on this ball-floor thin and wan, Use him as though you love him; Court him, elude him, reel and pass, And let him hate you through the glass. * “hop poles” are simply temporary posts used to support vines, or in this case, lanterns Three critical questions about these poems 5 First Lesson by Philip Booth Lie back daughter, let your head be tipped back in the cup of my hand. Gently, and I will hold you. Spread your arms wide, lie out on the stream and look high at the gulls. A deadman's float is face down. You will dive and swim soon enough where this tidewater ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe me, when you tire on the long thrash to your island, lie up, and survive. As you float now, where I held you and let go, remember when fear cramps your heart what I told you: lie gently and wide to the light-year stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you. Swimming Lesson by Mary Oliver Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves Reaching around my life, I moved my arms And coughed, and in the end saw land. Somebody, I suppose, Remembering the medieval maxim, Had tossed me in, Had wanted me to learn to swim, Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising, Ever learned anything at all About swimming, but only How to put off, one by one, Dreams and pity, love and grace, -How to survive in any place. 6 Traveling Through the Dark by William Stafford Traveling through the dark I found a deer dead on the edge of the Wilson River road. It is usually best to roll them into the canyon: that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead. By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing; she had stiffened already, almost cold. I dragged her off; she was large in the belly. My fingers touching her side brought me the reason— her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting, alive, still, never to be born. Beside that mountain road I hesitated. The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine. I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen. I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—, then pushed her over the edge into the river. Three critical questions about these poems 6 To a Mouse on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785 by Robert Burns (textual assistance provided in parentheses) Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Th need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! (with a lot of noise) I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma'request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell-Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou are no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still thou art blest, compared wi' me The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! (a small piece of a larger amount) (the remainer, the rest) (to build) (both bitter and sharp) (plow) (to suffer) (frosty) (you are not alone) (often go wrong) 7 Equator by D.C. Stone 7 The natives of this region built a temple On the equator, centuries ago. How on earth, I wonder, did they know They'd found the heart of things, in times so simple? The two of us were never as aware. This photo shows us there, your palm to mine, On either side of the imagined line, Shadowless and hot, the laughing pair. I know. I should have built a monument To you; I should have learned to honor years With stone cathedrals, though I never thought as much. This photograph now seems a testament That we were always split by hemispheres, Even there, even as we touched. The Cross of Snow by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face--the face of one long dead-Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died, and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes And seasons, changeless since the day she died. Three critical questions about these poems Benedight = blessed “JANUARY IS THE COOLEST MONTH” (a paraphrase from T. S. Eliot) When you memorize a poem, it often sticks with you forever. Recent studies have even proven that memorizing poems is a good way to ward off Alzheimer’s Disease and dementia. Since many of you are fairly demented, this is really a public health project that I am undertaking. Just kidding. No, I am serious. So… here is your chance to strengthen your minds and become more cultured. Memorization – The first and most important part of this project is your accuracy. In poetry, much more attention is paid to the individual word than is done in prose, so you should have the same focus as well. You will be graded holistically on how accurately you recite your poem(s). The length requirements run as follows: ANY POEM THAT YOU MEMORIZE MUST BE AT LEAST 8 LINES LONG You can only receive an A if you memorize 20 lines of poetry. If you memorize less than that, you can still receive a B if you memorize at least 15 lines (I will make an exception if you memorize a sonnet, which is a 14-line traditional form). See the grading sheet for penalties. You may memorize more than one poem, as long as you follow the above rule. Also, I reserve veto power over any poems with ridiculously short lines OR an insane amount of repetition. On my web page is a short list of poetry that I really like, but feel free to go with something that is not on the list. Make it personal – make it yours. Also, on the day of your memorization, you must bring me a copy of your poem. Additional guidelines: No song lyrics, No Walt Whitman poems (I hate him) Recitation – This is not a matter of standing up in front of the class and saying a bunch of words. You are reciting a poem!!! Treat it with the dignity that it deserves. We will go over the fundamentals of public speaking together, and while I am not looking for perfect orators, I will expect that you are presenting your poem well. Interpretation – Along with your recitation, I am expecting you to complete a TPCASTT sheet analyzing your poem, using the same type of close reading that we will be practicing in class (If you recite more than one poem, your response must focus on only one of them). What is the poet doing? What poetic devices does he/she use? What is working well within the poem? BE SPECIFIC. Also, if your poem can’t stand up to an analysis, select a new one. Immediately before your recitation begins, I will ask for you to explain your poem to the class briefly. What is it about, and what, as an audience, should we keep our ears open for (i.e. symbolism, a metaphorical interpretation, difficult vocabulary, etc)? Give us a running start, don’t just jump right in, or we’ll be lost. Good luck! For POL competitors: THIS IS NOT A MONOLOGUE COMPETITION, NOR IS IT A POETRY SLAM! I am weary of performances that focus on the performer, not the poet. Don’t act. In the event of a tie, I will always side with the poem that doesn’t rely on comic timing, employing accents, creating characters, etc. I encourage you to judge the same way. NAME_______________________________________ POEM:_______________________________________ POET _______________________________________ (fill in everything above the line – failure to do so will be a 3-point penalty – come on…) ACCURACY (40 POINTS) ____ Major Errors (-3) ____ Minor Errors (-1) ____Forgot the line (-5) Total = _______/40 CATEGORY AMAZING V. GOOD FAIR WEAK THE POEM (30 POINTS) Clarity (comprehensibility) 15 10 5 0 Accuracy (proof of understanding) 15 10 5 0 Eye Contact 5 4 2 0 Posture 5 4 2 0 Absence of Theatricality 5 (this score will also be used as my first tiebreaker) 4 2 0 10 5 0 THE PRESENTATION (15 POINTS) ANALYSIS (15 POINTS) (will not count toward POL) TPCASST Sheet 15 TOTAL NUMBER OF LINES (Penalties & Rewards) 20 Lines 15-19 Lines OR a sonnet 11-14 Lines Fewer than 10 lines More than 30 lines (Go For It!) Walt Whitman poem Late Penalty Ineligible poem (see below) No Penalty -10 -20 -30 +5 -30 Also, any poem that mentions Walt Whitman = -15 -15 per day -50 Whoa. Why would you take this risk? TOTAL SCORE = ______________________________ NOT ELIGIBLE = Paul Revere’s Ride, Casey at the Bat, The Cremation of Sam McGee, song lyrics, the poem you memorized last year for Poetry Out Loud, a poem YOU wrote.
