A Week of Poetry

E. L.

Ms. Knuth

5th Hour

18 Nov 2013

Poetry Project

Newspaper Blackout Poem

Friends help you connect with people in quirky ways, make someone better, march forward, be open-minded

Haiku

Switch your wild heart over

Surface her lofty feelings

Stay as the time slips

A vision for the future

AcrosticNumerous talents

Innovative

Keen

Intelligent

Tactful

Humorous

Artistic

Song Lyrics Mykonos By Fleet FoxesWhoa-oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-

oh-oh

Whoa-oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh

The door slammed loud and rose up a cloud of dust on us

Footsteps follow, down through the hollow sound, torn up

And you will go to Mykonos

With a vision of a gentle coast

And a sun to maybe dissipate

Shadows of the mess you made



How did any holes in the snow-tipped pines, I find

Hatching from the seed of your thin mind, all night

And you will go to Mykonos

With a vision of a gentle coast

And a sun to maybe dissipate

Shadows of the mess you made



repetition

Sound, rhythm

rhythm

sight

repetition

assonance

Assonance, rhythm

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh

Brother, you don't need to turn me away

I was waiting down at the ancient gate

You go wherever you go today

You go today

I remember how they took you down

As the winter turned the meadow brown

You go wherever you go today

You go today

When out walking, brother, don't you forget

It ain't often that you'll ever find a friend

(You go wherever you go today

You go today) X6

repetition

repetition

sight

assonance

rhyme

Assonance allusion

memoryask me to tell how it feels

remembering your mother’s face

turned to water under the white words

of the man at the shoe store. ask me,

though she tells it better than i do

not because of her charm

but because it never happened

she says,

no bully salesman swaggering,

no rage, no shame, none of it

ever happened.

i only remember buying you

your first grown up shoes

she smiles. Ask me

how it feels.

Lucille Clifton

Tears. by Walt WhitmanTEARS! tears! tears!

In the night, in solitude, tears;

On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck’d in by the sand;

Tears—not a star shining—all dark and desolate;

Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head:

—O who is that ghost?—that form in the dark, with tears?

What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch’d there on the sand?

Streaming tears—sobbing tears—throes, choked with wild cries;

O storm, embodied, rising, careering, with swift steps along the beach;

O wild and dismal night storm, with wind! O belching and desperate!

O shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and regulated pace;

But away, at night, as you fly, none looking—O then the unloosen’d ocean,

Of tears! tears! tears!

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert HaydenSundays 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?

Once in the 40's

by William StaffordWe were alone one night on a long

road in Montana. This was in winter, a big

night, far to the stars. We had hitched,

my wife and I, and left our ride at

a crossing to go on. Tired and cold--but

brave--we trudged along. This, we said,

was our life, watched over, allowed to go

where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time

when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find

a night like this, whatever we had to give,

and no matter how far, to be so happy again.

Clearing at DawnThe fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped;

The colours of Spring teem on every side.

With leaping fish the blue pond is full;

With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.

The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks;

The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.

By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud

Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.

Li Po

tr. Waley

Meadow at duskThe ground is damp, the light snow has ceased;

The white of winter blinds every tree

With hollow footprints the ground is filled;

With heavy snow the branches bow

The stars of the night have colored the sky;

The wild shrubs are rounded by winter’s effect

By the birch tree the last green of fall

Covered by white slowly dies.

An imitation of Clearing at Dawn by Li Po

Reflection on ImitationI chose “Clearing at Dawn” because I wanted to

write a poem about nature or a season. With it nearing winter, I chose to change the poem to be about winter. At first I found it hard because “Clearing at Dawn” is set in the spring when there are many colors and lots of life. Winter is an obvious contrast. Eventually, I realized I could use the differences for extra effect. For example:

“With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.”

“With heavy snow the branches bow”

These show the differences of the two seasons while still referring to the same topic, which in this case is weight on branches.

ReflectionI have enjoyed a week of poetry. I discovered many new poets I will now keep an eye on. My favorite from this week is Li Po. I was disappointed I was unable to read more Emily Dickinson but am glad I branched out. I normally prefer poems about nature and animals, but this week I read more poems about life, a very broad subject, and enjoyed them. Blackout poetry is something I like to do now; I find it more fun than reading the chaos of the world. I appreciate the haikubes because the idea of writing a haiku without any set topic or direction frightens me. I liked having options of words to use, but still feeling like there was structure.

I still am confused by some poems, but I feel that everyone is unsure of the true meaning because poetry is like art: it can mean different things to different people at different times. I don’t think I’ve experienced enough yet to make sense of everything I have read.

I appreciate having a week to be creative and learn more poetry.

A Week of Poetry

Education

Transcript of A Week of Poetry