POETRY

IN THE NEXT WEEKS WE SHALL LEARN VARIOUSSTYLES AND FORMS OF POETRY.

WE WILL ALSO DISCUSS RHYTHM, RHYME, AND METER.

THE COUPLET

THERE WAS A LITTLE BOY A

HE HAD HIS FAVORITE TOY A

I WISH I COULD PLAY B

BUT HE DIED TODAY B

A STANZA OR POEM CONSISTING OF 2 RHYMING

LINES.

EPITAPH FOR SOMEONE OR OTHER

Naked I came, naked I leave the scene,

And naked was my pastime in between.

BLANK VERSE

AND LO I SAW THERE A

THAT MAN UPON THE HILL B

SPEAK TO ME THAT I C

MIGHT FALL BACK D

UNRHYMED LINES OF ANY METER

DECEMBER 27, 1966Night sweat: my temperature spikes to 102At 5 A.M.--a classic symptom--and,Awake and shaken by an ague, I Peep out a western window at the wornHalf-dollar of the moon, couched in the roseAnd purple medium of air aboveThe little, distant mountains, a black line Of gentle ox humps, flanked by greeny lightsWhere a still empty highway goes. In Christmas week,The stars flash ornamentally with thePure come-on of a possibilityOf peace beyond all reason, of the spheresEngaged in an adagio sarabandOf perfect mathematic to set an Example for the earthly, who abideIn vales of breakdown out of warranty,The unrepairable complaint that rattles usTo death. Tonight, though, it is almost worth the price--High stakes, and the veiled dealer vends bad cards--To see the moon so silver going west,So ladily serene because so dead,So closely tailed by her consort of stars,So far above the feverish, shiveringNightwatchman pressed against the falling glass

HAIKU

I WALK TO YOU NOW (5)

AS VULNERABLE AS EVER (7)

DADDY I’M SORRY (5)

A JAPANESE FORM CONSISTING OF UNRHYMED LINES OF 5,7, AND 5 SYLLABLES.

HAIKU

Easter guard towerGlints in sunset; convicts restLike lizards on rocks. The piano manIs stingy at 3 amHis songs drop like plum. Morning sun slants cell.Drunks stagger like cripple fliesOn Jailhouse floor. To write a clues song is to regiment riotsand pluck gems from graves. A bare pecan tree Slips a pencil shadow down A moonlit snow slope. 

The falling snow flakesCan not blunt the hard aches norMatch the steel stillness. Under moon shadowsA tall boy flashes knife andSlices star bright ice. In the August grassStruck by the last rays of sunThe cracked teacup screams. Making jazz swing in Seventeen syllables AIN’TNo square poet’s job.

COMMON MEASURE

YOUR SUCH A LITTLE TOAD (A)

LITTLE BROTHER OF MINE (B)

I’LL SEE YOU IN HEAVEN SOMEDAY (C)

WHERE WE BOTH SHALL DINE (B)

A QUATRAIN STANZA RHYMING ABCB

THE WIFE OF WINTER’S TALE

She lies by the man her husbandin the high white bed,their breathing through the dry dark farm,his head near her head. But far from the farm in the hills,under the moon’s strange stare,the wolves in hardest Decembercry out through the frozen air. The farm sleeps dark on its slope,the woman lies by the man,buy she is not with him there,not under his breath or his hand but out in the far clear cold hills where he may not go,where she and her glistening lover raceover a murderous snow.

SONNETS

GENERALLY A 14 LINE POEM OF VARIOUS RHYMINGPATTERNS.

ITALIAN SONNET

A 14 LINE POEM WITH THE RHYME PATTERN:ABBAABBA CDECDE

I DON’T LIKE YOU ASO I REFUSE TO PLAY BI’LL GO HOME AND LOCK MYSELF AWAY BI DON’T LIKE YOU AYOU DON’T LOOK LIKE I DO AFROM ME AND MINE I WON’T STRAY BWON’T CHANGE WHAT I DO DAY-TO-DAY BBUT YOU- I DON’T LIKE YOU A

YOUR NOT LIKE ME CSO I WON’T BE YOUR FRIEND DI REFUSE TO GO ALONG EWHAT’S GOOD ABOUT YOU I CAN’T SEE CIT WILL BE THIS WAY UNTIL THE END DSAME TUNE, SAME RHYTHM, SAME SONG E

THE AGED LOVER DISCOURSES IN THE FLAT STYLE

There are, perhaps, who passion gives a grace,Who fuse and part as dancers on the stage,But that is not for me, not at my age,Not with my bony shoulders and fat face.Yet in my clumsiness I found a placeAnd use for passion: With it I ignoreMy gaucheries and yours, and feel no moreThe awkwardness of the absurd embrace. It is a pact men make, and seal in flesh,To be so busy with their own desires Their loves may be as busy with their own,And not in union. Though the two enmeshLike gears in motion, each with each conspiresTo be at once together and alone.

ENGLISH SONNET

A 14 LINE POEM WITH THE RHYME SCHEME:

ABAB CDCD EFEF GG

Greasy. Oily. Brownish, yellow skin A

Two days old on a picnic table B

Do I dare? Is it a sin? A

I wouldn’t even think of it if I were able B

 

To find my own food. I can’t though. C

The flies will leave; if I rush in D

Don’t look at me. Don’t judge me so. C

It’s a rat race, a mouse can’t win. D

 

I’ll take it away, into the trees E

My first meal in over three days F

I hide my hunger where no one sees E

I’ll be where your conscience won’t pay F

 

I’ll eat your fried chicken-what you won’t G

Do you ever think about me-I’ll bet you don’t G

LYING ON A BRIDGE

We saw anchored worlds in a shallow stream.The current tugged at clouds, the sun, our face.And while we stared, as though into a dream,The stream moved on; the anchors kept their place.Even the white rose thorned into your hairStayed there, though its refracted, scattered auraCircled your abstract face, like snow in air;Then the rose fell onto that gentle water,Shattering our faces with their mirror. But sunAnd clouds, and all their height and depth of light,Could not feel so involved, nor watch when oneBloom touched that current and waltzed it out of sight.Though rising, we saw how all things float in space:The stars and clouds, ourselves, each other’s face.

ENVELOPE SONNET

A 14 LINE POEM WITH THE RHYME SCHEME:

ABBACDDC EFGEFG

LOOK AT ME--LOOK, LOOK, LOOK- AAREN’T I PRETTY? AREN’T I CUTE? BDON’T I MAKE YOU WANT TO PUKE? BPRETTY AS A PICTURE, SMART AS A BOOK AEVERY BOY DREAMS OF ME AT NIGHT CEVERY GIRL WANTS MY HAIR DI’M PERFECT, WITHOUT A CARE DTO NOT BE ME--WHAT A TERRIBLE PLIGHT! C

LOOK AT ME. LOOK-LOOK--PLEASE EI’LL DO ANYTHING SO YOU WILL FEVERYTHING I HAVE-YOU’VE SEEN IT GTELL ME I’M PRETTY--PUT ME AT EASE EI SWEAR IF YOU DON’T I’LL KILL FMYSELF--I MEAN IT. G

THE RURAL CARRIER STOPS TO KILL A NINE-FOOT COTTONMOUTH

Lord God, I saw the son-of-a-bitch uncoilIn the road ahead of me, uncoil and squirmFor the ditch, squirm a hell of a long time.Missed him with the car. When I got back to him, he was All But gone, nothing left on the road but the tip-endOf his tail, and that disappearing into Johnson grass.I leaned over the ditch and saw him, balled up now, hiss.I aimed for the mouth and shot him. And shot him again. The I got a good strong stick and dragged him out.He was long and evil, thick as the top of my arm.There are things in this world a man can’t look at withoutWanting to kill. Don’t ask me why. I was clamEnough, I thought. But I felt my spineSquirm suddenly. I admit it. It was mine.

ENGLISH QUINTET

A FIVE LINE STANZA OR POEM RHYMING

ABABB

I ADORE YOUR DARK, SMOOTH SKIN (A)YOU ARE THE BEST LOVER BY FAR (B)THEY NEED NOT POINT OUT MY SIN (A)I CAN BARELY FIT IN MY OWN CAR (B)BUT YOU ARE MY JULIET, MY HERSHEY BAR (B)

EIGHTH AIR FORCE

If, in an odd angle of the hutment,A puppy laps the water from a canOf flowers, and the drunk sergeant shavingWhistles O Paradiso!--Shall I say that manIs not as men have said: a wolf to man? The other murderers troop in yawning;Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and oneLies counting missions, lies there sweatingTill even his heart beats: One; One; One.O murderers! …Still, this is how it’s done: This is a war….But since these play, before they die,Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man,I did as these have done, but did not die--I will content the people as I canAnd give up these to them: Behold the man! I have suffered, in a dream, because of him,Many things; for this last saviour, man,I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying?Men wash their hands, in blood as best they can:I find no fault in his just man.

MISC QUINTET

FIVE LINE STANZAS OF VARIABLE RHYME SCHEMES

LITTLE BOYS ON THE PLAYGROUND

PUSHING EACH OTHER

SPITTING AT THE GIRLS

WISHING

THEY’D SPIT BACK

FIRST LESSON

Lie back, daughter, let your headBe tipped back in the cup of my hand.Gently, and I will hold you. SpreadYour arms wide, lie out on the streamAnd look high at the gulls. A dead-Man’s float is face down. You will dive and swim soon enough where this tidewaterebbs to the sea. Daughter, believeme, when you tire on the long thrash to your island, lie up, and survive.As you float now, where I held youAnd let go, remember when fear cramps your hear heart what I told you:lie gently and wide to the light-yearstars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

RISPETTO

A POEM OF 2 RHYMING QUATRAINS RHYMING:

ABAB CDDC

EVERY DAY I DRINK (A)WATER TO QUENCH MY THIRST (B)REALLY I THINK (A)I SHOULD START WITH BLOOD FIRST (B)

THEN I COULD FEEL (C)SOMEONE ELSE FLOWING THROUGH ME (D)THEN WOULD I TRULY BE (D)REAL? (C)

OH NO

If you wander far enoughyou will come to itand when you get therethey will give you a place to sit for yourself only, in a nice chair,and all your friends will be therewith miles on their facesand they will likewise all have places.

SESTINA

A FRENCH POEM OF SIX SESTETS AND FINAL THREE LINE ENVOI. THE TERMINAL PATTERN IS:

ABCDEF FAEBDC CFDABE ECBFAD DEACFB BDFECA

ENVOI PATTERN: BE DC FA

We started planting the wheat AToday. It’s early in the season, BBut the plow easily slits the ground. CDad watches with pride DAs I drive for the first time, EFollowing in his footsteps. F

Dew gathers on our legs as we step FOut amongst the sprouting wheat. AIt’ll grow above my knee in time, EIf the conditions are right this season. BI stand over my work; pride DInvested in the dark, cold ground. C

Dad says there’s not enough in the ground CTo take the crop to the final step, FBut I have too much pride. DMy grandfather and father planted wheat ALong before this season, BLong before my time E

But we all run out of time, EAnd today we laid Grandpa in the ground, CAfter too short a season. BWith whiskey bottle in hand I step FOut in my field of wheat, ANot crying, for foolish pride. D

Dad’s eyes burn with that pride DWhen the banker comes. “We need more time. EWe need higher prices for the wheat.” AHe comes to take our sacred ground. C“I must take the final steps” FHe says “you have one more season.” B

But it didn’t rain this season. BThe sun’s scorched my crop, my pride, DBurned the imprint of my footsteps FForever in time E in the ground, Calong side my dying wheat. A

The winter season will come, and time will pass. (BE)I’ll walk with swallowed pride on concrete ground, (DC)Where once my steps fell among the wheat. (FA)

SESTINA

September rain falls on the house.in the failing light, the old grandmothersits in the kitchen with the childbeside the Little Marvel Stove,reading the jokes from the almanac,laughing and talking to hide her tears. She thinks that her equinoctial tearsand the rain that beats on the roof of the housewere both foretold by the almanac,but only know 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 tearsdance like mad on the hot black stove,the way the rain must dance on the house.Tidying up, the old grandmotherhangs up the clever almanac on its string. Birdlike, the almanachovers half open above the child,hovers above the old grandmotherand her teacup full of dark brown tears.She shivers and says she thinks the houseFeels 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 houseand a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tearsand shows it proudly to the grandmother. But secretly, while the grandmotherbusies herself about the stove,the little moons fall down like tearsfrom between the pages of the almanacinto the flower bed the childhas carefully placed in the front of the house. Time to plant tears, says the almanac.The grandmother sings to the marvelous stoveand the child draws another inscrutable house.