That's So Gay

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Sestina Time, Fools

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.


_____________________________________________


The first six stanzas of a sestina will follow this pattern:

Stanza 1: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Stanza 2: 6 1 5 2 4 3

Stanza 3: 3 6 4 1 2 5

Stanza 4: 5 3 2 6 1 4

Stanza 5: 4 5 1 3 6 2

Stanza 6: 2 4 6 5 3 1

Tercet: Variable.

Poetic Analysis (CP 2)

In your groups, you will be assigned one of the following four poems. Using the understanding poetry sheets, as well as the poetic terms on my School Wires site (which you will be tested on Friday), conduct an analysis of your poem. Tomorrow you will present your findings to the class.

The Fish - Elizabeth Bishop

Sonnet 18 - William Shakespeare

Acting Like a Tree - Jonathan Aaron

Junk by Richard Wilbur

Remember to locate the following items in your poem (if possible):

Persona, Auditor, Apostrophe, Poetic Diction, Connotation, Denotation, Neologism (Coinage), Syntax, Imagery: Visual, Tactile, Auditory, Gustatory, Olfactory, Metaphor, Simile, Conceit, Hyperbole, Understatement, Allusion, Personification, Paradox, Oxymoron, Synesthesia

Keep in mind, not all of these elements will be in your poem, but this will serve as a good refresher for your "quest" on Friday.

Good luck!

2BR02B by Kurt Vonnegut (CP 1)

http://publicliterature.org/books/2BR02B/xaa.php

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

If You Forget Me - Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

My Litany

my attempt at modeling Billy Collins' "Litany":

My Litany

You are the “esc” key on my laptop,

The mouse and the cheese,

And the second lock on my apartment door

That I only fasten when I’m leaving for the weekend.

You are also the “U” I don’t have during Scrabble,

While stuck with a “Q”, trying to spell “query” or “question” or “quote”

 

However, you are not the goldfish cracker crumbs in the bottom of the bag,

Or the cicada shell stuck to a tree in my backyard,

Or the headless Ninja Turtle action figure in the basement,

And you are certainly not the dog poop under the kitchen table,

There’s just no way that you’re the dog poop under the kitchen table.

 

You may be the Yin to a Yang

And the skip to the lou

And the Crackle chatting with Snap and Pop on a shelf in my kitchen,

But hear me well, Little Miss Yin Skip Crackle (if that is your real name):

You are not even close

To being the cookie dough in my ice cream.

 

And not to make you overly concerned,

But you are also neither the baseball field clay in my pocket

Nor the mosquito that I swallowed when I was laughing so hard

At the barbeque last summer before it started to rain.

 

For your information, I am

The smell of chlorine at the public pool

And the sound of a dial-up modem failing to connect

 

I am also the sound of one hand clapping

And of a tree falling in the woods with no one around

And of a mime screaming at the top of his lungs

 

I am also the glasses you were looking for, but were on your head

And the keys you misplaced, that were in your hand the whole time,

But don’t worry, I’m not the “esc” key,

You will always be my “esc” key,

Not to mention the mouse, and—somehow—the cheese.

E.E. Cummings - i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                    i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Language In Poetry - Brooks, Hughes, and Donne

We Real Cool

by Gwendolyn Brooks

  

   THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon. 

---------------------

Mother to Son

by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor --

Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now --

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

---------------------

Holy Sonnet "X" (ten)

by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;

For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke ;  why swell'st thou then ?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more ;  Death, thou shalt die. 

Litany - Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,

The crystal goblet and the wine...

        -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,

the crystal goblet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass

and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker,

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,

the plums on the counter,

or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,

but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees

and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.