Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Types of Poetry

Definition: Two words which have similar sound in th
e last syllables.
Poetry, not prose
Tom Friedman says that we need poetry, not prose,
to get this country into better shape.
Although we surely know a rose would be a rose
if called by any othe
r name, a grape
becomes much more when sublimated into wine,
and politics don’t matter till its message
becomes poetic. Prose won’t help to make it shine,
and all predications politicians presage
won’t come to pass unless they’re elevated with
poetic language that s
hifts paradigms,
and brings into reality what seemed mere myth,
promoting the prosaic with its rhymes.
We need a narrative that we can memorize,
not complicated data on a chart,
and yearn for tuneful songs that we can harmonize,
and poems we love
learning off by heart.
Gershon Hepner

Definition: A poem that written like a song which tells a sad, death story.


Ballad Of The Black Slave
This is the ballad of the black slave,

Who has been beaten and disgraced,
Who has been called the n
-word and negro,
Who has received no pay.
This is the ballad of the black slave,
Who prays for freedom every night,
Who is going to rebel,
For what he thinks is right.
Now this is the ballad of the freed slave,
Who has seen much blood shed,
Who has fought for equal rights,
And who has won his freedom.
Michael Issac P

Definition: A kind of poetry that follow the rules of 14 lines with each line 10 syllables. Unstressed syllable then stressed syllable.
Definition:Long poem that talk about a hero with elegant languages

Tiddalick - The Frog Who Caused a Flood

In the time of dreaming
Before the earth was old
Myths were in the making
Legends yet untold

Here began a story
Of one huge enormous frog
Solemn in his glory
He drank from every bog

Tiddalick the great one
Had to quench his mighty thirst
He drank from all the waterholes
So much he nearly burst

He drained the lake and river
The stream and billabong
Soon there was no water left
It was very wrong

Others now grew thirsty
There was no sign of rain
Hot sun scorched the arid earth
No water did remain

Tiddalick's swollen stomach
Was squelchy round and wide
He was so big he couldn't move
The water was inside

Animals assembled
Men gathered with them too
They had to end this great distress
And work out what to do

Boomerangs were useless
Spears bounced off his side
Getting angry didn't help
Even though they tried

The kookaburra had a plan
We need to make him laugh
To hold his side and open wide
We need to show some gaffe

If only we can do that
The water will pour out
We all must work together
To end this mighty drought

C'mon laugh you big fat frog
You're like a bursting pot
If only you could see yourself
Squelching as you squat

Tiddalick moved his mournful head
He had a doleful face
He didn't see the humour
Of smiles there were no trace

The kangaroo and platypus
Wombat and emu
All tried their best to make him laugh
But Tiddalick stayed blue

Some danced and some told stories
Others somersaulted
Tiddalick grew tired and bored
And slept when antics halted

The last to try was Norang the Eel
He was their final hope
He turned himself into a hoop
And wriggled like a rope

The rope stood upright on the sand
Then it began to spin
It went round like a whirlwind
Tiddalick began to grin

Then out slopped some water
Before it reached the sand
Man and beast began to drink
It worked like they had planned

But Norang went on spinning
Till he was scarcely seen
Tiddalick began to chuckle
It really made a scene

As his belly rumbled
The frog rocked to and fro
With his hands upon his sides
A stream began to flow

Tiddalick's mouth was open wide
With water gushing out
A surging tidal river
Spewed like a water spout

It swept away the animals
And covered all the sand
A shining lake of water
Had spread over the land

Now Tiddalick has shrunken
He's just a little frog
Who sometimes hides in desert sands
Or sits upon a log

A. W. Reed Reed Books

Definition: Long poem that celebrate a person or an idea

Ode To A Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Proven├žal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

John Keats

A mourning poem about a someone who has died.
Too proud to die; broken and blind he died

The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
Above all he longed for his mother's breast

Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,

I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead

Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
(An old tormented man three-quarters blind,

I am not too proud to cry that He and he
Will never never go out of my mind.
All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,

Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
An old kind man brave in his burning pride.

The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
Even as a baby he had never cried;
Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.

Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
Here among the liught of the lording sky
An old man is with me where I go

Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'

Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

O deepest wound of all that he should die
On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

Until I die he will not leave my side.)

Dylan Thomas

Definition: Poem that express the feelings, emotions, thoughts of the poet or speaker

I Felt a Funeral in my Brain
“I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My Mind was going numb - And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here -
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then - ”
Emily Dickinson

Free verse:
Poem that doesn’t follow a regular meter or rhyme scheme

After the Sea-Ship

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;

Walt Whitman

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