Poetry ABCs
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Author:  Saffron [ Tue Mar 31, 2009 7:18 pm ]
Post subject:  Poetry ABCs

National Poetry Month 2009

Here's the game -- each day of April I will start a post with a letter of the alphabet (in order) and make a post relating to poetry that begins with that letter. Please join in!

Author:  Saffron [ Tue Mar 31, 2009 7:31 pm ]
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Auden (W.H.)

Author:  DWill [ Wed Apr 01, 2009 9:34 pm ]
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Are we supposed to suggest more and more "A's"? Okay, if so, I'll put down "Alastor," which is a poem, a longish one I think, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. As you can tell, I never read it, but just happen to remember the title.

Author:  Saffron [ Wed Apr 01, 2009 9:40 pm ]
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DWill wrote:
Are we supposed to suggest more and more "A's"? Okay, if so, I'll put down "Alastor," which is a poem,....

Yes, that was the idea. You could post a line of poetry, whole poem, a title, or say -- Assonance.

Assonance is refrain of vowel sounds to create internal rhyming within phrases or sentences, and together with alliteration and consonance serves as one of the building blocks of verse. For example, in the phrase "Do you like blue?", the "oo" (ou/ue) sound is repeated within the sentence and is assonant.

Author:  DWill [ Wed Apr 01, 2009 9:48 pm ]
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The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Author:  Saffron [ Wed Apr 01, 2009 9:53 pm ]
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DWill wrote:
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Yeats! Right?

Author:  DWill [ Wed Apr 01, 2009 9:54 pm ]
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I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Philip Larkin

Author:  Saffron [ Wed Apr 01, 2009 10:25 pm ]
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Thanks go out to DWill for getting this thread going! Since April has 30 days and there are only 26 letters to the alphabet, I'll use numbers for the the last 4 days.


Author:  Saffron [ Thu Apr 02, 2009 6:12 am ]
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Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home

Should I site the poem and poet or let you guess? I'll let you guess.

Author:  DWill [ Thu Apr 02, 2009 8:18 am ]
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To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells:--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Author:  Saffron [ Thu Apr 02, 2009 8:40 am ]
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The bells of Poe, very nice!

I forgot an A! Alliteration! And for B --

Ballad meter & Black Mountain Poets.

Author:  DWill [ Thu Apr 02, 2009 9:02 am ]
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Lord Byron (born George Gordon). This abc is a great memory-jogger of poets and poems. Byron is read very little today. I bet a biography of him would be fascinating, though maybe a little depressing, since he was an excessive kind of guy. He comes from the era (early 1800s) when poets could expect to be as revered and as rich as rock stars are today. His famous long poem "Don Juan" (meant to be pronounced "Jew-an") is extremely entertaining. I remember when I was trying to write my master's thesis, which centered on Wordsworth's "The Excursion," I came across Byron's put-down of it in Don Juan: something like, "A drowsy, frowsy poem called The Excursion/Written in a style that is my aversion." Perfect.

Author:  Saffron [ Fri Apr 03, 2009 7:22 am ]
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Author:  Saffron [ Fri Apr 03, 2009 7:46 am ]
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Edward Estlin Cummings (October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962), popularly known as E. E. Cummings, with the abbreviated form of his name often written by others in all lowercase letters as e. e. cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. His body of work encompasses approximately 2,900 poems, an autobiographical novel, four plays and several essays, as well as numerous drawings and paintings.

and another C

Even the g in cigars adds to the hard C sounds.

The Emperor of Ice-Cream
by Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

Author:  DWill [ Fri Apr 03, 2009 9:18 am ]
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Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He was an interesting example of a poet who seemed to be able to write well only when he shifted his mind to some less rational level. This reportedly happened under the influence of opium when he wrote a fragment about the emperor Kubla Khan, and then incorporated this very fragment into a poem about the fleetingness of his inspriation. I think my favorite of his poems is "Frost at Midnight," which begins with him as a schoolboy and ends with him addressing his infant boy.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

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