Name________________________ Per______

Poetry

English 4 Honors

The RomanticsEdgar Allen PoeSonnet: To ScienceScience! true daughter of Old Time thou art!Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise?Who wouldst not leave him in his wanderingTo seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?And driven the Hamadryad from the woodTo seek a shelter in some happier star?Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,The Elfin from the green grass, and from meThe summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Henry Wadsworth LongfellowThe Cross of Snow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night, A gentle face -- the face of one long dead -- Looks at me from the wall, where round its head The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. Here in this room she died; and soul more white Never through martyrdom of fire was led To its repose; nor can in books be read The legend of a life more benedight. There is a mountain in the distant West That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines Displays a cross of snow upon its side. Such is the cross I wear upon my breast These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes

And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Civil War EraWalt WhitmanHear America Singing

I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands;The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

Emily Dickinson"Hope" is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—And sings the tune without the words—And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—And sore must be the storm—That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—And on the strangest Sea—Yet, never, in Extremity,It asked a crumb—of Me.

ModernismT. S. Eliot The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats 5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go 35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40 (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare 45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60 And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress 65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?. . . . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.. . . . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85 And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, 90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95 If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, 100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.”. . . . . . . . 110

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, 115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old … 120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. 125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Robert FrostThe Road Not TakenTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claimBecause it was grassy and wanted wear,Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I marked the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to wayI doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference

The Imagists (a sub-genre of Modernsism)Ezra PoundIn a Station of the MetroThe apparition of these faces in the crowd;petals on a wet, black bough.

The River-Merchant's Wife: A LetterA poem of Li Po, Translated by Pound

While my hair was still cut straight across my foreheadI played at the front gate, pullingflowers.You came by on bamboo stilts, playinghorse,You walked about my seat, playing withblue plums. And we went on living in the village of

Chokan:Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.I never laughed, being bashful.Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.Called to, a thousand times, I neverlooked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling, I desired my dust to be mingled withyoursForever and forever and forever.Why should I climb the lookout?

At sixteen you departed,You went into far Ku-to-en, by the riverof swirling eddies,And you have been gone five months.The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out,By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,Too deep to clear them away!The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.The paired butterflies are already yellow with AugustOver the grass in the West garden;They hurt me. I grow older.If you are coming down through thenarrows of the river Kiang,Please let me know beforehand,And I will come out to meet youAs far as Cho-fu-sa.

William Carlos WilliamsThe Red Wheelbarrowso much dependsupon

a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rainwater

beside the whitechickens.

This is Just to SayI have eatenthe plums

that were inthe icebox

and whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfast

Forgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold

Harlem Renaissance Langston HughesTheme for English BThe instructor said,

Go home and writea page tonight.And let that page come out of you--Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.I went to school there, then Durham, then hereto this college on the hill above Harlem.I am the only colored student in my class.The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevatorup to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.I like a pipe for a Christmas present,or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.I guess being colored doesn't make me not likethe same things other folks like who are other races.So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white. But it will bea part of you, instructor. You are white-- yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American.Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you.But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me-- although you're older--and white-- and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Merry-Go-Round

Where is the Jim Crow section On this merry-go-round, Mister, cause I want to ride?Down South where I come from White and colored Can't sit side by side. Down South on the train There's a Jim Crow car. On the bus we're put in the back—But there ain't no back To a merry-go-round! Where's the horse For a kid that's black?

The Beat GenerationJack Kerouac"The American Haiku is not exactly the Japanese Haiku. The Japanese Haiku is strictly disciplined to seventeen syllables but since the language structure is different I don't think American Haikus (short three-line poems intended to be completely packed with Void of Whole) should worry about syllables because American speech is something again...bursting to pop. Above all, a Haiku must be very simple and free of all poetic trickery and make a little picture and yet be as airy and graceful as a Vivaldi Pastorella.”

Some Haikus of Kerouac

No telegram todayonly more leavesfell.

Nightfall,boy smashing dandelions with a stick.

Holding up mypurring cat to the moonI sighed.

Drunk as a hoot owl, writing lettersby thunderstorm.

Empty baseball fielda robinhops along the bench.

Allen GinsbergFrom Sunflower SutraI walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—

--I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black readles tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!

The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—

entangled in your mummied roots—and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,

--We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we’re all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

Spoken Word, Slam, and Hip Hop

Gil Scott HeronWhitey on the Moon

A rat done bit my sister Nell. (with Whitey on the moon) Her face and arms began to swell. (and Whitey’s on the moon) I can’t pay no doctor bill. (but Whitey’s on the moon) Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still. (while Whitey’s on the moon) The man jus’ upped my rent las’ night. (‘cause Whitey’s on the moon) No hot water, no toilets, no lights. (but Whitey’s on the moon) I wonder why he’s uppi’ me? (‘cause Whitey’s on the moon?) I wuz already payin’ ‘im fifty a week.

(with Whitey on the moon) Taxes takin’ my whole damn check, Junkies makin’ me a nervous wreck, The price of food is goin’ up, An’ as if all that shit wuzn’t enough: A rat done bit my sister Nell. (with Whitey on the moon) Her face an’ arm began to swell. (but Whitey’s on the moon) Was all that money I made las’ year (for Whitey on the moon?) How come there ain’t no money here? (Hmm! Whitey’s on the moon) Y’know I jus’ ‘bout had my fill (of Whitey on the moon) I think I’ll sen’ these doctor bills, Airmail special (to Whitey on the moon)

TupacLiberty Needs Glasses

excuse me but Lady Liberty needs glasses And so does Mrs. Justice by here side Both the broads R blind as bats Stumbling thru the system Justice bumped into Mutulu and Trippin’ on Geronimo Pratt But stepped right over Oliver And his crooked partner Ronnie Justice stubbed her Big Toe on Mandela And liberty was misquoted by the Indians slavery was a learning phase Forgotten without a verdict while Justice is on a rampage 4 endangered surviving Black males I mean really if anyone really valued life and cared about the masses They’d take ‘em both 2 Pen Optical and get 2 pairs of glasses

The Rose that Grew from Concrete Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's laws wrong

it learned how to walk without havin feet. Funny it seems but, by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared. No one else even cared.. The rose that grew from concrete.

Taylor MaliWhat Teachers Make

He says the problem with teachers isWhat’s a kid going to learnfrom someone who decided his best option in lifewas to become a teacher?He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s truewhat they say about teachers:Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.I decide to bite my tongue instead of hisand resist the temptation to remind the dinner gueststhat it’s also true what they say about lawyers.Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.Be honest. What do you make?And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-‐kicking:if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.You want to know what I make?I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honorand an A-‐ feel like a slap in the face.How dare you waste my timewith anything less than your very best.I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hallin absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.No, you may not ask a question.Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?Because you’re bored.And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,

“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?It’s no big deal.”And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.I make parents see their children for who they areand what they can be.You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,I make them question.I make them criticize.I make them apologize and mean it.I make them write.I make them read, read, read.I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautifulover and over and over again until they will never misspelleither one of those words again.I make them show all their work in mathand hide it on their final drafts in English.I make them understand that if you’ve got this,then you follow this,and if someone ever tries to judge youby what you make, you give them this.

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?

http://www.godvine.com/Teacher-Has-Best-Response-For-Inappropriate-Question-6730.html

Contemporary PoetryJonathan Reed“Lost Generation”I am part of a lost generationand I refuse to believe thatI can change the worldI realize this may be a shock but“Happiness comes from within.”is a lie, and“Money will make me happy.”So in 30 years I will tell my childrenthey are not the most important thing in my lifeMy employer will know thatI have my priorities straight becauseworkis more important thanfamilyI tell you thisOnce upon a time

Families stayed togetherbut this will not be true in my eraThis is a quick fix societyExperts tell me30 years from now, I will be celebrating the 10th anniversary of my divorceI do not concede thatI will live in a country of my own makingIn the futureEnvironmental destruction will be the normNo longer can it be said thatMy peers and I care about this earthIt will be evident thatMy generation is apathetic and lethargicIt is foolish to presume thatThere is hope.

Sylvia PlathMirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.Whatever I see I swallow immediatelyJust as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.I am not cruel, only truthful ‚The eye of a little god, four-cornered.Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so longI think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,Searching my reaches for what she really is.Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.I am important to her. She comes and goes.Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old womanRises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Poetry from Around the WorldEven the Rain

Agha Shahid Ali, 1949 – 2001

Ghazal (pronounced guzzle)

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain?But he has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain.

“Our glosses / wanting in this world”—“Can you remember?”Anyone!—“when we thought / the poets taught” even the rain?

After we died—That was it!—God left us in the dark.And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.

Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house.For mixers, my love, you’d poured—what?—even the rain.

Of this pear-shaped orange’s perfumed twist, I will say:Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.

How did the Enemy love you—with earth? air? and fire?He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.

This is God’s site for a new house of executions?You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?

After the bones—those flowers—this was found in the urn:The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.

What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world?A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.

How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames—To help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.

He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves;he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.

New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me—To make this claim Memory’s brought even the rain.

They’ve found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these?No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.From Call Me Ishmael Tonight by Agha Shahid Ali. Copyright © 2003 by the Agha Shahid Ali Literary Trust. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.

Your Poetry Portfolio

You will create a poetry portfolio as part of our unit. You will be graded on attention to detail and effort. Show me what you’ve learned about poetry by writing your own!In addition to the 175 points assigned for the poems, points will be assigned for the following:

Creative cover that suits your poetry (10pts) Table of Contents (should include poem titles as well as poem type) (10 pts) **poems not

labeled will not be graded

_______ / Sonnet (20 pts)

MUST be 14 Lines. MUST follow the rhyme scheme below. Your First Stanza should introduce the poem, explain a problem or situation, introduce what

you’ll be talking about. Your Second and Third Stanza should INVESTIGATE the poem… what are the feelings involved?

Exploring the story/conflict/situation introduced in the first stanza Your Rhyming Couplet at the end should resolve the poem, or provide a dramatic twist to the

story. The couplet is probably the most important two lines of the sonnet… so make them good!

Write in Iambic Pentametero (Five beats per line, words that go DaDum DaDum DaDum DaDum)o If you use ten syllables per line, you are doing fine.

Use outline on the last page of this packet

_______ / Free Verse Poem- (15 pts)This is basically the opposite of a sonnet. There are no rules. But-

Your poem should flow Use figurative language (simile, personification, metaphor) Give it your own kind of rhythm Give some thoughts to line breaks and punctuation (Do you like dashes? ) Must be at least 10 lines

_______ / American Haiku (15 pts) Write stanzas 3 that fit together thematically Must be 3 lines each Focus on a single image Free yourself from the tyranny of syllable count- but keep lines brief

_______ / Japanese Haiku (15 pts)

Write 3 stanzas that fit together thematically Must be 3 lines each Focuses on images from nature; emphasizes simplicity, intensity, and directness of expression. Must be 17 syllables, 5/7/5 syllable count

_______ / Ghazal (15 pts) The title of the poem is ‘Ghazal’ There are five or more couplets (Shers). The second line of each couplet ends with the same word (or string of words). This is the Refrain

(Radif) ‘(x)’. ‘the day’ in the example. Each Radif is directly preceded by the Rhyme (Qafia) ‘A-F’. Forsake, take, make, bake, etc. in the

example. The first sher (Matla) is special and has radif and Qafia in both of its lines. The last sher (Maqta) is also special and contains the poet’s signature (Takkhalus) (y). ‘Winston’

in the example. This can be an actual name, part of a name or a pen name and can appear anywhere in the Maqta.

The meter (Behr) of the poem is consistent. Every line should have the same amount of syllables. Nine in the example.

Each sher should be a poem in itself. There is no enjambment between the lines of each sher or direct connection between shers.

Traditionally the subject of the whole poem is love and loss.

_______ / Music-Inspired Poem (15 pts) Pick a song you like- any song! Write new lyrics to the beat Rhyming is optional That is your music-inspired poem! Please add ”Inspired by” and the name of the song you used following your title Must be at least 15 lines

_______ / Found Poem (15 pts) Must be 8-12 “lines” Can NOT include any written words, all words must be found in magazines Must be about your future

_______ / Imagery Poem (15 pts) Write a poem using an abundance of imagery Include at least 3 of the 5 senses Must be at least 10 lines

_______ / Social Issue Poem (15 pts) Write a poem about a social issue in America that’s important to you Use figurative language Be persuasive by using Ethos, Pathos, and Logos Must be at least 10 lines

_______ / Reverse Poem (15 pts) Choose a topic/issue you feel compelled to speak about Poem must make sense both forwards and backwards Must be at least 15 lines

_______ / 175 TOTALComments/Questions:

Outline for Sonnet

A

B

A

B

Second Stanza:

C

D

C

D

Third Stanza:

E

F

E

F

Rhyming Couplet:

G

G