How to Attack a Poem Read the poem Define unknown words Analyze form (Rhyme scheme/division)

How to Attack a Poem

1. Read the poem2. Define unknown words3. Analyze form (Rhyme scheme/division)4. Paraphrase (Put it into your own words)5. Identify figurative language6. Identify theme

Poet

ry

Name: _________________________________

ImageryWhile reading the following poems, we will be focusing on imagery.

Imagery is defined as writing that appeals to our five senses of touching, tasting, feeling, hearing, and seeing.

Additional notes below:

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

The Courage That My Mother Had

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The courage that my mother had Went with her, and is with her still: Rock from New England quarried;Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore She left behind for me to wear; I have no thing I treasure more: Yet, it is something I could spare.

Oh, if instead she’d left to me The thing she took into the grave!— That courage like a rock, which she Has no more need of, and I have

Analyzing Checklist• Read Poem• Define unknown words• Analyze Form (Rhyme

scheme/division)• Paraphrase• Figurative Language• Theme

Analyzing Checklist•Read Poem•Define unknown words•Analyze Form (Rhyme scheme/division)•Paraphrase•Figurative Language•Theme

SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUTby Shel Silverstein Sarah Cynthia Sylvia StoutWould not take the garbage out.She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pansCook the yams and spice the hams,And though her parents would scream and shout,She simply would not take the garbage out.And so it piled up to the ceiling:Coffee grounds, potato peelings,Brown bananas and rotten peas,Chunks of sour cottage cheese.It filled the can, it covered the floor,It cracked the windows and blocked the door,With bacon rinds and chicken bones,Drippy ends of ice cream cones,Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,Pizza crusts and withered greens,Soggy beans, and tangerines,Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,Grisly bits of beefy roast.The garbage rolled on down the halls,It raised the roof, it broke the walls,I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,Blobs of gooey bubble gum,Cellophane from old bologna,Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,Peanut butter, caked and dry,Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,Cold French fries and rancid meat,Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.At last the garbage reached so highThat finally it touched the sky,And none of her friends would come to play,And all of her neighbors moved away;And finally, Sarah Cynthia StoutSaid, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"But then, of course it was too late,The garbage reached across the state,From New York to the Golden Gate;And there in the garbage she did hatePoor Sarah met an awful fateThat I cannot right now relateBecause the hour is much too lateBut children, remember Sarah Stout,And always take the garbage out.

Miracles. by Walt Whitman WHY! who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best—mechanics, boatmen,farmers,Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera, Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all thatconcernsthem, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with meninthem, What stranger miracles are there?



in Just- by E. E. Cummingsin Just-spring when the world is mud-luscious the little lame baloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddyandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer old baloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's spring and the goat-footed

baloonMan whistles far and wee



Immigrants by Pat Mora

wrap their babies in the American flag, feed them mashed hot dogs and apple pie, name them Bill and Daisy, buy them blonde dolls that blink blue eyes or a football and tiny cleats before the baby can even walk, speak to them in thick English, hallo, babee, hallo, whisper in Spanish or Polish when the babies sleep, whisper in a dark parent bed, that dark parent fear, “Will they like our boy, our girl, our fine American boy, our fine American girl?”



"My Father Is a Simple Man"by Luis Omar Salinas

I walk to town with my fatherto buy a newspaper. He walks slowerthan I do so I must slow up.The street is filled with children.We argue about the price of pomegranates. I convincehim it is the fruit of scholars .He has taken me on this journeyand it's been lifelong.He's sure I'll be healthyso long as I eat more oranges,and tells me the orangehas seeds and so is perpetual ;and we too will come backlike the orange trees.I ask him what he thinksabout death and he sayshe will gladly face it whenit comes but won't jumpout in front of a car.I'd gladly give my lifefor this man with a sixthgrade education, whose kindnessand patience are true...The truth of it is, he's the scholar,and when the bitter-hard realitycomes at me like a punishingevil stranger, I can alwaysremember that here was a manwho was a worker and provider,who learned the simple factsin life and lived by them,who held no pretense.And when he leaves without benefit of fanfare or applauseI shall have learned what littlethere is about greatness.



http://bookbuilder.cast.org/view_glossary.php?book=42579&word=28436



"Mama Is a Sunrise"by Evelyn Tooley Hunt

When she comes slip-footing through the door,she kindles uslike lump coal lighted,and we wake up glowing.She puts a spark even in Papa's eyesand turns out all our darkness.When she comes sweet-talking in the room,she warms uslike grits and gravy,and we rise up shining.Even at nighttime Mama is a sunrisethat promises tomorrow and tomorrow.




PersonificationWhile reading the following poems, we will be focusing on personification.

Personification is defined as giving human characteristics to non-living things.

“The desk tripped me,” said the student.


____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

Fog by Carl Sandburg The fog comeson little cat feet.

It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.



Take a Poem to Lunch by Denise Rodgers

I'd love to take a poem to lunchor treat it to a wholesome brunchof fresh cut fruit and apple crunch.I'd spread it neatly on the clothbeside a bowl of chicken brothand watch a mug of root beer froth.

I'd feel the words collect the mood,the taste and feel of tempting foodpopped in the mouth and slowly chewed,and get the smell of fresh baked breadthat sniffs inside and fills our headwith thoughts that no word ever said.

And as the words rest on the pagebeside the cumin, salt and sage,and every slowly starts to age,like soup that simmers as it's stirred,ingredients get mixed and blurredand blends in taste with every worduntil the poet gets it right,the taste and smelland sound and sight,the words that make it fit.Just write.



Jack Frost, Artistby Denise Rodgers

There's a pattern on my windowWhen the night's been very cold.The artist who created itIs Jack Frost, I am told.

He only deals in abstractsAnd in geometric lines.He's not much for still lifesOr Renaissance designs.

He doesn't paint in color;His designs are all in white.The sunlight shows their beautyIn the early morning light.

I never hear him working;Not a scratch, a sigh, or cough.It's not too bad for Jack, though;He gets the summer off.



I Am of the EarthBy Anna Lee Walters

I am of the earthShe is my motherShe bore me with prideShe reared me with loveShe cradled me each eveningShe pushed the wind to make it singShe built me a house of harmonious colorsShe fed me the fruits of her fieldsShe rewarded me with memories of her smilesShe punished me with the passing of timeAnd at last, when I long to leaveShe will embrace me for eternity



Simile and MetaphorWhile reading the following poems, we will be focusing on similes and metaphors.

A simile is defined as comparing two unlike things using like or as.

Example: John is as fast as a jaguar.

A metaphor is defined as comparing two unlike things without usinglike or as.

Example: John is a jaguar.


____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

I'm nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?Are you nobody, too?Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!They'd banish -- you know!

How dreary to be somebody!How public like a frogTo tell one's name the livelong dayTo an admiring bog!



My Father Is a Simple ManBy Luis Omar Salinas

I walk to town with my fatherto buy a newspaper. He walks slowerthan I do so I must slow up.The street is filled with children.We argue about the priceof pomegranates, I convincehim it is the fruit of scholars.He has taken me on this journeyand it's been lifelong.He's sure I'll be healthyso long as I eat more oranges,and tells me the orangehas seeds and so is perpetual;and we too will come backlike the orange trees.I ask him what he thinksabout death and he sayshe will gladly face it whenit comes but won't jumpout in front of a car.I'd gladly give my lifefor this man with a sixthgrade education, whose kindnessand patience are true . . .The truth of it is, he's the scholar,and when the bitter-hard realitycomes at me like a punishingevil stranger, I can alwaysremember that here was a manwho was a worker and provider,who learned the simple factsin life and lived by them,who held no pretense.And when he leaves withoutbenefit of fanfare or applauseI shall have learned what littlethere is about greatness.



Mama is a SunriseBy Evelyn Tooley Hunt

When she comes slip-footing through the door,she kindles uslike lump coal lighted,and we wake up glowing.She puts a spark even in Papa's eyesand turns out all our darkness.

When she comes sweet-talking in the room,she warms uslike grits and gravyand we rise up shining.Even at night-time Mama is a sunrisethat promises tomorrow and tomorrow.



"THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH" By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan:His brow is wet with honest sweat,He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hear the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voice,Singing in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,Onwards through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought!



LifeBy Naomi Long Madgett

Life is but a toy that swings on a bright gold chainTicking for a little whileTo amuse a fascinated infant, Until the keeper, a very old man, Becomes tired of the gameAnd lets the watch run down



Fogby Carl Sandburg THE fog comeson little cat feet.

It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.



While reading the following poems, we will be focusing on sound devices.

Onomatopoeia- Putting sounds into word form (Boom, bang, pop)

Alliteration- The repetition of consonant sounds in words (John jumped joyously in the air.)

Rhyme- Two or more words having the same sound(Rat, cat, mat, fat)

Rhythm- The pattern a poem follows.


____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

Sound Devices(Onomatopoeia, Alliteration, Rhyme, and

Rhythm.)

SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUTby Shel Silverstein Sarah Cynthia Sylvia StoutWould not take the garbage out.She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pansCook the yams and spice the hams,And though her parents would scream and shout,She simply would not take the garbage out.And so it piled up to the ceiling:Coffee grounds, potato peelings,Brown bananas and rotten peas,Chunks of sour cottage cheese.It filled the can, it covered the floor,It cracked the windows and blocked the door,With bacon rinds and chicken bones,Drippy ends of ice cream cones,Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,Pizza crusts and withered greens,Soggy beans, and tangerines,Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,Grisly bits of beefy roast.The garbage rolled on down the halls,It raised the roof, it broke the walls,I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,Blobs of gooey bubble gum,Cellophane from old bologna,Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,Peanut butter, caked and dry,Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,Cold French fries and rancid meat,Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.At last the garbage reached so highThat finally it touched the sky,And none of her friends would come to play,And all of her neighbors moved away;And finally, Sarah Cynthia StoutSaid, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"But then, of course it was too late,The garbage reached across the state,From New York to the Golden Gate;And there in the garbage she did hatePoor Sarah met an awful fateThat I cannot right now relateBecause the hour is much too lateBut children, remember Sarah Stout,And always take the garbage out.



Full Fathom FiveBy William Shakespeare

Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them,--ding-dong, bell.



Analyzing Checklist•Read Poem•Define unknown words•Analyze Form (Rhyme scheme/division)•Paraphrase•Figurative Language•Theme

Onomatopoeia by Eve Merriam

The rusty spigotsputters,uttersa splutter,spatters a smattering of drops,gashes wider,slash,splatters,scatters,spurts,finally stops sputteringand plash!gushes rushes splashesclear water dashes.

http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.gardenoutfitters.com/img/lg_bucket_faucet.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.gardenoutfitters.com/fountains/&h=357&w=252&sz=31&hl=en&start=3&tbnid=WvEt7MPx8QlE5M:&tbnh=121&tbnw=85&prev=/images?q=rusty+faucet&gbv=2&hl=en






maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day) and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and milly befriended a stranded starwhose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea

maggie and milly and molly and may

by E. E. Cummings

WeatherBy Eve Merriam

Dot a dot dot dot a dot dot Spotting the windowpane.

Spack a spack speck flick a flack fleck Freckling the windowpane.

A spatter a scatter a wet cat a clatter A splatter a rumble outside.

Umbrella umbrella umbrella umbrella Bumbershoot barrel of rain.

Slosh a galosh slosh a galosh Slither and slather a glide

A puddle a jump a puddle a jump A puddle a jump puddle splosh

A juddle a pump a luddle a dump A pudmuddle jump in and slide!



Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningBy Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.



Annabel LeeBy Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of ANNABEL LEE;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea;But we loved with a love that was more than love-I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsman cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me-Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we-Of many far wiser than we-And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.



Madam and the Rent ManBy Langston Hughes

The rent man knocked. He said, Howdy-do? I said, WhatCan I do for you? He said, You knowYour rent is due.

I said, Listen, Before I'd payI'd go to Hades And rot away!

The sink is broke, The water don't run, And you ain't done a thingYou promised to've done.

Back window's cracked, Kitchen floor squeaks, There's rats in the cellar, And the attic leaks.

He said, Madam, It's not up to me. I'm just the agent, Don't you see?

I said, Naturally, You pass the buck. If it's money you wantYou're out of luck.

He said, Madam, I ain't pleased! I said, Neither am I. So we agrees!



You Are Old, Father William by Lewis Carroll "You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head--Do you think, at your age, it is right?

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,And you have grown must uncommonly fat;Yet you turned back a somersault in at the door--Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment--one shilling a box--Allow me to sell you a couple."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly supposeThat your eyes was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"



JimBy Gwendolyn Brooks

There never was a nicer boy Than Mrs. Jackson's Jim.The sun should drop its greatest gold On him.

Because, when Mother-dear was sick,He brought her cocoa in,And brought her broth, and brought her bread.And brought her medicine.

And, tipping, tidied up her room.And would not let her see He missed the game of baseball Terribly.



Other poems to investigate:One—page 585Train Tune—page 591Martin Luther King—page 600



SymbolismWhile reading the following poems, we will be focusing on symbolism.

Symbolism is defined as an object representing something greaterthan itself. For example, a heart is much more than a heart. It can symbolize, life, love, and happiness.


____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

The Runaway by Robert Frost

Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,We stopped by a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his breast. He dipped his headAnd snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.'I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter-broken. It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, "Sakes,It's only weather". He'd think she didn't know !Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,Ought to be told to come and take him in.'



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 floorâ€”Bare.But all the timeI'se been a-climbin' on,And reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere 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 nowâ€”For I'se still goin', honey,I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.



The Courage That My Mother Had Edna St. Vincent Millay

The courage that my mother had Went with her, and is with her still: Rock from New England quarried;Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore She left behind for me to wear; I have no thing I treasure more: Yet, it is something I could spare. Oh, if instead she’d left to me

The thing she took into the grave!— That courage like a rock, which she Has no more need of, and I have.



How to Attack a Poem Read the poem Define unknown words Analyze form (Rhyme scheme/division)

Documents

Transcript of How to Attack a Poem Read the poem Define unknown words Analyze form (Rhyme scheme/division)