READING POETRYName:

  1. The Initial Experience: HEARING THE POEM
  1. Read the poem slowly—at least twice. Stop at the line breaks, but pause only slightly, and then continue reading as if the poem were written in prose. (This is called “reading to punctuation.”) Remember to read slowly, and let the words soak in.
  1. The first reaction to the poem—What is your first response to the poem? Write down a specific word or phrase that you like—anything. Write it down and briefly explain why you like it.
  1. Who’s the Speaker?— Who is speaking in the poem? Or what kind of person is speaking? Is the speaker also the author, or do you think they’re different?
  1. What’s going on?—Write a one-sentence summary that states the literal level what is happening in the poem.
  1. An Examination of Poetic Techniques: SEEING THE POEM
  1. Images—Write down the specific images or comparisons (similes or metaphors)
  1. The Culminating Experience: UNDERSTANDING THE POEM
  1. Meaning of the poem—What do you think the poet is trying to say? Write a one-sentence statement (or two) that expresses the BIG IDEA that you think the author is getting at.
  1. Importance of the title—How does the title help you to say what the poem is really about?

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Introduction to Poetry (Billy Collins)

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room

and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose

to find out what it really means.

The Red Wheelbarrow(William Carlos Williams)

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

This is just to say(William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

Fifteen

William Stafford (1914-1993)

South of the bridge on Seventeenth

I found back of the willows one summer

day a motorcycle with engine running

as it lay on its side, ticking over

slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen.

I admired all that pulsing gleam, the

shiny flanks, the demure headlights

fringed where it lay; I led it gently

to the road, and stood with that

companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen.

We could find the end of a road, meet

the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about

hills, and patting the handle got back a

confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged

a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen.

Thinking, back farther in the grass I found

the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped

over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale-

I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand

over it, called me good man, roared away.

I stood there, fifteen.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

(Robert Frost (1874-1963))

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of 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.

Richard Cory

(Edward Arlington Robinson (1869-1935))

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

1919

The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere 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.

Sick

Shel Silverstein, 1930 – 1999

“I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

“I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I’m going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox

And there’s one more--that’s seventeen,

And don’t you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I’m sure that my left leg is broke--

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button’s caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?

What’s that? What’s that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

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