poetry

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WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF POETRY

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INTRODUCTION Poetry is a piece of literature written by a poet in meter or verse expressing various emotions using metaphors, similes etc. Poems often make heavy use of imagery and word association to quickly convey emotions. They are generally about the important things of life-a happy childhood, growing up, discovering the world around us etc.

GENRES OF POETRY : 

GENRES OF POETRY BALLADS LIMERICKS SONNETS Soliloquies NATURE POEMS ODES

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BALLADS: A ballad is a form of verse, often a narrative and set to music. Ballads were particularly characteristic of British and Irish popular poetry and song from the later medieval period until the 19th century and used extensively across Europe and later North America, Australia and North Africa. Many ballads were written and sold as single sheet broadsides. The form was often used by poets and composers from the 18th century onwards to produce lyrical ballads. In the later 19th century it took on the meaning of a slow form of popular love song and the term is now often used as synonymous with any love song, particularly the pop or rock power ballad.

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LUCY GRAY With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb:But never reached the town.The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,"

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In heaven we all shall meet;"--When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone-wall;And then an open field they crossed:The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!--Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.O'er rough and smooth she trips along.And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.

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Father GilliganWas weary night and day;For half his flock were in their beds,Or under green sods lay. Once, while he nodded on a chair,At the moth-hour of eve,Another poor man sent for him,And he began to grieve. ‘I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,For people die and die';And after cried he, 'God forgive!My body spake, not I!' He knelt, and leaning on the chairHe prayed and fell asleep;And the moth-hour went from the fields,

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And stars began to peep.They slowly into millions grew, And leaves shook in the wind;And God covered the world with shade,And whispered to mankind. Upon the time of sparrow-chirpWhen the moths came once more.The old priest Peter GilliganStood upright on the floor .'Mavrone, mavrone! the man has diedWhile I slept on the chair';He roused his horse out of its sleep,And rode with little care.He rode now as he never rode,By rocky lane and fen;The sick man's wife opened the door:'Father! you come again!''And is the poor man dead?' he cried.

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'He died an hour ago.'The old priest Peter GilliganIn grief swayed to and fro.‘ When you were gone, he turned and diedAs merry as a bird.'The old priest Peter GilliganHe knelt him at that word. 'He Who hath made the night of starsFor souls who tire and bleed,Sent one of His great angels downTo help me in my need. 'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,With planets in His care,Had pity on the least of thingsAsleep upon a chair.'

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LIMERICKS A limerick is a five-line poem or a joke, which intends to be witty or humorous, and is sometimes obscene with humorous intent. It was popularized in English by Edward Lear in the 19th century, although he did not use the term.

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There was an Old Man with a beard,Who said, 'It is just as I feared!Two Owls and a Hen,Four Larks and a Wren,Have all built their nests in my beard!'

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There was an Old Man of Kilkenny,Who never had more than a penny;He spent all that money,In onions and honey,That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny.

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There was an Old Man with a flute,A serpent ran into his boot;But he played day and night,Till the serpent took flight,And avoided that man with a flute.

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There was an old man whose habits, Induced him to feed upon rabbits When he would have eaten eighteen , He turned perfectly green, Upon which he relinquished those habits.

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There was an old stoker from Lee So dirty and grimy was he That his mates washed him clean In the water so green And that’s how we got the black sea.

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There was a tortoise called Nelly, Who wandered around on his belly. One day he went very far And was found Watching a new coloured telly.

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There was a dinosaur named Fred Who liked to eat nothing but bread But it was not invented So he grew thin and dented And soon he was lying there dead.

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There was an old lady of chertsey Who made a remarkable courtesy She twirled round and round Till she sunk underground Which distressed all the people of chertesy.

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There was an old lady called Harriot Who had a marvelous chariot But alas she forgot That a horse she had not So she ended up Having to carry it.

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There was a young cannibal ned Who used to eat onions in his bed One day his mother said sonny Its not very funny Why don’t you eat people instead.

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A Sonnet is a distinctive poetic style that uses a system or pattern of metrical structure and verse composition, usually consisting of fourteen lines arranged in a set rhyme scheme. SONNETS

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Goodbye is the word that made me cry, Loneliness in my eyes I can hide, but Cannot be denied; I never thought that we would end up like this, For all the happiness we had from a month Up to a year; Happiness that you brought into my life, Changed into sadness when you said goodbye; Day and night I’m always thinkin’, wan’t help Myself on crying, Looking up into heaven and said “god, guide me for what i’am doing, And help me to forget all of this pain”; Many hours and days are passing by, All the memories I have to leave behind; To my loneliness I have to say goodbye, Because my eyes had no more tears to cry..

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THE SONNET OF WAR I know that the wars never seem to come to a halt But why are we treated different from any other? Are we to always carry the burden of our fault? Can’t we treat each other like sister and brother? I know that we have to protect our precious land No matter what people will never all be the same. But why must innocent people suffer at our hand? What is the point in killing the young and the lame? Great wars always seem to last for countless long years, And all that they seem to bring our heart breaking tears..

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THE SONNET- OCEAN DEEP

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SOLILOQUY

OTHELLO : 

OTHELLO

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KING LEAR- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

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Hamlet To be, or not to be--that is the question:Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortuneOr to take arms against a sea of troublesAnd by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--No more--and by a sleep to say we endThe heartache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes calamity of so long life.

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For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumelyThe pangs of despised love, the law's delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of th' unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country, from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will,And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?

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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprise of great pitch and momentWith this regard their currents turn awryAnd lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remembered.

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MACBETH Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Brain! I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.

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Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

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Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace. With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. -by William Shakespeare

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NATURE POEMS

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Daffodil I WANDER'D lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

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The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company: I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils. -By WilliamWordsworth

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LEAVES DANCING I LIKE TO WATCH A LEAF ON A TREE DANCING TO THE RHYTHM OF THE WIND. WHEN THE WIND IS CALM, LEAF DANCES BOWING UP & DOWN. HARDER AND HARDER TILL IT LEAVES IT,S BRANCH. THE LEAF MOVES DOWN DOWN TO THE GROUND. I LIKE TO WATCH A LEAF ON A TREE

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We knew it would rain, for all the morn A spirit on slender ropes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst. Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens-- Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain! BEFORE THE RAIN

THE SONG OF THE EARTH : 

THE SONG OF THE EARTH

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Odes are long poems which are serious in nature and written to a set structure. John Keat’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and “Ode To A Nightingale” are probably the most famous examples of this type of poem. ODES

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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissedBy nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;Make not your rosary of yew-berries,Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth beYour mournful Psyche, nor the downy owlA partner in your sorrow's mysteries;For shade to shade will come too drowsily,And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.But when the melancholy fit shall fallSudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,And hides the green hill in an April shroud;Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, ODE TO MELANCHOLY

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O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung     By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung     Even unto thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see     The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,     And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side     In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof     Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran             A brooklet, scarce espied 'Mid hush'd cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,     Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;     Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;     Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber     At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:             The winged boy I knew; ODE TO PSYCHE

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O latest born and loveliest vision far     Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,     Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,         Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan         Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet     From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no globe, no oracle, no heat     Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming

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ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE I CANNOT SEE WHAT THE FLOWERS ARE AT MY FEET NOR WHAT SOFT INCENSE HANGS UPON THE BOUGHS WHERE WITH SEASONAL MOUNTH ENDOWS THE GRASS,THE TRICKLET AND THE FRUIT TREES WIDE WHITE HAWTHORN AND THE PASTORAL EGLANTINE FAST FADING WINDS COVERED UP IN LEAVES AND MID WAYS ELDEST CHILD THE COMING MUSK ROSE FULL OF DEVY WINE.

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ODE TO AUTUMN Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy shells.Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

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Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, - While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. -JOHN KEATS

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Thou still unrevised bride of quietness!Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressA flow'ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shapeOf deities or mortals, or of both,In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? ODE TO A GRECIAN URN

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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leaveThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! -JOHN KEATS