Categories
Poetry

Pick another song lyric that we are not covering in a lecture (out of the Additi

Pick another song lyric that we are not covering in a lecture (out of the Additional Hamilton Lyrics folder).
Give two examples of juxtaposition of any nature and why you think Miranda chose to use them in 300+ words.

Categories
Poetry

Pick another song lyric that we are not covering in a lecture (out of the Additi

Pick another song lyric that we are not covering in a lecture (out of the Additional Hamilton Lyrics folder).
Give two examples of juxtaposition of any nature and why you think Miranda chose to use them in 300+ words.

Categories
Poetry

the children of immigrants BY LENELLE MOÏSE When I am a toddler, a child, a twee

the children of immigrants
BY LENELLE MOÏSE
When I am a toddler, a child, a tween, a teen, and a young adult, I am called an ancestral soul, a ti gran moun, a little old person.

Adults study me and decide that I am wise beyond my years, mature for my age, emotionally ripe. I am told it is unusual to meet a five-ten-fifteen-year-old girl who does not slouch or mumble or speak in monosyllables.

When I do the things that come naturally to me—when I hold my spine up erect, when I wait my turn to speak, when I speak having listened, carefully, when I enunciate, when I look grown-ups in the eye—I am told I must have “been here before.”

“How do you know?” one college professor asks me after she has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age nineteen. “How do you already know?”

In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage me to write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women’s Day at City Hall or deliver as part of conference panels at local universities. “If you were older,” they tell me, “we would probably be friends.” One of them even flirts with me.

Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they never invite me to their beer-drenched parties. I will never play Spin the Bottle. I will never play Seven Minutes in Heaven. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up another family friend’s résumé or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American.

The children of immigrants don’t get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents’ backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents’ spirits get slaughtered.

In Haiti, they were middle class. Hopeful teachers. Home owners. They were black like their live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old white men’s behinds, scrub five-star hotel toilets for dimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren’t as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they come from: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies, orphan beggars and brazen political corruption.

When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years.

When I am six, my mother tells me that when she found out she was pregnant with me at age nineteen, she “tried to kill the baby.” She says “the baby,” as if it isn’t me she’s talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings.

When I am sixteen, my father calls me on the phone to, inevitably, weep. He says, “Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you.”
So—yes, I grow up fast.

Lenelle Moïse, “the children of immigrants” from Haiti Glass. Copyright © 2014 by Lenelle Moïse. Reprinted by permission of City Lights Books, www.citylights.com.
Source: Haiti Glass (City Lights Books, 2014)

Categories
Poetry

the children of immigrants BY LENELLE MOÏSE When I am a toddler, a child, a twee

the children of immigrants
BY LENELLE MOÏSE
When I am a toddler, a child, a tween, a teen, and a young adult, I am called an ancestral soul, a ti gran moun, a little old person.

Adults study me and decide that I am wise beyond my years, mature for my age, emotionally ripe. I am told it is unusual to meet a five-ten-fifteen-year-old girl who does not slouch or mumble or speak in monosyllables.

When I do the things that come naturally to me—when I hold my spine up erect, when I wait my turn to speak, when I speak having listened, carefully, when I enunciate, when I look grown-ups in the eye—I am told I must have “been here before.”

“How do you know?” one college professor asks me after she has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age nineteen. “How do you already know?”

In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage me to write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women’s Day at City Hall or deliver as part of conference panels at local universities. “If you were older,” they tell me, “we would probably be friends.” One of them even flirts with me.

Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they never invite me to their beer-drenched parties. I will never play Spin the Bottle. I will never play Seven Minutes in Heaven. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up another family friend’s résumé or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American.

The children of immigrants don’t get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents’ backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents’ spirits get slaughtered.

In Haiti, they were middle class. Hopeful teachers. Home owners. They were black like their live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old white men’s behinds, scrub five-star hotel toilets for dimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren’t as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they come from: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies, orphan beggars and brazen political corruption.

When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years.

When I am six, my mother tells me that when she found out she was pregnant with me at age nineteen, she “tried to kill the baby.” She says “the baby,” as if it isn’t me she’s talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings.

When I am sixteen, my father calls me on the phone to, inevitably, weep. He says, “Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you.”
So—yes, I grow up fast.

Lenelle Moïse, “the children of immigrants” from Haiti Glass. Copyright © 2014 by Lenelle Moïse. Reprinted by permission of City Lights Books, www.citylights.com.
Source: Haiti Glass (City Lights Books, 2014)

Categories
Poetry

It has to be 39 lines.

I need you to write me a Sestina poem from scratch. A sestina is a fixed verse form consisting of six stanzas of six lines each, normally followed by a three-line envoi. The words that end each line of the first stanza are used as line endings in each of the following stanzas, rotated in a set pattern. The sestina is composed of six stanzas of six lines (sixains), followed by a stanza of three lines (a tercet). There is no rhyme within the stanzas; instead the sestina is structured through a recurrent pattern of the words that end each line. IT HAS TO BE 39 LINES. Please follow the pattern of a Sestina and be as creative as possible, must also have a title that needs to be creative.

Categories
Poetry

Have fun!

In Poem 6, I’d like you to write a poem that incorporates slant rhyme (any or all of the ten mentioned in Drury are up for grabs). You do not have to incorporate meter in this poem, i.e. your poem may be written in free verse. But the rhymes should be end rhymes, not internal rhymes, and they should occur in a relatively regular pattern, i.e. in quatrains rhyming A-B-A-B or X-A-X-A, etc. There is no restriction on subject matter or theme. Experiment! Have fun!

Categories
Poetry

But the “point” of this assignment is to get you thinking and listening like a poet to your own poems.

This prompt has three steps. But the “point” of this assignment is to get you thinking and listening like a poet to your own poems. The other, equally important goal is to write the best poem in blank-verse that you can. So please feel free to vary any of these steps to suit your own practice–with the exception, that is, of my requirement that you are descriiptive, and that you avoid abstractions and cliches. Here are your steps:
1) Spend a few minutes writing a prose account of an anecdote you often share at dinner parties, a story from the news you can’t forget, an episode of family history, or a dream that’s been troubling you. Be descriiptive. Try not to use too much abstract language (“love,” “enemy,” “justice,” “poverty,” “illness”).
2) Using some of the language from your prose account, recast your anecdote, news story, episode of family history, or dream into at least ten lines of blank verse—the more lines, the better. Keep your meter very regular—with no more than one substitution per line. As you write, leave some space between each line—If you’re using lined paper, double-space.
3) Reread your blank-verse publish, circling the language and images you find most compelling. (Don’t circle abstract language or moments in which you’re telling rather than showing.) Take a few minutes to write a new blank-verse publish that either condenses and consolidates these interesting moments into a single passage or focuses on one such moment by expanding it into seven to ten new lines. In this publish, I want you to pay close attention to crafting concrete, and specific images, as well as concentrating on the meter. This poem should be at least fourteen lines long.

Categories
Poetry

Back-slashes may separate each metrical foot.

After reading the PDF of Annie Finch’s “The Many Voices of Iambic Pentameter” (pp. 83-119), take note of Finch’s helpful list of expressive variations, which include anapests (two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed syllable: “ta-ta-dum” or “New Or-leans”); trochees (a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable: “dum-ta” or “Bos-ton”); spondees (two stressed syllables: “dum-dum”) and pyrrhics (two unstressed syllables: “ta-ta”); dactyls (one stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables: “dum-ta-ta” or “Bal-ti-more”); and headless and/or extra-syllable lines. Next, read the blank-verse anthology I provided this week, looking for examples of each variation.
Finally, post entries for accurate examples of at least two variations here, including a scansion of each line you quote. In other words, choose an example of two lines, one that provides one of the following variations and another line that provides an example of another: 1) an an anapestic variation, 2) a trochaic variation, 3) a spondee and/or a pyrrhic variation–these often side-by-side in a line; 4) a dactylic variation; and 5) either a headless line or an extra-syllable line.
Make sure you’re listing the author and title of each poem you quote from, as well as what number line you’re quoting. Each entry must contain a “technical analysis” (accurately identifying each variation) and a “thematic analysis” (interpreting why the poet varied the meter in this way, i.e. what each variation may be expressing). Capitalize and/or italicize stressed syllables. Unstressed syllables should be placed in lowercase letters, roman type-face. Back-slashes may separate each metrical foot. So each should look something like this*:
Variation: trochaic, spondaic/pyrrhic, line 2, “Directive,” Robert Frost.
Original line: “Back in a time made simple by the loss”
Scansion: BACK in / a TIME / MADE SIM / ple by / the LOSS
Technical analysis: If a regularized (tone-deaf) scansion of this line would be “back IN / a TIME / made SIM / -ple BY / the LOSS,” there are actually three possible metrical variations in this line: a trochaic variation in the first metrical foot (“BACK in”), a sponaic variation in the third foot (“MADE SIM”), and a pyrrhic variation in the third foot (“-ple by”).
Thematic analysis: Throughout “Directive,” Frost varies the iambic pentameter many times. The first line, for example, which is in monosyllabic iambic pentameter, might be scanned at least two different ways (Back OUT / of ALL / this NOW / too MUCH / for US” or “BACK out / of ALL / this NOW / too MUCH / for US”). The third line is even more various in its metrical presentation, offering three variations. Such variations work throughout the poem to emphasize the modus operandi of the speaker and “guide,” who “only has at heart” the reader/traveller’s “getting lost.” The reader becomes “lost” in line three with its twisting and turning variations that might trip up novice and expert alike. But one must first get lost, as Frost later suggests, in order to be found. Those who never venture on such a metaphysical quest, which Frost compares to the search for the Holy Grail, are the ones who are truly lost, never to be found.