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Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Four

Wednesday, November 16, 7:00PM FST

[Professor Chaucer is sitting at his desk writing as the students enter. He still looks as though he was in a fight, but better. Once class has assembled, he stands.]

"Good evening everyone. We're going to have a brief lecture today, wrapping up our study of the elements of poetry, and then we have a special project to work on."

[Lecture]Alliteration refers to a succession of similar sounds [he pauses for effect] -- the repetition of the same consonent sounds at the beginning of a series of words. Repetition of the first consonent sound in the word is called initial alliteration, while internal or hidden alliteration refers to the repetition of consonent sounds within the words. Assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds within a series of words.

A Symbol is a visible object or action that suggests some further meaning in addition to itself.

Allegory refers to a description, usually narrative, in which people, places and things are employed in a continuous system of equivalents.

Parody takes place when a writer imitates and pokes fun at another; imitating tone, form, language and other elements. A good parody maintains an understanding of the original work rather than simply flinging abuse at it, and has an ear for the sounds and rhythms of the original.

[Discussion] You were all supposed to compose your own sonnet for class today. Please take a moment to present it.

[Special Project] I want to thank those of you who submitted ideas on decorating our classroom. Edward, your suggestion was intriguing, but I'm concerned that it may be ultimately a little messy. So, for now I'm going with the idea put forward by Kiki and Lisa. For the rest of class today, you'll be making origami cranes. [He motions to a large stack of paper on his desk.] Kiki, I'd like to ask you help anyone who doesn't know how to do this, if you don't mind. One little twist that I'm adding to this -- I've brought several books of poetry in from the library. I'd like each crane to carry some small bit of poetry in it, so please either copy something from one of the books, or compose your own poem. (Poetry books available in the classroom: collected poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sylvia Plath, e. e. cummings, Shel Silverstein, and a book called 1000 Best Poems.)

***Assignment for next week: Begin reading The Book of the Duchess.***

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[Ask questions or make comments about the lecture here.]

Chihaya raises his hand for a question. "I'm confused, professor. What would be the difference between parody and satire?"

"Generally speaking, parody mocks a specific work itself, whereas satire presents a humorous but critical portrayal of a social or political figure or situation."

"Could a parody be considered like a subset of a satire? I don't think, due to the definition of satire it would work the other way around."

After considering for a moment, Professor Chaucer nods. "Yes, I think you could look at that way, parody being a very specific type of satire, with a much narrower purpose."

[Read your sonnet to the class here.]

Fred stands up, her voice nervous "Ahem" *coughs

My Sonnet by Winifred Burkle

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Fred sat back down blushing

((OOC: totally got that from Wills Shake but you know its beautiful))

Paige stand up and reads her sonnet

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of natures truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;
And yet, to times, in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Gripping his notebook a bit harder than he needs, Chihaya reads his sonnet to the class.

The journey now in hand within the mind
Must leave past houses to their local change;
The very door that recall cannot find
Is weathered still by every season's range.

The journeyer will know that weather well,
In wind or hail or thick unpurposed snow;
Within the sound of some vast half-heard bell
Cognate with ends which point the path I go.

I rise from sleep, and know this is a dream;
The room surrounds me in a longer night
Which for an end takes up the barest gleam
And makes time from a momentary light.

I measure moveless hours before I leave,
As though, awake, I would my stead bereave.

((ooc: shamelessly stolen from The Uncompliant Stranger (http://www.davidwheldon.co.uk/uncompliantstranger.html)

Lee speaks his piece.

In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships;
And gold doubloons, that from the drowned hand fell,
Lie nestled in the ocean-flower's bell
With love's old gifts, once kissed by long-drowned lips;
And round some wrought gold cup the sea-grass whips,
And hides lost pearls, near pearls still in their shell,
Where sea-weed forests fill each ocean dell
And seek dim sunlight with their restless tips.
So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost hopes
Beneath the now hushed surface of myself,
In lonelier depths than where the diver gropes;
They lie deep, deep; but I at times behold
In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy shelf
The gleam of irrecoverable gold.

Blushing wildly, Kiki hesitatingly glances around before looking back at her paper. What had possessed her to write something like this? It was embarrassing. Still, it was written, and so it would be read. Kiki opens her mouth, and warms to the performance, in the end, giving quite a creditable recitation.

Blackwing

Dark it is in here, I know, and yet
That flicker! I think I see a hint of light.
A point to bring me through this web of jet
One guiding star, sparkling in the night.
But not all lights respite give from storms
Harshly bright, a lamp gleams cold and glaring.
And not all lights shine friendly, kind or warm
What grace to see the imperfections flaring?

Comfort there is in darkness, true - and hope.
But all has a price: Hope will take its toll,
Staring wonderingly at its own scope,
For this the shadow I walk in is - your soul.

My fear, my hope, my thought, my dream, my spell
My loss, my gain, my heart, my heav'n, my hell!

[OOC but IC: You, Kiki darling, win.]

[OOC: *sheepish grinblush* Thanks.]

*Hamlet stands up to read his sonnet. The effects of the Plot Gnu having long worn off, it's different than the last one he read.*

When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, 'They are dead.' Then add thereto,
'Yet many a better one has died before.'
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.

[OOC: "When you see millions of the mouthless dead", by Charles Sorley]

Separation, by Angela Chase.

Along the Eastern shore the low waves creep,
Making a ceaseless music on the sand,
A song that gulls and curlews understand,
The lullaby that sings the day to sleep.
A thousand miles afar, the grim pines keep
Unending watch upon a shoreless land,
Yet through their tops, swept by some wizard hand,
The sound of surf comes singing up the steep.
Sweet, thou canst hear the tidal litany;

I, mid the pines land-wearied, may but dream
Of the far shore; but though the distance seem
Between us fixed, impassable, to me
Cometh thy soul’s voice, chanting love’s old theme,
And mine doth answer, as the pines the sea.

[OOC: Plagiarized from Sophie Jewett. Will write actual original work for rest of term, promise.]

Rory reads her sonnet in a quiet, steady voice.

"I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking."

[ooc: Ripped from Edna St. Vincent Millay. I have no poetic talent of which to speak.]

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

[Work on your origami cranes and/or chat with people here.]

Kiki copies Browning's "Porphyria's Lover" (http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/rb/porphyria.html) across 3 pages of origami paper, purple, black and red, using a silver pen, and folds each into a crane.

She'll help anyone who asks [ooc: if mun is not around, assume she does.]

Angela copies e.e. cummings poems across several clumsy cranes.

Rory carefully copies Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems on her origami cranes. She's also very carefully not looking anywhere near Angela.

[Make OOC comments here.]

Sorry, I blatantly forgot. What style of sonnet is it supposed to be? *shame, oh the shame*

Actually, your choice. Either Italian or English (and if the muses aren't cooperating, you can crib it from somewhere if needed).

[Were he there, this would be Ten's sonnet.]

I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal
On turf banks under blankets, with our faces
Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,
Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.
Lorenzo and Jessica in a cold climate.
Diarmuid and Grainne waiting to be found.
Darkly asperged and censed, we were laid out
Like breathing effigies on a raised ground.
And in that dream I dreamt - how like you this? -
Our first night years ago in that hotel
When you came with your deliberate kiss
To raise us towards the lovely and painful
Covenants of flesh; our separateness;
The respite in our dewy dreaming faces.

((From Glanmore Sonnets: Field Work #10, by Seamus Heaney. Whom, I might add, I had the pleasure of seeing read here at school last fall.))

[Where Ten here, Geoff would appreciate his sonnet and find it amusing that the Doctor is auditing his class. :)]

((I couldn't resist. I need to try writing my own.))

((No worries. Geoff's fully aware of his irresistibleness.))

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Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Four

LECTURE QUESTIONS

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DISCUSSION

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IN-CLASS PROJECT & CHATTING

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OOC

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