fandomhigh | Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

[Professor Chaucer is again sitting quietly at his desk. He looks pretty much the same as he did yesterday, although possibly a little more worn.]

Welcome to your final poetry class of the term. I want to tell all of you how much I've enjoyed this class. Teaching it has been an incredible experience, and you have all been a joy to get to know. I wish you all well during your holiday and with whatever you move on to next term.

[Final Project] Please present your sestina to the class, and then hand in the written copy before leaving today. Final grades will be posted tonight.

[OOC: I'm against a deadline, folks. I need your projects posted here no later than midnight tonight EST. Grades will go up at some ungodly hour after that. It's been fun, guys! Thank you!]

FINAL GRADES for Creative Writing: Poetry

leeadama: A+

lisacuddy: A

scissors__: A

chasingangela: A+

the4thsister: A+

positive_angel: B-

rory__gilmore: C+

death_n_binky: A-

ihatedenmark: A

swerval_zero: A-

kikidelivers: A+

sheltered_texan: A

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Edwards sestina:

Here in this bleak city of Rochester,
Where there are twenty-seven words for "snow,"
Not all of them polite, the wayward mind
Basks in some Yucatan of its own making,
Some coppery, sleek lagoon, or cinnamon island
Alive with lemon tints and burnished natives,

And O that we were there. But here the natives
Of this grey, sunless city of Rochester
Have sown whole mines of salt about their land
(Bare ruined Carthage that it is) while snow
Comes down as if The Flood were in the making.
Yet on that ocean Marvell called the mind

An ark sets forth which is itself the mind,
Bound for some pungent green, some shore whose natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in making
Roasts that would gladden the Earl of Rochester
With sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.
It might be well to remember that an island

Was blessed heaven once, more than an island,
The grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.
In that kind climate the mere thought of snow
Was but a wedding cake; the youthful natives,
Unable to conceive of Rochester,
Made love, and were acrobatic in the making.

Dream as we may, there is far more to making
Do than some wistful reverie of an island,
Especially now when hope lies with the Rochester
Gas and Electric Co., which doesn't mind
Such profitable weather, while the natives
Sink, like Pompeians, under a world of snow.

The one thing indisputable here is snow,
The single verity of heaven's making,
Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the natives,
And the torn hoarding-posters of some island.
Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth: it is grey, and called Rochester.

No island fantasy survives Rochester,
Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making

((OMG stolen from here (http://www.uni.edu/~gotera/CraftOfPoetry/sestina.html)))

Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

Re: FINAL PROJECTS