Key terms to learn: Verb. Metaphor. Enjambment. Simile. Rhyme. Adjective. Noun. Personification. Rhythm. Alliteration. Adverb

Transcription

1 Key terms to learn: Verb Adjective Noun Adverb Metaphor Simile Personification Alliteration Enjambment Rhyme Rhythm

2 Dis Poetry by Benjamin Zephaniah Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots Dis poetry is designed fe rantin Dance hall style, big mouth chanting, Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep Preaching follow me Like yu is blind sheep, Dis poetry is not Party Political Not designed fe dose who are critical. Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed It gets into me dreadlocks It lingers around me head Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike I ve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere But did is de stuff I like. Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved, I ve tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry, I could try be more personal But you ve heard it all before, Pages of written words not needed Brain has many words in store, Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting De tongue plays a beat De body starts skanking, Dis poetry is quick an childish Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish, Anybody can do it fe free, Dis poetry is fe yu an me, Don t stretch yu imagination Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation, Chant, In de morning I chant In de night I chant In de darkness An under de spotlight, I pass thru University I pass thru Sociology An den I got a dread degree In Dreadfull Ghettology. Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk, Dis poetry is wid me, Below me an above, Dis poetry s from inside me It goes to yu WID LUV.

3 Praise Song for My Mother You were water to me deep and bold and fathoming You were moon s eye to me pull and grained and mantling You were sunrise to me rise and warm and streaming You were the fishes red gill to me the flame tree s spread to me the crab s leg/the fried plantain smell replenishing replenishing Go to your wide futures, you said Grace Nichols SONNET 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. William Shakespeare

4 Tich Miller Tich Miller wore glasses with elastoplast-pink frames and had one foot three sizes larger than the other. When they picked teams for outdoor games she and I were always the last two left standing by the wire-mesh fence. We avoided one another s eyes, stooping, perhaps, to re-tie a shoelace, or affecting interest in the flight of some fortunate bird, and pretended not to hear the urgent conference: Have Tubby! No, no, have Tich! Usually they chose me, the lesser dud, and she lolloped, unselected, to the back of the other team. At eleven we went to different schools. In time I learned to get my own back, sneering at hockey-players who couldn t spell. Tich died when she was twelve. Wendy Cope Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. WH Auden

5 I am a Parrot I'm a parrot I live in a cage I'm nearly always in a vex-up rage I used to fly all light and free in the luscious green forest canopy I'm a parrot I live in a cage I'm nearly always in a vex-up rage I miss the wind against my wing I miss the nut and the fruit picking I'm a parrot I live in a cage I'm nearly always In a vex-up rage I squawk I talk I curse I swear I repeat the things I shouldn't hear So don't come near me Or put out your hand because I'll pick you if I can pickyou pickyou if I can I want to be free CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND Grace Nichols

6 Meeting Midnight I met Midnight Her eyes were sparkling pavements after frost. She wore a full length, dark-blue raincoat with a hood. She winked. She smoked a small cheroot. I followed her. Her walk was more a shuffle, more a dance. She took the path to the river, down she went. On Midnight s scent, I heard the twelve cool syllables, her name, chime from the town. When those bells stopped, Midnight paused by the water s edge. She waited there. I saw a girl in purple on the bridge. It was One o Clock. Hurry, Midnight said. It s late, it s late. I saw them run together. Midnight wept. They kissed full on the lips And then I slept. The next day I bumped into Half-Past Four. He was a bore. Carol Ann Duffy

7 The Highwayman The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding Riding Riding The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: His boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord s daughter, The landlord s red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I m after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way. He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair I the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West. He did not come in the dawning; he did not come in the noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o the moon, When the road was a gipsy s ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching marching King George s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

8 They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, And they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at her side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! Now, keep good watch! and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say; Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood, to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love s refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death. He turned; he spurred to the westward; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o er the musket, drenched with her own blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear How Bess, the landlord s daughter,

9 The landlord s black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs I the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghastly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding riding A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. By Alfred Noyes