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  1. MushroomsBy Sylvia PlathOvernight, veryWhitely, discreetly,Very quietlyOur toes, our nosesTake hold on the loam,Acquire the air.Nobody sees us,Stops us, betrays us;The small grains make room.Soft fists insist onHeaving the needles,The leafy bedding,Even the paving.Our hammers, our rams,Earless and eyeless,Perfectly voiceless,Widen the crannies,Shoulder through holes. WeDiet on water,On crumbs of shadow,Bland-mannered, askingLittle or nothing.So many of us!So many of us!We are shelves, we areTables, we are meek,We are edible,Nudgers and shoversIn spite of ourselves.Our kind multiplies:We shall by morningInherit the earth.Our foot's in the door.
  2. Tinker

    Thematic Odes

    Explore the Craft of Writing Poetry The Ode Often Odes are named for the theme or subject of the poem. Here are a few: Elegy, Obsequy, Threnody Ode Elemental Ode is a poem that glorifies everyday things. Chilean poet Pablo Neruda is associated with this genre and is a master at venerating the most common things, the sock, salt, and/or tomato. The frame is at the discretion of the poet. Ode to the Onion by Pablo Neruda Ode to My Left Hand by Judi Van Gorder Oh, neglected left hand, I know I have not favored you in the past, the right seems to have had all of the talent. She could write better, she could accomplish all of the mundane tasks I asked of her without your awkwardness. I never appreciated or recognized your part in her successes. Now that you have been sidelined by brutally broken bones, I see how much you contributed to every aspect of my life. How helpless the right is without assistance from you. From small tasks, squeezing toothpaste onto a brush or slicing tomatoes to larger tasks, hooking a bra, opening a bottle of V8, or typing this poem, you are sorely missed. Your loveliness is now hidden beneath ugly wrapped gauze over a torturous, stiff splint with surgery looming, then plaster cast. How I long to see your fingers wiggle and grasp again. Never more will I dismiss your beauty. You are the yang to my yin. Genethliacum Ode, is a poem written in honor of the birth of a child. Usually, these lofty odes were reserved for the birth of nobility. However, technically any poem written in honor of the birth of a child would qualify as a Genethliacum. Morning Song by Sylvia Plath Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons. Encomium or Coronation Ode is a Greek choral lyric celebrating a person's achievements. This can be expanded to the length and formality of an ode as in honor of the coronation of a king, but most often is a simple poem as would be spoken at a banquet in an introduction in the category of occasional poetry. It specifically celebrates a man rather than a god. This genre of verse usually has 5 elements, prologue, birth and development, accomplishments, comparisons with which to praise, and an epilogue. Just a Man Wedding Odes: Epithalamion or Epithalamium Protholathiumis Palinode Ode is an apologetic ode, that retracts or recants something said in a previous poem by the same poet. It is usually written as a retraction of an invective statement or offensive remark made in satire. Geoffrey Chaucer wrote a palinode at the end of the Canterbury Tales, recanting and apologizing for any bawdy or offensive statements previously made. It is really unclear if this palinode was part of the original Tales or if it was tacked on later as either an advertisement of his works or as a death bed confessional. Wherfore I biseke yow mekely, for the mercy Of God, that ye preye for me that crist have Mercy on me and foryeve me my giltes; and Namely of my translacions and enditynges of Worldly vanitees, the whiche I revoke in My retracciouns:as is the book of Troilus; the book also of Fame; the book of The xxv. Ladies; the ; The book of seint valentynes day of the parlement of briddes; the tales of counterbury, Thilke that sownen into synne; the book of the Leoun; and many another book. This was found at Wikipedia. Panegyric or Paean is an ode that celebrates something from its inception or the life of a person, not just the accomplishments. It is usually written about someone still alive and celebrates the who rather than the what of the person. "Paean" should not be confused with the metric foot "paeon". Cassini Spacecraft by David Parsley Standing Tall by Jamie McKenzie In Honor of Martin Luther King Jr. Triumphal Ode, is an ode to celebrate a victory. Also called an Epinicia when specifically celebrating a sports victory. The Epinician Ode said to be created by Simonides of Ceos, Greek lyrical poet, 556BC to 468BC though the most prolific user of the theme was Pindar of Pindaric Ode fame. Originally written to honor a victor the Hellenic games and sung in a procession for the winner and connecting him with a great hero of the past. The frame at the discretion of the poet. Victory by S.J. Duncan-Clark The Chicago Evening Post, November 11, 1918 Great Poems about the World War OUT of the night it leaped the seas-- ---The four long years of night! "The foe is beaten to his knees, ---And triumph crowns the fight!" It sweeps the world from shore to shore, ---By wave and wind 'tis flung, It grows into a mighty roar ---Of siren, bell and tongue. Where little peoples knelt in fear, ---They stand in joy today; The hour of their redemption here, ---Their feet on Freedom's way. The kings and kaisers flee their doom, ---Fall bloody crown and throne! Room for the people! Room! Make room! ---They march to claim their own! Now God be praised we lived to see ---His Sun of Justice rise, His Sun of Righteous Liberty, ---To gladden all our skies! And God be praised for those who died, ---Whate'er their clime or breed, Who, fighting bravely side by side, ---A world from thraldom freed! And God be praised for those who, spite ---Of woundings sore and deep, Survive to see the Cause of Right ---O'er all its barriers sweep! God and the people--This our cry! ---O, God, thy peace we sing! The peace that comes through victory, ---And dwells where Thou art King. Occasional Verse
  3. summayya

    Child (Sylvia Plath)

    Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo of the new Whose name you meditate -- April snowdrop, Indian pipe, Little Stalk without wrinkle, Pool in which images Should be grand and classical Not this troublous Wringing of hands, this dark Ceiling without a star.
  4. Tinker

    Confessional Verse

    Explore the Craft of Writing American Verse Confessional Verse was first identified as a poetic genre in the 1950s however it can be found as far back as 45 B.C. in the works of Sextus Propertius. It is as its name implies poetry that reveals intimate and often unflattering truths about the poet. In the 50s and 60s it gained popularity with poets such as Sylvia Plath, Allen Ginsberg, Ann Sexton Robert Lowell and Theodore Roethke. It is not the subject matter that defines confessional poetry but how the subject matter is shared through the lines. It is a self exploration travelling into the darkness as well as the light, and allows the reader to follow along. The details are not approached timidly but with a direct honesty that connects with the reader. Most of modern Confessional Poetry is in free verse. Simply writing about an emotion or disclosing an intimate or shocking experience does not automatically make great poetry. The "confessional poets" paid a great deal of attention to craft and construction. Daddy by Sylvia Plath You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time-- Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygook. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You-- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue, And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-- The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. ]They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through. 12 October 1962
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