Poetry in Motion :: Verse Venn Diagrams

    ESSAY 1

    Poetry in Motion :: Verse Venn Diagrams

    Your first essay, of 500-600 words, will be the  one that requires NO OUTSIDE
    RESEARCH its just you and the poems/ songs. You CAN have outside
    research, but its not required.

    Of all the poems that you have read thus far, from the Romantics to Goblin Market
    [poems from Units 1-3] you have two options:

    1) You are to compare two or more poems, either by the
    same author or different authors. In the simplest case, you could compare 2 poems
    by John Keats. A more ambitious project would be to compare some of
    Carrie Chappelle’s work to several poems of Emily Dickinson, or the point of view
    in Whitman and Rossetti.

    You can base the comparisons on the internal functioning of the poems (literary
    devices) or the larger realms of their themes and suggested meanings.

    Check out Chapter 2 in the book (1192) for the writing process, and especially
    Comparison and Contrast (1225-1228).

    2) You are to compare one or more poems to the poetry [lyrics] found in the
    work of a recording artist, either from the past or from the present.

    An example would be comparing a Kendrick Lamar album to Whitman
    (or whatever).

    The piece in Course Documents, John Clare Mud Man Punk Rocker, is not
    in essay form per se, but fantastically compares a bygone poet to punk rock.

    Feel free to discuss with your classmates and myself.

    This should seem like an essay in that it should have some arc and theme– it should be more than our shorter Discussions, and shouldn’t feel like a text message wafer.

    All papers must be in MLA format.

    To Autumn
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    BY JOHN KEATS
    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
      Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
      With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
    To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
      And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
          To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
      With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
    And still more, later flowers for the bees,
    Until they think warm days will never cease,
          For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
      Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
      Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
    Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
      Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
          Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
      Steady thy laden head across a brook;
      Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
          Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

    Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
      Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
      And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
      Among the river sallows, borne aloft
          Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
      Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
      The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
          And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

    Endymion
    BY JOHN KEATS
    A Poetic Romance

    (excerpt)
    BOOK I
    A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
    Its loveliness increases; it will never
    Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
    A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
    Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
    Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
    A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
    Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
    Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
    Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
    Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
    Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
    From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
    Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
    For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
    With the green world they live in; and clear rills
    That for themselves a cooling covert make
    ‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
    Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
    And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
    We have imagined for the mighty dead;
    All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
    An endless fountain of immortal drink,
    Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

          Nor do we merely feel these essences
    For one short hour; no, even as the trees
    That whisper round a temple become soon
    Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
    The passion poesy, glories infinite,
    Haunt us till they become a cheering light
    Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
    That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast;
    They always must be with us, or we die.

          Therefore, ’tis with full happiness that I
    Will trace the story of Endymion.
    The very music of the name has gone
    Into my being, and each pleasant scene
    Is growing fresh before me as the green
    Of our own valleys: so I will begin
    Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;
    Now while the early budders are just new,
    And run in mazes of the youngest hue
    About old forests; while the willow trails
    Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
    Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
    Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer
    My little boat, for many quiet hours,
    With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
    Many and many a verse I hope to write,
    Before the daisies, vermeil rimm’d and white,
    Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
    Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
    I must be near the middle of my story.
    O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
    See it half finish’d: but let Autumn bold,
    With universal tinge of sober gold,
    Be all about me when I make an end.
    And now, at once adventuresome, I send
    My herald thought into a wilderness:
    There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
    My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
    Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

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