Poetic Structure Styles/ Forms

Jennifer HernandezDylan CruzScott Smith

Narrative Poem

Poem that contains a series of events using poetic devices such as rhythm, rhyme, compact language, and sound.

› Rhythm: refers to the pattern of sounds made by varying the stressed and unstressed syllables in a poem.

› Five basic rhythms in English poetry:1. Iambic2. Trochaic 3. Spondaic 4. Anapestic 5. Dactylic

Elements found in narrative poetry: 1. characterization: features and traits that

form the individual nature of some person or thing

2. setting: the surroundings, environment, or time frame where story takes place

3. conflict: collision or disagreement; be contradictory, at variance, or in opposition; clash

4. plot: (storyline) the plan, scheme, or main story of a literary or dramatic work, as a play, novel, or short story. What happens in the story.

The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary,

while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber doorOnly this and nothing more."Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;This it is and nothing more."Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door...

Papa’s Fishing Hole

I place my tiny hand in his as we walk to Papa’s Fishing Hole. I hand him a wiggling night crawler fighting for his life. The deadly hook squishes through the worm’s head, and I watch the brown guts ooze out. Papa throws the pole’s long arm

back and then forward. The line lands in a merky spot along the reedy shore. Now I get to reel it in. Nothing yet, he says. He casts again. I reel it in. Still nothing.

Three time’s a charm, he says. He casts. A strike. We turn the crank together. The fish jumps from the water and his colors form a rainbow as he arches his body above the

reeds. My Papa handles him with the skill of a master as I stop helping to watch him work. A stiff jerk, a quick reel, a stiff jerk

again. The fish doesn’t have a chance, I

yell. I know. I know. I know, he says.

Elisabeth D. Babin

Lyric Poem

The lyric poet addresses the reader directly, portraying his or her own feeling, state of mind, and perceptions. Lyric poetry does not tell a story which portrays characters and actions. The term lyric is referred to as the words to a song. In lyric poetry, the mood is musical and emotional.

DyingI heard a fly buzz when I died;The stillness round my formWas like the stillness in the airBetween the heaves of storm.

Emily Dickinson

Sonnet number 18Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.

William Shakespeare

Metaphysical Poetry

Less concerned with expressing feeling than with analyzing it, Metaphysical poetry is marked by metaphors drawing sometimes forced parallels between apparently dissimilar ideas or things, complex and subtle thought, frequent use of paradox, and a dramatic directness of language, the rhythm of which derives from living speech.

Romantic Poetry

The characteristics of Romantic poetry are that it emphasizes feeling, intuition and imagination to a point of irrationalization. An interesting schematic explanation calls romanticism the predominance of imagination over reason and formal rules (classicism) and over the sense of fact or the actual (realism). It is basically a philosophical, literary, artistic and cultural era which began in the mid/late-18th century.

The Question

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,And gentle odours led my steps astray,Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Limerick

Limerick is often comical, nonsensical, and sometimes even lewd. Composed of five lines, the limerick adheres to a strict rhyme scheme and bouncy rhythm, making it easy to memorize. Typically, the first two lines rhyme with each other, the third and fourth rhyme together, and the fifth line either repeats the first line or rhymes with it. The limerick's anapestic rhythm is created by an accentual pattern that contains many sets of double weakly-stressed syllables. The pattern can be illustrated with dashes denoting weak syllables, and back-slashes for stresses:

1) - / - - / - - /2) - / - - / - - /3) - / - - /4) - / - - /5) - / - - / - - /

There was an Old Man with a beard,Who said, "It is just as I feared!Two Owls and a Hen,Four Larks and a Wren,Have all built their nests in my beard!"

Edward Lear

Sonnet

From the Italian, sonetto, which means "a little sound or song," the sonnet is a lyrical poem of fourteen lines, written in iambic pentameter, and following one or another of several set rhyme schemes. Two sonnet forms provide the models from which all other sonnets are formed: the Petrarchan (or Italian) and the Shakespearean (or English) forms.

Sonnet 73That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare

Petrarchan(Italian)

The first and most common sonnet is the Petrarchan, or Italian. The Petrarchan sonnet is divided into two stanzas, the octave (the first eight lines) followed by the answering sestet (the final six lines). The rhyme scheme, abba, abba, cdecde or cdcdcd, is suited for the rhyme-rich Italian language. Since the Petrarchan presents an argument, observation, question, or some other answerable charge in the octave, a turn, or volta, occurs between the eighth and ninth lines. This turn marks a shift in the direction of the foregoing argument or narrative, turning the sestet into the vehicle for the counterargument, clarification, or whatever answer the octave demands.

Shakespearean Sonnet

The second major type of sonnet, the Shakespearean, or English sonnet, contains three quatrains and a couplet. The rhyme scheme: abab, cdcd, efef, gg. The couplet plays a key role, usually arriving in the form of a conclusion, amplification, of the previous three stanzas.

Shakespearean

If a line has 10 syllables and in iambic units, then the line has 5 feet. This specific rhythm is called “iambic pentameter,” and was popularized by Shakespeare. Shakespeare uses changes in rhythm to point out something to the reader.

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 damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat 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 rareAs any she belied with false compare. William Shakespeare

The Italian Form The English Form

AB OctaveBA

AB QuatrainAB

ABBA

CD QuatrainCD

C C CD D D SestetE C D

EF QuatrainEF

C C CD D DE C D

GG Couplet

Ballad

A ballad is a rhyming narrative poem written in a form that can be sung to music. A typical ballad is a plot-driven song, with one or more characters hurriedly unfurling events leading to a dramatic conclusion. A ballad does not tell the reader what’s happening, but rather shows the reader what’s happening, describing each crucial moment in the trail of events. Their subject matter dealt with religious themes, love, tragedy, domestic crimes, and sometimes even political propaganda. To convey that sense of emotional urgency, the ballad is often constructed in quatrain stanzas, with the rhyme scheme abcb.

The Maiden caught me in the Wild,(a)Where I was dancing merrily;(b)She put me into her Cabinet,(c)And Lockd me up with a golden key.(b)

William Blake

It is an ancient marinerAnd he stoppeth one of three.--"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stoppest thou me?

The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,And I am next of kin;The guests are met, the feast is set:Mayst hear the merry din."

He holds him with his skinny hand, "There was a ship," quoth he."Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!" Eftsoons his hand dropped he.

He holds him with his glittering eye-- The wedding-guest stood still,And listens like a three-years' child:The mariner hath his will.

Couplet

A couplet is a poem made of two lines of rhyming poetry that usually have the same meter. There are no rules about length or rhythm. Two words that rhyme can be called a couplet.

Each line in a couplet has an end rhyme. We mark end rhymes alphabetically to keep track of the rhyming pattern.

My boyfriend has eyes like a cat.He always wears a hat.

The words cat and hat are end rhymes. We use the letter "A" to mark the rhyme pattern.

His hair looks like burnt hay.He loves to fish at the bay.

If we join the couplets together the words hay and bay would use the letter “B”.

Dramatic Monologue

A dramatic monologue is a poem that shares many features with a speech from a play: one person speaks, and in that speech there are clues to his/her character, the character of the implied person or people that s/he is speaking to, the situation in which it is spoken and the story that has led to this situation.

LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

IDamn it all! all this our South stinks peace. You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music! I have no life save when the swords clash. But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II In hot summer have I great rejoicing When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,

Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

IV And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.

And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

V The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing; Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI Papiols, Papiols, to the music! There's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash. May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII And let the music of the swords make them crimson! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"               Ezra Pound

SestinaAltaforte

Elegy

The elegy is traditionally written in response to the death of a person or group. The elements of a elegy mirror three stages of loss. First, there is a lament, where the speaker expresses grief and sorrow, then praise and admiration of the idealized dead, and finally consolation and solace.

He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, The snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems. But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs, The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers. Now he is scattered among a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections, To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man Are modified in the guts of the living. But in the importance and noise of to-morrow When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse, And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed, And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom, A few thousand will think of this day As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day.

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth.

Earth, receive an honoured guest: William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry. In the nightmare of the dark All the dogs of Europe bark, And the living nations wait, Each sequestered in its hate; Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye. Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice. With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress. In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountains start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

W.H. Auden’s

In Memory of W. B. Yeats

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night we drink it and drink it we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete he writes it ans steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack out he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at sundown we drink and we drink you A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play he grabs at teh iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue jab deper you lot with your spades you others play on for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you at at noon in the morning we drink you at sundown we drink and we drink you a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germany he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into air then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink you death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in the air He plays with the serpents and daydreams death is a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Shulamith

Fugue of Death

Paul Celan

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head;It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain!

Walt Whitman

Ode"Ode" comes from the Greek aeidein,

meaning to sing or chant, and belongs to the tradition of lyric poetry. The ode can be a formal address to an event, a person, or a thing not present. There are three typical types of odes:

› Pindaric› Horatian› Irregular

Pindaric odes were performed with a chorus and dancers, and often composed to celebrate athletic victories. They contain a formal opening, or strophe, of complex metrical structure, followed by an antistrophe, which mirrors the opening, and an epode, the final closing section of a different length and composed with a different metrical structure.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;--

Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no

more.William

Wordsworth

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

The Horatian ode, is generally more tranquil and contemplative than the Pindaric ode. Less formal, less ceremonious, and better suited to quiet reading than theatrical production, the Horatian ode typically uses a regular, recurrent stanza pattern.

Ode to the Confederate Dead

Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection; In the riven troughs the splayed leaves Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament To the seasonal eternity of death; Then driven by the fierce scrutiny Of heaven to their election in the vast breath, They sough the rumour of mortality.

Allen Tate

The Irregular ode has employed all manner of formal possibilities, while often retaining the tone and thematic elements of the classical ode.

Ode on a Grecian UrnThou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone. Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unweari-ed, Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, Forever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

John Keats

AmericaAmerica, you ode for reality!Give back the people you took.

Let the sun shine againon the four corners of the world

you thought of first but do notown, or keep like a convenience.

People are your own word, youinvented that locus and term.

Here, you said and say, iswhere we are. Give back

what we are, these people you made,us, and nowhere but you to be.

Robert Creeley

Blank Verse

Blank Verse is Poetry that is written in unrhymed iambic pentameter. Blank verse is often unobtrusive and the iambic pentameter form often resembles the rhythms of ordinary speech.

Excerpt from Macbeth Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

William Shakespeare

The Ball PoemWhat is the boy now, who has lost his ball,What, what is he to do? I saw it goMerrily bouncing, down the street, and thenMerrily over-there it is in the water!

John Berryman

Free Verse

With free verse, there is no pattern until the poet creates one. Free verse is poetry without rules. It doesn't rhyme, and it doesn't have a meter. Free verse done well will have rhythm, though it may not have a regular beat. A variety of poetic devices may be throughout the piece. There may be patterns of sound and repetition. Free verse can be compared to a song that doesn't rhyme. There is still a lyric quality to it.

I Dream'd in a Dream

I DREAM'D in a dream I saw a city invincible to the attacks of thewhole of the rest of the earth,I dream'd that was the new city of Friends,Nothing was greater there than the quality of robust love, it ledthe rest,It was seen every hour in the actions of the men of that city,And in all their looks and words.

Walt Whitman

Fog

The fog comeson little cat feet.

It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

Sestina

The sestina is a complex form that achieves its effects through repetition. The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though in its initial incarnation, the sestina followed a syllabic restriction. The form is as follows, where each numeral indicates the stanza position and the letters represent end-words.

The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.

1. ABCDEF2. FAEBDC3. CFDABE4. ECBFAD5. DEACFB6. BDFECA7. (envoi) ECA or ACE

Mantis! praying mantis! since your wings’ leaves And your terrified eyes, pins, bright, black and poor Beg-”look, take it up” (thoughts’ torsion) ! “save it! ” I who can’t bear to look, cannot touch, -You- You can-but no one sees you steadying lost In the cars’ drafts on the lit subway stone.

Praying mantis, what wind-up brought you, stone On which you sometimes prop, prey among leaves (Is it love’s food your raised stomach prays?) , lost Here, stone holds only seats on which the poor Ride, who rising from the news may trample you - The shop’s crowds a jam with no flies in it.

Even the newsboy who now sees knows it No use, papers make money, makes stone, stone, Banks, “it is harmless, ” he says moving on-You? Where will he put you? There are no safe leaves To put you back in here, here’s news! too poor Like all the separate poor to save the lost.

Don’t light on my chest, mantis! do-you’re lost, Let the poor laugh at my fright, then see it: My shame and theirs, you whom old Europe’s poor Call spectre, strawberry, by turns; a stone- You point-they say-you lead lost children-leaves Close in the paths men leave, saved, safe with you.

Killed by thorns (once men) , who now will save you Mantis? what male love bring a fly, be lost Within your mouth, prophetess, harmless to leaves And hands, faked flower, -the myth: is dead, bones, it Was assembled, apes wing in wind: On stone Mantis, you will die, touch, beg, of the poor.

Android, loving beggar, dive to the poor As your love would even without head to you, Graze like machined wheels, green from off this stone And preying on each terrified chest, lost Say, I am old as the globe, the moon, it Is my old shoe, yours, be free as the leaves.

Fly, mantis, on the poor, arise like leaves The armies of the poor, strength: stone on stone And build the new world in your eyes, Save it!

Louis Zukofsky

Mantis

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee, waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb that was going to be served from a certain balcony --like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. It was so cold we hoped that the coffee would be very hot, seeing that the sun was not going to warm us; and that the crumb would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony looking over our heads toward the river. A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, consisting of one lone cup of coffee and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! Each man received one rather hard crumb, which some flicked scornfully into the river, and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, --I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb my mansion, made for me by a miracle, through ages, by insects, birds, and the river working the stone. Every day, in the sun, at breakfast time I sit on my balcony with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. A window across the river caught the sun as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

Elizabeth Bishop

A Miracle For Breakfast

Villanelle

The highly structured villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two repeating rhymes and two refrains. The form is made up of five tercets followed by a quatrain. The first and third lines of the opening tercet are repeated alternately in the last lines of the succeeding stanzas; then in the final stanza, the refrain serves as the poem's two concluding lines. Using capitals for the refrains and lowercase letters for the rhymes, the form could be expressed as:

A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas