Poetry Response Teacher Log



American LiteratureNamePoetry Response Student Log for the second quarter The due dates are in the chart; changes may be announced in class. Use this log page to record the poem you choose and the type of response you write. You may only choose poems from this set. Use a poem only once during the quarter. This page will help you complete a variety of responses. Remember to keep it formal – no contractions or “you” pronoun. Practice using the academic verb discourse sheet and the poetry terms sheet. You will get points deducted for grammatical and MLA errors, informal language, and the response being too short. It must be a full one-page, 12-point font, TNR, and double-spaced with no extra spacing. *The poetry response must be uploaded in ; NO printed copy or emailed poetry responses will be accepted. You may upload before the due date.Due DatePoemType of Response 1Wed, Oct 232Wed, Oct 303Wed, Nov 64Wed, Dec. 45Wed, Dec 116Wed, Dec 18Extra Credit ?You should vary each type of response. Examples include – analysis – Explain the theme and how the speaker expresses it.structural/form – only analyze the poem’s structure and form.figurative language – only analyze the metaphors, similes, and personification.sound devices – analyze the alliteration, consonance, assonance, onomatopoeia, meter, and parison – compare and contrast it to another text with a similar theme, imagery, topic, or structure.tone – analyze the speaker’s tone and whatever devices the poet used to create that tone such as: diction, imagery, allusion, irony, understatement, structure, and rhyme.irony – only analyze the irony in the poem, and explain its significance to theme.personal – share your thoughts about how the poem relates to your life.YOU MAY ONLY CHOOSE FROM THE FOLLOWING POEMS - Poems in your textbook:Pg. 260 “The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls” by Henry Wadsworth LongfellowPg. 267 “Old Ironsides” by Oliver Wendell HolmesPg. 371 “Concord Hymn” by Ralph Waldo EmersonPg. 435 “I Hear America Singing” by Walt Whitman“Captivity”By Louise ErdrichHe (my captor) gave me a bisquit, which I put in my pocket, and not daring to eat it, buried it under a log, fearing he had put something in it to make me love him.—From the narrative of the captivity of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, who was taken prisoner by the Wampanoag when Lancaster, Massachusetts, was destroyed, in the year 1676The stream was swift, and so cold I thought I would be sliced in two. But he dragged me from the flood by the ends of my hair.I had grown to recognize his face.I could distinguish it from the others. There were times I feared I understood his language, which was not human, and I knelt to pray for strength.We were pursued by God’s agents or pitch devils, I did not know.Only that we must march.Their guns were loaded with swan shot.I could not suckle and my child’s wail put them in danger.He had a womanwith teeth black and glittering. She fed the child milk of acorns.The forest closed, the light deepened.I told myself that I would starvebefore I took food from his hands but I did not starve.One nighthe killed a deer with a young one in her and gave me to eat of the fawn.It was so tender,the bones like the stems of flowers, that I followed where he took me. The night was thick. He cut the cord that bound me to the tree.After that the birds mocked.Shadows gaped and roaredand the trees flung downtheir sharpened lashes.He did not notice God’s wrath.God blasted fire from half-buried stumps.I hid my face in my dress, fearing He would burn us all but this, too, passed.Rescued, I see no truth in things. My husband drives a thick wedge through the earth, still it shuts to him year after year.My child is fed of the first wheat. I lay myself to sleepon a Holland-laced pillowbeer. I lay to sleep.And in the dark I see myself as I was outside their circle.They knelt on deerskins, some with sticks, and he led his company in the noise until I could no longer bearthe thought of how I was.I stripped a branchand struck the earth,in time, begging it to opento admit meas he wasand feed me honey from the rock.*“On Being Brought from Africa to America”By Phillis Wheatley'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,Taught my benighted soul to understandThat there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.Some view our sable race with scornful eye,"Their colour is a diabolic die."Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.*“A Psalm of Life”By Henry Wadsworth LongfellowWhat The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,— act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o’erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.*“To S. M., A Young African Painter, on Seeing His Works”By Phillis Wheatley To show the lab’ring bosom’s deep intent, And thought in living characters to paint, When first thy pencil did those beauties give, And breathing figures learnt from thee to live, How did those prospects give my soul delight, A new creation rushing on my sight? Still, wond’rous youth! each noble path pursue; On deathless glories fix thine ardent view: Still may the painter’s and the poet’s fire, To aid thy pencil and thy verse conspire! And may the charms of each seraphic theme Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame! High to the blissful wonders of the skies Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes. Thrice happy, when exalted to survey That splendid city, crown’d with endless day, Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring: Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring. Calm and serene thy moments glide along, And may the muse inspire each future song! Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless’d, May peace with balmy wings your soul invest! But when these shades of time are chas’d away, And darkness ends in everlasting day, On what seraphic pinions shall we move, And view the landscapes in the realms above? There shall thy tongue in heav’nly murmurs flow, And there my muse with heav’nly transport glow; No more to tell of Damon’s tender sighs, Or rising radiance of Aurora’s eyes; For nobler themes demand a nobler strain, And purer language on th’ ethereal plain. Cease, gentle Muse! the solemn gloom of night Now seals the fair creation from my sight.*“The Star-Spangled Banner”By Francis Scott Key O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming; And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; ‘Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight and the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land, Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just. And this be our motto— “In God is our trust; " And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.*“Stanzas on Freedom”By James Russell LowellMen! whose boast it is that yeCome of fathers brave and free,If there breathe on earth a slave,Are ye truly free and brave?If ye do not feel the chain,When it works a brother's pain,Are ye not base slaves indeed,Slaves unworthy to be freed?Women! who shall one day bearSons to breathe New England air,If ye hear, without a blush,Deeds to make the roused blood rushLike red lava through your veins,For your sisters now in chains,-Answer! are ye fit to beMothers of the brave and free?Is true Freedom but to breakFetters for our own dear sake,And, with leathern hearts, forgetThat we owe mankind a debt?No! true freedom is to shareAll the chains our brothers wearAnd, with heart and hand, to beEarnest to make others free!They are slaves who fear to speakFor the fallen and the weak;They are slaves who will not chooseHatred, scoffing, and abuse,Rather than in silence shrinkFrom the truth they needs must think;They are slaves who dare not beIn the right with two or three.*“The Wreck of the Hesperus”By Henry Wadsworth LongfellowIt was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailòr, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" — And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe!* ................
................

In order to avoid copyright disputes, this page is only a partial summary.

Google Online Preview   Download