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Poetry Analysis & Oral Interpretation Name:_______________________

I. Oral Interpretation

Prepare and present an oral interpretation of one of the following poems:

o “Fear of the Landscape” by Ian Young

o “Heat” by Archibald Lampman

o “The Camp of Souls” by Isabella Valancy Crawford

o “Hailstorm” by Peter Christensen

o “Angels of Snow” by Lorna Crozier

o “Temagami” by Archibald Lampan

o “Solitude” by Archibald Lampman

o “Bushed” by Earle Birney

o “Snow Tunnels” by Glen Sorestad

o “Coteau" by Barbara Sapergia

Instructions

1. Write an introduction that includes the name of the poem and poet, and a brief overview of the poem. (Refer to Example #1)

2. Prepare a paraphrase of the poem beginning with - “In this poem, the poet (describes, explains, reports, etc.) that… (Refer to Example #2)

3. Develop the interpretation – Two/Three Elements -Structure, figurative language, theme, literary devices (i.e., imagery, symbolism, and allusions) and diction (word choice).

o What are the poet’s feelings about the topic of this poem?

Whenever possible, always provide proof to back up your interpretation.

Example

“The poet uses the word…to emphasize the sorrow felt by the speaker.” (Refer to Example #3)

4. Conclude by giving your own personal response/reaction to this poem. (Refer to Example #4)

Example #1

The poem “……….” by ………….. is about a winter’s night in Saskatchewan. In this poem, the poet describes the sky, and the land he can see while standing in his yard on a winter night. The poet feels very connected to his land and wishes that this moment could last forever.

Example #2

A paraphrase is a re-stating of the poem in one’s own words. It must include all the main ideas of the poem in a simplified form. A paraphrase is not necessarily shorter than the original, but it does maintain the same point of view.

Example

“Solitude” by Archibald Lampman

How still it is here in the woods. The trees

Stand motionless, as if they did not dare

To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air

Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.

In the woods, absolutely nothing is moving. The trees appear to be afraid to move in case they break the peaceful mood. The whole scene looks like a painting.

Example #3

In this poem, the poet’s feelings about the land are emphasized. The poet feels tremendous “…….”

The poet’s father’s death is emphasized in this poem. This is evident by the use of the words “…….”

Example #4

I really liked this poem. It reminded me of a time when my sister and I made snow angels after a fresh snow many years ago. I can still remember the feel of the cold “frothy” snow against my hands and face. I can identify with the poet’s comment that this moment became “frozen” in time for her, as the exact same thing happened to me. When I look back on my childhood, this moment was certainly one of the high lights of my childhood. It is interesting to learn that this occurrence is a common one for young people in Canada. I hope that my children also have this experience some day.

Name: ___________________________

Date: ____________________________

Speaking Evaluation

Voice

• Volume (quiet/loud) 2 1 0

• Rate (slow/fast) 2 1 0

Diction

• Pronunciation (proper) 2 1 0

• Enunciation (clear) 2 1 0

Body Language

• Eye Contact 2 1 0

• Gestures 2 1 0

• Posture 2 1 0

Speaking /12

Content Evaluation

Introduction 3 2 1 0

Interpretation

• Paraphrase 3 2 1 0

• Structure, Figurative Language,

Theme, Literary Devices and/or Diction 4 3 2 1 0

• Supporting Details (evidence) 4 3 2 1 0

Personal Response/Reaction 4 3 2 1 0

Content: /18

Total: /30

Fear of the Landscape

by Ian Young

 

On a hot morning

walking through rough thicket,

bushes and rocks

close to the bluffs

I was uneasy and clung to things.

The sound of a cricket

or the calls of birds were shrill

lesions in the quiet air

around me, sweltering and still.

The leaves hung from the trees

dangling on thin stems.

 

I am walking quickly and the land

stops. The ground

drops to a beach of stones

where a silent boat leans at the shore

into a sandy mound,

its stiff poled oars

outstretched.

The lake gulls circling it

cry out in the heat.

The sound of dry breath clings to me.

I hear the sun's core burn.

Have I been too long in cities

that I have such fear

of the landscape?

Heat

by Archibald Lampman

| | |

|  | |

|From plains that reel to southward, dim, | |

|The road runs by me white and bare; | |

|Up the steep hill it seems to swim | |

|Beyond, and melt into the glare. | |

|Upward half-way, or it may be | |

|Nearer the summit, slowly steals | |

|A hay-cart, moving dustily | |

|With idly clacking wheels. | |

|By his cart's side the wagoner | |

|Is slouching slowly at his ease, | |

|Half-hidden in the windless blur | |

|Of white dust puffiing to his knees. | |

|This wagon on the height above, | |

|From sky to sky on either hand, | |

|Is the sole thing that seems to move | |

|In all the heat-held land. | |

| | |

|Beyond me in the fields the sun | |

|Soaks in the grass and hath his will; | |

|I count the marguerites one by one; | |

|Even the buttercups are still. | |

|On the brook yonder not a breath | |

|Disturbs the spider or the midge. | |

|The water-bugs draw close beneath | |

|The cool gloom of the bridge. | |

| | |

|Where the far elm-tree shadows flood | |

|Dark patches in the burning grass, | |

|The cows, each with her peaceful cud, | |

|Lie waiting for the heat to pass. | |

|From somewhere on the slope near by | |

|Into the pale depth of the noon | |

|A wandering thrush slides leisurely | |

|His thin revolving tune. | |

| | |

|In intervals of dreams I hear | |

|The cricket from the droughty ground; | |

|The grasshoppers spin into mine ear | |

|A small innumerable sound. | |

|I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze: | |

|The burning sky-line blinds my sight: | |

|The woods far off are blue with haze: | |

|The hills are drenched in light. | |

| | |

|And yet to me not this or that | |

|Is always sharp or always sweet; | |

|In the sloped shadow of my hat | |

|I lean at rest, and drain the heat; | |

|Nay more, I think some blessèd power | |

|Hath brought me wandering idly here: | |

|In the full furnace of this hour | |

|My thoughts grow keen and clear. | |

| | |

“The Camp of Souls” by Isabella Valancy Crawford

My white canoe, like the silvery air

O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls

When the moons of the world are round and fair,

I paddle back from the "Camp of Souls."

When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves

Come the dark plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

Two hundred times have the moons of spring

Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath

Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,

And painted my face with the "paint of death,"

And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke

The solemn rings of the blue "last smoke."

Two hundred times have the wintry moons

Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;

Two hundred times have the wild sky loons

Shrieked in the flush of the golden light

Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves

Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.

Two hundred moons of the falling leaf

Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand

And chanted above me the "song of grief"

As I took my way to the spirit land;

Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves

Come the dark plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

White are the wigwams in that far camp,

And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;

No bitter marshes or tangled swamp

In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!

And the moon of summer forever rolls

Above the red men in their "Camp of Souls."

Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,

And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;

As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,

The yellow lilies upon them float;

And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,

Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.

Green are its forests; no warrior wind

Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,

With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;

But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,

When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,

Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.

Never upon them the white frosts lie,

Nor glow their green boughs with the "paint of death";

Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,

Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;

And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,

So near is His happy hunting-ground.

Yet often I love, in my white canoe,

To come to the forests and camps of earth:

'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;

'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;

There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,

Won the lily heart of dusk "Springing Fawn."

And love is a cord woven out of life,

And dyed in the red of the living heart;

And time is the hunter's rusty knife,

That cannot cut the red strands apart:

And I sail from the spirit shore to scan

Where the weaving of that strong cord began.

But I may not come with a giftless hand,

So richly I pile, in my white canoe,

Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,

Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.

When I paddle back to the shores of earth

I scatter them over the white man's hearth.

For love is the breath of the soul set free;

So I cross the river that darkly rolls,

That my spirit may whisper soft to thee

Of thine who wait in the "Camp of Souls."

When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,

Come the dusky plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

“Hailstorm”

by Peter Christensen

I remember the hailstorm

of 1952

as if I were a man then

My memory thickens

with each story

my father tells

of those hard years

I see him standing

in a ripened barley field

adrift in this garden

of winds and clouds

and grain

all ready for harvest

The sky goes grey and black

The barley heads begin

to sway their beards

caught in a desperate wind

Then there is a silence in the land

It smells of false truce

and my father’s figure

transforms from farmer

to scarecrow

White stones

come running towards him

hail prancing

like horses’ hooves

beating the yellow-kernelled stalks

flatly to the ground

I watch his heart

follow the hailstones

to the rich black earth

where side by side

lies the naked seed

and the melting winter

“Angels of Snow”

by Lorna Crozier

Wherever it falls, it is different.

Sometimes too white, too loud.

Sometimes an angel’s wing

Reflected in an open eye,

A phone call at three a.m.—

No one at the end of the line.

 

Snow can be hard as a slap.

Take the coldest wind you know

And make it deeper.

A taxidermist, it stiffens

The slow and unwitting. A scale,

It measures, calculates

As surreptitiously as light.

Snow has the taste of whatever

Fell before: autumn leaves, feathers,

Pollen from the bright leg of a bee.

 

It is a lesson in restfulness.

The quiet space left for you

At the end of the day, a memory

You never quite remember,

A cat licking your ear

In the middle of the night.

 

Snow can be bitter.

It smells like birth should smell.

It tells you, “Start over,”

And when you touch it,

It disappears.

Temagami

by Archibald Lampman

| | |

|  | |

|Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines | |

|That turn the rivers eastward to the sea, | |

|Set with a thousand islands, crowned with pines, | |

|Lies the deep water, wild Temagami: | |

|Wild for the hunter's roving, and the use | |

|Of trappers in its dark and trackless vales, | |

|Wild with the trampling of the giant moose, | |

|And the weird magic of old Indian tales. | |

|All day with steady paddles toward the west | |

|Our heavy-laden long canoe we pressed: | |

|All day we saw the thunder-travelled sky | |

|Purpled with storm in many a trailing tress, | |

|And saw at eve the broken sunset die | |

|In crimson on the silent wilderness. | |

| | |

Solitude

by Archibald Lampman

How still it is here in the woods. The trees

Stand motionless, as if they do not dare

To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air

Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.

Even this little brook, that runs at ease,

Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,

Seems but to deepen with its curling thread

Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.

Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker

Startles the stillness from its fixèd mood

With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear

The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree

Pipe slowly on the listening solitude

His five pure notes succeeding pensively.

The animals in that country

The animals in that country

In that country the animals   

have the faces of people:

the ceremonial

cats possessing the streets

the fox run

politely to earth, the huntsmen   

standing around him, fixed   

in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered

with blood and given

an elegant death, trumpets, his name   

stamped on him, heraldic brand   

because

(when he rolled

on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth   

in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant   

conversations in their   

forests thickened with legend.

            In this country the animals   

            have the faces of   

            animals.

            Their eyes

            flash once in car headlights   

            and are gone.

            Their deaths are not elegant.

            They have the faces of   

            no-one.

In that country the animals   

have the faces of people:

the ceremonial

cats possessing the streets

the fox run

politely to earth, the huntsmen   

standing around him, fixed   

in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered

with blood and given

an elegant death, trumpets, his name   

stamped on him, heraldic brand   

because

(when he rolled

on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth   

in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant   

conversations in their   

forests thickened with legend.

            In this country the animals   

            have the faces of   

            animals.

            Their eyes

            flash once in car headlights   

            and are gone.

            Their deaths are not elegant.

            They have the faces of   

            no-one.

Bushed

by Earle Birney

He invented a rainbow but lightning struck it

shattered it into the lake-lap of a mountain

so big his mind slowed when he looked at it

Yet he built a shack on the shore

learned to roast porcupine belly and

wore the quills on his hatband

At first he was out with the dawn

whether it yellowed bright as wood-columbine

or was only a fuzzed moth in a flannel of storm

But he found the mountain was clearly alive

sent messages whizzing down every hot morning

boomed proclamations at noon and spread out

a white guard of goat

before falling asleep on its feet at sundown

When he tried his eyes on the lake ospreys

would fall like valkyries

choosing the cut-throat

He took then to waiting

till the night smoke rose from the boil of the sunset

But the moon carved unknown totems

out of the lakeshore

owls in the beardusky woods derided him

moosehorned cedars circled his swamps and tossed

their antlers up to the stars

then he knew though the mountain slept the winds

were shaping its peak to an arrowhead

poised

And now he could only

bar himself in and wait

for the great flint to come singing into his heart

“Snow Tunnels”

by Glen Sorestad

We burrowed hard-packed snow

like frenetic Richardson ground squirrels

awakened mid-hibernation to find

a strange world of white,

crystals of ice the only medium,

and now transformed into tunnellers

crazed with snow blindness.

If there was an unsullied

snow bank we claimed it for our own

and into it we dug to create

below a surface glazed hard

and within the insulating warmth

a warren of passages, snow caves

we traversed on hands and knees,

overgrown wool-clad field mice.

In this long looking back, what still

lingers on the fringes of recall is

how joyous we were—freed from

looming drudgery to claim snow

as our own world, too small for adults,

a Lilliputian winter world where

all that existed was what we

brought to it. It was whatever

we deemed it to be.

Like today’s parking lot Bobcats

we moved snow, but below the skin

of the world, claustrophobia unknown,

in search of perfect snow, the perfect

grainy drift that would allow a room

we all could gather in, out of sight,

and never be summoned by the bell.

Coteau"

by Barbara Sapergia

from Tombstone Hill

Old Wives Lake shimmers under punding sun

i think of the Bible & the Dead Sea

but i stand in a circle of stones

in this country

you are never alone

wind always with you

even rocks alive

with rust & gold lichens

in the sun

warm rock yields

a hawk hangs on a curve of air

searching for meat

& not to please my eye

in the coulee wolf willow flares silver

these hills feel old, brown backs

like sleeping buffalo

big as hills

i lie on rock

feel the throb

of ten thousand hooves

drum against grass

against warm & yielding earth

in this country

you are never alone

wind all around you

& the piercing odour

of sage rubbed in the hand

hot sky skimming the land

long grass dancing

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