On this blog, students in Mr. Sale's AP English Literature class will record their reactions to literature and discussions experienced in class.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Syllable Count Poem
On September 11 you wrote a syllable count poem based on a picture in class. We agreed you would do something with the poem, and one option was to publish it. You may post your poem here as a comment.
Brisk, sunny morning, fresh air blows Gently against skin. Dirt crunches Underneath shoes, air smells of meat. Hands grasp tender, firm meat before Enclosed forever inside casing. Once enclosed, slimey, smooth, slick Casing tied shut with thin, white string. Blue sky overhead magnifies Laughter and joy. The hard wooden Table home to red and white Blend of food. Piles of unused string Wait near small, cold, metal machine Enclosing free meat. Wooden Handle fits like glove in palm. Amidst laughter, bird chirps Sporadically from castle.
Frigid morning air drifts across the frozen horizon; empty, desolate, abandonned, we bend to evaluate, the injured eagle doesn't quite know what's wrong, what's different, but we do. We use our knowledge, gently, slightly, splint the fractured limb, hands partially numb, fingers icsicles as we rig the stick and twine, the majestic eagle humbled, a fall from heaven, sky dive, he cocks his head curiously, frightfully, the sound of powerful flapping echoes over rocky hills around us, a siren over the quiet stillness, he settles, relaxes, he mournfully subsides, my pink nose stings, I see my breath, the sun coming out, finally; a sugary glaze over the frosty sprouts of key lime, warm earth, beside yellow piercing eyes, brown delicate flawless feathers, majestic, wings and a knife-point beak, opens and closes rhythmically.
A structure built of people Thousands in a crowd yet No one standing out Rabid looks of concentration flash Through eyes of determined balancers Silence... enough to hear a pin drop Grunts as a single person is jabbed Strength... hands joined together As burning muscles weaken By the second Sweat... of anticipation drips coldly down the spines Of anxious onlookers the audience cannot straighten their necks, stuck permanently in the gray sky Is it the power of one or the power of many? Individual Strength is the most important for overcoming the endeavor ahead.
Drums and guitars spread their sounds throughout The streets. Their masters sing their mariachee Tunes. Women's heels click and clatter On wooden platforms in the middle Of the street. Normal folk, Simply meandering to work, Attempt to squeeze past Intoxicated dancers. Old, enthusiastic women Seem to have some cause for celebration. Towns people crowd out of the church And into the wild streets. The sun Rises to the hour of noon. Sounds of breaking bottles resonate. Crash! The celebration escalates! But some still seem so calm, Collected and dead to this Fiesta!
Wind streams over a salt marsh. Biting, Salty air burns lungs with cold. A mangled speed limit sign flapping In the breeze, riddled with bullet Holes. THe bitter scent of rust hangs In the air around street signs. The tide gently nudges slush ashore Islands of grass. A flock of geese cackles overhead, Crashing into the horizon. Coarse grass rustles like an infant's rattle, Caressing legs with a razor's Edge as the muck of the marsh schlops Up a foot with each step. Deep blue Waters heave toward the ocean With the sound of a trickle. Green- Brown muck cloaks everything, Waiting for departure at eighth and Manhattan.
Stale air lays stagnant in chilled room. Strong bitter coffee now lukewarm Been forgotten; furniture old, Chipped. Pictures of soccer team, Younger days, hang boredly on walls. Berrat hats, two warm sweaters; Old gentlemen play the game of Cards. One lost in decision, doesn't Know what card to play. Three spectators. Bundled warmly, all squak out advice Admonition to hurry up And play. Glarring bleakness of clouds, Snow outside shine from window. Furniture primitive, table Smooth, ground sleak. Everyone has nothing Better to do than sit and watch The battle unfolds. Bent and cracked Cards have ached to be used. Later Bickering ensues. Few colors Spice up room.
Originally I read my poem to one of the little kids I babysit and had them draw a picture of what they saw. Unfortunately between here and there I managed to lose that picture and have no evidence of doing something with my poem. So as a precautionary measure I'm going to post it on here. *ahem* To the far off distance is a herd of cattle, restless, as most cattle are, restless like the overcast clouds brewing, a storm, the sky is not a shade of summer but appears to be in transition to a shade of fall. A vast meadow without anything Obsccuring the view but for a few grassy knolls, tethered nearby a small chestnut colored horse lazily flicking its tail, feeling the whoosh of cool air. There stands a man looing into the camera, With warm eyes. His features are surrounded by wrinkles, not wrinkles of age but of weathered conditions that continuously graced his face and most of all, wrinkles of a happy life.
8 comments:
Saturday Morning
Brisk, sunny morning, fresh air blows
Gently against skin. Dirt crunches
Underneath shoes, air smells of meat.
Hands grasp tender, firm meat before
Enclosed forever inside casing.
Once enclosed, slimey, smooth, slick
Casing tied shut with thin, white string.
Blue sky overhead magnifies
Laughter and joy. The hard wooden
Table home to red and white
Blend of food. Piles of unused string
Wait near small, cold, metal machine
Enclosing free meat. Wooden
Handle fits like glove in palm.
Amidst laughter, bird chirps
Sporadically from castle.
A Fall From Heaven
Frigid morning air drifts across the
frozen horizon; empty, desolate,
abandonned, we bend to evaluate, the injured
eagle doesn't quite know what's
wrong, what's different, but we do.
We use our knowledge, gently, slightly,
splint the fractured limb, hands partially
numb, fingers icsicles as we
rig the stick and twine, the majestic
eagle humbled, a fall from heaven,
sky dive, he cocks his head curiously,
frightfully, the sound of powerful
flapping echoes over rocky
hills around us, a siren over
the quiet stillness, he settles,
relaxes, he mournfully subsides, my pink nose
stings, I see my breath, the sun coming out,
finally; a sugary glaze over the frosty
sprouts of key lime, warm earth, beside yellow
piercing eyes, brown delicate
flawless feathers, majestic,
wings and a knife-point beak, opens
and closes rhythmically.
The Endeavor
A structure built of people
Thousands in a crowd yet
No one standing out
Rabid looks of concentration flash
Through eyes of determined balancers
Silence... enough to hear a pin drop
Grunts as a single person is jabbed
Strength... hands joined together
As burning muscles weaken
By the second
Sweat... of anticipation drips
coldly down the spines
Of anxious onlookers
the audience cannot straighten
their necks, stuck permanently
in the gray sky
Is it the power of one or the power of many?
Individual Strength is the most important
for overcoming the endeavor ahead.
Feel-Good Stupidity
Drums and guitars spread their sounds throughout
The streets. Their masters sing their mariachee
Tunes. Women's heels click and clatter
On wooden platforms in the middle
Of the street. Normal folk,
Simply meandering to work,
Attempt to squeeze past
Intoxicated dancers.
Old, enthusiastic women
Seem to have some cause for celebration.
Towns people crowd out of the church
And into the wild streets. The sun
Rises to the hour of noon.
Sounds of breaking bottles resonate.
Crash! The celebration escalates!
But some still seem so calm,
Collected and dead to this
Fiesta!
Wind streams over a salt marsh. Biting,
Salty air burns lungs with cold.
A mangled speed limit sign flapping
In the breeze, riddled with bullet
Holes. THe bitter scent of rust hangs
In the air around street signs.
The tide gently nudges slush ashore
Islands of grass.
A flock of geese cackles overhead,
Crashing into the horizon.
Coarse grass rustles like an infant's rattle,
Caressing legs with a razor's
Edge as the muck of the marsh schlops
Up a foot with each step. Deep blue
Waters heave toward the ocean
With the sound of a trickle. Green-
Brown muck cloaks everything,
Waiting for departure at eighth
and
Manhattan.
Will H
Bent Cards
Stale air lays stagnant in chilled room.
Strong bitter coffee now lukewarm
Been forgotten; furniture old,
Chipped. Pictures of soccer team,
Younger days, hang boredly on walls.
Berrat hats, two warm sweaters;
Old gentlemen play the game of
Cards. One lost in decision, doesn't
Know what card to play. Three spectators.
Bundled warmly, all squak out advice
Admonition to hurry up
And play. Glarring bleakness of clouds,
Snow outside shine from window.
Furniture primitive, table
Smooth, ground sleak. Everyone has nothing
Better to do than sit and watch
The battle unfolds. Bent and cracked
Cards have ached to be used. Later
Bickering ensues. Few colors
Spice up room.
Originally I read my poem to one of the little kids I babysit and had them draw a picture of what they saw. Unfortunately between here and there I managed to lose that picture and have no evidence of doing something with my poem. So as a precautionary measure I'm going to post it on here.
*ahem*
To the far off distance is a herd
of cattle, restless, as most cattle are,
restless like the overcast clouds brewing,
a storm, the sky is not a shade
of summer but appears to be
in transition to a shade of fall.
A vast meadow without anything
Obsccuring the view but for a few
grassy knolls, tethered nearby
a small chestnut colored horse
lazily flicking its tail,
feeling the whoosh of cool air.
There stands a man looing into the camera,
With warm eyes. His features are surrounded
by wrinkles, not wrinkles of age
but of weathered conditions
that continuously graced his face
and most of all,
wrinkles of a happy life.
p.s. my poem was titled "The Wrinkled Plains of Life"
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