Langston Hughes

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Poetic Devices

Poetic devices are literary techniques or conventions that enhance the meaning and form of the text. Despite being called poetic devices, these techniques are used in all types of writing

ALLITERATION

 The repetition of the initial consonant in a line or sentence  Ex. Dave drove dangerously down the driveway.

ALLUSION

 An indirect reference to some piece of knowledge not actually mentioned  Allusions usually come from a body of information that the author presumes the reader will know  Ex. An author who writes, ―She was another Helen,‖ is alluding to the proverbial beauty of Helen of Troy

ANAPHORA

 Repetition of the same word or phrase at the beginning of a line throughout a text or a section of a text  Ex. We will go to school; we will enjoy it; we will go home; we will go to work; we will go to bed

APOSTROPHE

 A direct address to the dead, an inanimate object, or thing, as if it was a person  Ex. ―Hello darkness, my old friend / I’ve come to talk with you again‖

ASSONANCE

 The repetition of similar vowel sounds  Ex. The sound of the hound was bound to make me crazy.

CONNOTATION

 The various feelings, images, and memories that surround a word  Ex. Frugal vs. cheap, house vs. home

CONSONANCE

 The repetition of consonant sounds not limited to the beginning of a word like alliteration  Ex. bake, duck, soak, pick, epic

DENOTATION

 The literal or dictionary meaning of a word  Ex. "mother": the female progenitor of the species

HYPERBOLE

 A figure of speech in which exaggeration is used for emphasis or effect  Ex. ―I could sleep for a year” or “This book weighs a ton”

IDIOM  An idiom or idiomatic expression in one language cannot be matched or directly translated word-for-word in another language  Ex. ―A bee in her bonnet‖

IMAGERY

 A broad term which refers to the images found in a text which help a reader mentally experience what the characters experience Generally, images are figures of speech  Ex. ―O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright‖ (1.5.44-53).

METAPHOR

 A direct comparison which imaginatively identifies one object with another  Ex. Love is a rose. Basketball is life.

MOOD

 The emotional effect of a poem or story  Ex. cheerful, pensive, scary, humorous

ONOMATOPOEIA  The use of words to imitate the sounds they describe  Ex. The burning wood crackled and hissed.

OXYMORON

 A figure of speech combining opposite or contradictory ideas  Ex. ―Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical! Dove-feathered raven!‖ (3.2.73-84).

PARADOX

 An apparently contradictory statement which is actually true  Ex. My favorite part of the day is night. To hold your children, you must let them go.

PERSONIFICATION

 Human attributes given to inanimate objects.  Ex. The sun smiled down on me.

PROSE

 Ordinary language or literary expression not marked by rhythm or rhyme.  ―All that is not prose is verse. All that is not verse is prose.‖ PUN

 A play on words based on the similarity of sound between two words with different meanings (―Sticks float. They would.‖)  Ex. The coughing pony said, ―I’m a little hoarse.‖

RHYME

 The repetition of vowel and consonant sounds at the end of words  Ex. - brown, town, clown, renown

RHYME SCHEME

 The pattern of end rhymes that is indicated by assigning each new end rhyme a different letter of the alphabet.

SIMILE

 A metaphoric comparison where one object is said to be ―like‖ ―than,‖ or ―as‖ another  Ex. Basketball is like life.

STANZA  A grouping of two or more lines of a poem and named for the number of lines it contains. Below are the most common stanzas.  Couplet: Two-line stanza  Triplet: Three-line stanza  Quatrain: Four-line stanza  Quintet: Five-line stanza  Sestet: Six-line stanza  Septet: Seven-line stanza  Octave: Eight-line stanza

TONE

 The attitude of the speaker  Ex. Unassuming, child-like, assertive, humorous, etc.

UNDERSTATEMENT

 The opposite of hyperbole, deliberately saying less than the situation calls for  Ex. A person who has nearly died says, ―I was a little under the weather,‖ or the weatherman says, ―There’s a little breeze blowing in from the coast‖ about an approaching hurricane.

Rhyme Scheme Practice

Write a letter of the alphabet next to each line of each poem to show the rhyme scheme. The first one is done for you.

1. A word is dead A When it is said A Some say. B I think it just C Begins to live D That day. B

2. I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

3. This biplane is the shape of human flight. Its name might better be First Motor Kite. Its makers’ name – Time cannot get that wrong, For it was writ in heaven doubly Wright.

4. There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once – she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milkman’s door. (That’s why I have not traveled more.)

5. The ostrich is a silly bird With scarcely any mind. He often runs so very fast, He leaves himself behind. And when he gets there, has to stand And hang about til night, Without a blessed thing to do Until he comes in sight.

METAPHOR POEMS

The Toaster

A silver-scaled dragon with jaws flaming red Sits at my elbow and toasts my bread. I hand him fat slices, and then, one by one, He hands them back when he sees they are done.

--William Jay Smith

Apartment House

A filing cabinet of human lives Where people swarm like bees in tunnelled hives, Each to his own cell in the covered comb, Identical and cramped -- we call it home.

--Gerald Raftery

********************* You are going to describe something metaphorically without naming the object explicitly. 1. Pick an everyday object from around the house, such as a dryer or iron.

2. Now list some things that it reminds you of or that it could be like.

3. Now all you have to do is write four lines to describe your object. Your lines could rhyme AA BB just the last two above or your poem might rhyme only two lines or perhaps not rhyme at all.

Line 1

Line 2

Line 3

Line 4

NEGRO SPIRITUALS AND WORK SONGS

During both the Slavery and Reconstruction Eras, African Americans were allowed to sing songs while working if the lyrics were not obviously against slaveholding society. The songs could be sung either by one or several slaves, and such tunes were primarily intended for expressing personal feelings, cheering one another, or simply making arduous tasks more bearable.

NEGRO SPIRITUALS AND THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

The Underground Railroad (UGRR) helped slaves to run to free a country. While it was not literally a railroad, it consisted of a series of safe houses and abolitionist guides who could assist slaves in several ways. While no spirituals mentioned the Underground Railroad directly, many did utilize allusions to it and recognized the network as a path to freedom.

The act of escaping is often veiled in religious symbolism. For example, when needed, slaves walked (―waded‖) in water so that dogs could not smell their tracks. Slaves sometimes found passage hidden within coaches (symbolized through Biblical ―chariots‖) where they could ride away. These chariots stopped at ―stations,‖ a word that could mean any location where protection from slave hunters could be sought. Use of symbolism allows Negro spirituals like ―Wade in the Water,‖ ―The Gospel Train,‖ and ―Swing Low, Sweet Chariot‖ to directly refer to the UGRR.

Sourced from: http://www.negrospirituals.com/history.htm

"The Gospel Train" is a traditional African-American spiritual first published in 1872 as one of the songs of the Fisk Jubilee Singers. A standard Gospel song, it is found in the hymnals of many Protestant denominations and has been recorded by numerous artists.

The Gospel train's comin' I hear it just at hand I hear the car wheel rumblin' And rollin' thro' theland

Get on board little children Get on board little children Get on board little children There's room for many more

I hear the train a-comin' She's comin' round thecurve She's loosened all her steam and brakes And strainin' ev'ry nerve

The fare is cheap and all cango The rich and poor are there No second class aboard this train No difference in the fare

"Steal Away" was composed by Wallace Willis, Choctaw freedman in the old Indian Territory, sometime before 1862. Alexander Reid, a minister at a Choctaw boarding school, heard Willis singing the songs and transcribed the words and melodies. He sent the music to the Jubilee Singers of Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee. The Jubilee Singers then popularized the songs during a tour of the United States and Europe.

Refrain: Green trees are bending, Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus! Poor sinners stand a-trembling; Steal away, steal away home, The trumpet sounds within my soul, I ain’t got long to stay here. I ain’t got long to stay here.

My Lord, He calls me, Refrain He calls me by the thunder; The trumpet sounds within my soul, My Lord, He calls me, I ain’t got long to stay here. He calls me by the lightning; The trumpet sounds within my soul, Refrain I ain’t got long to stay here

"Wade in the Water" is the name of a Negro spiritual first published in New Jubilee Songs as Sung by the Fisk Jubilee Singers (1901) by John Wesley Work II and his brother, Frederick J. Work.

Wade in the water Looks like the band that Moses led Wade in the water, children, God's a-going to trouble the water Wade in the water God’s a-going to trouble the water Look over yonder, what do you see? God's a-going to trouble the water See that host all dressed in white The Holy Ghost a-coming on me God's a-going to trouble the water God's a-going to trouble the water The leader looks like the Israelite God's a-going to trouble the water If you don't believe I've been redeemed God's a-going to trouble the water See that band all dressed in red Just follow me down to the Jordan's stream God's a-going to trouble the water God's a-going to trouble the water

Langston Hughes

James Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri. His parents divorced when he was a small child, and his father moved to Mexico. He was raised by his grandmother until he was thirteen, when he moved to Lincoln, Illinois, to live with his mother and her husband, before the family eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. It was in Lincoln, Illinois, that Hughes began writing poetry. Following graduation, he spent a year in Mexico and a year at Columbia University. During these years, he held odd jobs as an assistant cook, launderer, and a busboy, and travelled to Africa and Europe working as a seaman. In November 1924, he moved to Washington, D.C. Hughes's first book of poetry, The Weary Blues, was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1926. He finished his college education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania three years later. In 1930 his first novel, Not Without Laughter, won the Harmon gold medal for literature.

Hughes, who claimed Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Carl Sandburg, and Walt Whitman as his primary influences, is particularly known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties. He wrote novels, short stories and plays, as well as poetry, and is also known for his engagement with the world of jazz and the influence it had on his writing, as in "Montage of a Dream Deferred." His life and work were enormously important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. Unlike other notable black poets of the period—Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, and Countee Cullen—Hughes refused to differentiate between his personal experience and the common experience of black America. He wanted to tell the stories of his people in ways that reflected their actual culture, including both their suffering and their love of music, laughter, and language itself.

Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer in May 22, 1967, in New York. In his memory, his residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York City, has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place."

In addition to leaving us a large body of poetic work, Hughes wrote eleven plays and countless works of prose, including the well-known ―Simple‖ books: Simple Speaks His Mind, Simple Stakes a Claim, Simple Takes a Wife, and Simple's Uncle Sam. He edited the anthologies The Poetry of the Negro and The Book of Negro Folklore, wrote an acclaimed autobiography (The Big Sea) and co-wrote the play Mule Bone with Zora Neale Hurston.

From Poets.crg (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/83)

Mother to Son

In this poem, Hughes writes about a mother speaking to her son about life's experiences. He uses the metaphor of a crystal stair.

Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor -- Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now -- For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

Theme for English B

The instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it's that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me—who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white— yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me— although you're older—and white— and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B.

I , Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed— I, too, am America.

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou was born Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, Missouri, on April 4, 1928. She grew up in St. Louis and Stamps, Arkansas. She is an author, poet, historian, songwriter, playwright, dancer, stage and screen producer, director, performer, singer, and civil rights activist. She is best known for her autobiographical books: Mom & Me & Mom (Random House, 2013); Letter to My Daughter (2008); All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes (1986); The Heart of a Woman (1981); Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas (1976); Gather Together in My Name (1974); and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969), which was nominated for the National Book Award.

Among her volumes of poetry are A Brave and Startling Truth (Random House, 1995); The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (1994); Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now (1993); Now Sheba Sings the Song (1987); I Shall Not Be Moved (1990); Shaker, Why Don't You Sing? (1983); Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well (1975); and Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Diiie (1971), which was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

In 1959, at the request of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Maya Angelou became the northern coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. From 1961 to 1962 she was associate editor of The Arab Observer in Cairo, Egypt, the only English-language news weekly in the Middle East, and from 1964 to 1966 she was feature editor of the African Review in Accra, Ghana. She returned to the U.S. in 1974 and was appointed by Gerald Ford to the Bicentennial Commission and later by Jimmy Carter to the Commission for International Woman of the Year. She accepted a lifetime appointment in 1981 as Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. In 1993, Angelou wrote and delivered a poem, "On The Pulse of the Morning," at the inauguration for President Bill Clinton at his request. In 2000, she received the National Medal of Arts, and in 2010 she was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Barack Obama.

The first black woman director in Hollywood, Angelou has written, produced, directed, and starred in productions for stage, film, and television. In 1971, she wrote the original screenplay and musical score for the film Georgia, Georgia, and was both author and executive producer of a five-part television miniseries "Three Way Choice." She has also written and produced several prize-winning documentaries, including "Afro-Americans in the Arts," a PBS special for which she received the Golden Eagle Award. Maya Angelou was twice nominated for a Tony award for acting: once for her Broadway debut in Look Away (1973), and again for her performance in Roots (1977).

From Poets.org (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/87)

Reverend Martin Luther King Martin Luther King Was father to Yolanda, The great soul Brought winds of healing Martin, III, Flew from the Creator To his country Dexter, and, Bearing manna of hope Reeling unsteady Bernice. For his country With the illness Starving severely from an absence of compassion. Of racial prejudice, He was lover Screams of vulgarity Friend, and Martin Luther King Could not silence him. Husband To Coretta Scott King. The Great Spirit, Fire bombs and dogs Came from the Creator Could not take his voice away Proffering a sparkling fountain of fair play He spoke respectfully To his country Ona my knees, Of the Torah. Parched and deformed by hate. I told God how you treated me He spoke respectfully Ona my knees. Of the Koran. The whole man came forth With a brain of gentle wisdom He knew himself In India, walked in the footprints To persuade quiet A child of God Of Mohandas Mahatma Gandhi. Upon the loud misery of the mob. On a mission from God, and Standing in the hand of God. Christianity made him patient A whole man stood out He spoke to the hideous hearts With all religions With a mellifluous voice And to the bitter monstrosities And his tremendous heart To bind the joints of cruelty. And asked them to transform Made him believe Their ways and thereby That all people Liberate his country. Were his people A whole man came In the midst of a murderous nightmare Surrounded by demons of war Representing the grace of heaven All creeds and cultures He dared to dream peace and serenity He spoke to the evils of Hell Were comfortable in Representing gentleness His giant embrace He sang to brutes. And all just causes With a heart of faith Were his to support and extol He hoped To resurrect his nation. He brought the great songs of faith Through sermons and allocutions Persuading men and women With praise songs and orations To think beyond I open my mouth to the Lord, Their baser nature. He preached fair play and serenity And I won’t turn back. From hand cuffs and prison garb From leg irons and prison bars Martin Luther King Lord, don’t move your mountain, Just give me strength to climb it. He taught triumph over loss Faced the racial He hummed the old gospels And love over despair Mountain of segregation and Hallelujah over the dirges and And bade it move. Encouraging the folk to act Beyond their puny selves. Joy over moaning. The giant mound of human ignorance You don’t have to move Fear not, we’ve come too far to turn Centuries old That stumbling block, back And rigid in its determination We are not afraid, and Did move, however slightly, however Lord, just lead me around it. infinitesimally, We shall overcome It did move. Leader to those who would be led And hero to millions. We shall overcome Deep in my heart I will go, I shall go Martin Luther King I do believe I’ll see what the end will be. We shall overcome/Someday. Someday. 14 © 2011 by Maya Angelou

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman was born, the second of nine children, in Huntington, Long Island, New York, on May 31, 1819. His ancestors and family had lived in the West Hills area of South Huntington for over one hundred and twenty five years. Walt Whitman’s Birthplace, a State Historic Site listed on the National Register of Historic Places, still stands and commemorates his nativity. The farmhouse was constructed by the poet’s father Walter Whitman Sr., a house builder, upon his marriage to Louisa Van Velsor in 1816.

During 1823, the family moved to the City of Brooklyn where Walter Sr. continued house building to support the growing family. Although Walt Jr., the poet, attended grammar school, he took his first job at age twelve as a printer’s devil at The Long Island Patriot. A voracious reader, he was largely self-educated, and by 1835 was a printer in New York City. An economic depression and lack of opportunity in the newspaper field forced him to return to Long Island with his parents and family the following year. He remained there until 1841. During this time he commenced a series of teaching positions in eight different school districts throughout the western half of Long Island. However, he continued to pursue his literary and journalistic interests by dabbling in conventional poetry, short stories, and a novel. He founded Huntington’s weekly newspaper, which is in business today, The Long-Islander in 1838, and sold it a year later.

After 1841 Whitman returned to journalism as a full time career until 1859. He held editorial positions on seven different newspapers, four of them on Long Island, two in New York City, and one as far away as New Orleans. In all these positions he was an outspoken advocate of social, economic, and political reform in both local and national issues.

During the spring of 1855 Whitman published the first edition of Leaves of Grass. It was a thin volume of poems written in a highly innovative style. Unable to find a publisher, he employed his Brooklyn friends, the Rome brothers, to print it. The book was advertised and distributed by Fowler and Wells of New York City. Although it did not sell, it was praised by such noted intellectuals as Ralph Waldo Emerson and found acceptance among progressively minded Americans. The book contained twelve untitled poems, the first of which later became ―Song of Myself.‖ In this poem Whitman used his own individuality as a measure of self, presenting his own soaring spirit as synonymous with that of the American people.

Leaves of Grass never became part of any literary establishment. It seemed strange to most of the poet’s contemporaries; but today it is considered a masterpiece of world literature. It has been translated into French, German, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Ukrainian, Japanese, and Chinese. The book is a poetic summary of Whitman and his fellow Americans. It is truly American poetry without any European inspiration.

At the beginning of the American Civil War and upon learning that his brother George Washington Whitman had been wounded, Walt left Brooklyn to search for him among the field hospitals of Fredericksburg, Virginia. Shocked by the plight of the wounded he changed his residence to Washington D.C. and secured a civil service post in the Department of the Interior. This allowed him, as a volunteer nurse, over the course of the war to make over 600 visits to the military hospitals around the capital to comfort and care for the wounded. Walt lived in the nation’s capital until a stroke forced him to move close to his brother George and his family in Camden, New Jersey in 1873. His Washington experiences provided him with material for a new addition to Leaves of Grass entitled Drum Taps, and changed his poetic focus. He was no longer a poet from New York or Long Island: he now belonged to and spoke for the nation.

Walt spent the remainder of his life in Camden, New Jersey. The 1881 seventh printing of Leaves of Grass sold well and allowed him to purchase a house on Mickle Street. Walt filled his time with travel, revising Leaves of Grass, overseeing new prose and poetry with the help of friends such as Horace Traubel. He corresponded with and received visits from international literary personages such as Alfred Lord Tennyson, England’s Poet Laureate; Bram Stoker, author of Dracula; and Oscar Wilde, poet and playwright. His final edition of Leaves of Grass appeared in 1892, the year of his death. By the end of his life, Whitman had become the first American poet to achieve international acclaim. Today his poetry is available in every major language and inspires people world wide who find in Whitman the voice and vision of a truly international humanist.

From Poets.org (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/126)

O Captain! My Captain! Walt Whitman

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; For 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; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Robert Frost

Robert Frost was born in San Francisco in 1874. He moved to New England at the age of eleven and became interested in reading and writing poetry during his high school years in Lawrence, Massachusetts. He was enrolled at Dartmouth College in 1892, and later at Harvard, though he never earned a formal degree.

Frost drifted through a string of occupations after leaving school, working as a teacher, cobbler, and editor of the Lawrence Sentinel. His first professional poem, "My Butterfly," was published on November 8, 1894, in the New York newspaper The Independent.

In 1895, Frost married Elinor Miriam White, who became a major inspiration in his poetry until her death in 1938. The couple moved to England in 1912, after their New Hampshire farm failed, and it was abroad that Frost met and was influenced by such contemporary British poets as Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke, and Robert Graves. While in England, Frost also established a friendship with the poet Ezra Pound, who helped to promote and publish his work.

By the time Frost returned to the United States in 1915, he had published two full-length collections, A Boy's Will and North of Boston, and his reputation was established. By the nineteen-twenties, he was the most celebrated poet in America, and with each new book—including New Hampshire (1923), A Further Range (1936), Steeple Bush (1947), and In the Clearing (1962)—his fame and honors (including four Pulitzer Prizes) increased.

Though his work is principally associated with the life and landscape of New England, and though he was a poet of traditional verse forms and metrics who remained steadfastly aloof from the poetic movements and fashions of his time, Frost is anything but a merely regional or minor poet. The author of searching and often dark meditations on universal themes, he is a quintessentially modern poet in his adherence to language as it is actually spoken, in the psychological complexity of his portraits, and in the degree to which his work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony.

In a 1970 review of The Poetry of Robert Frost, the poet Daniel Hoffman describes Frost's early work as "the Puritan ethic turned astonishingly lyrical and enabled to say out loud the sources of its own delight in the world," and comments on Frost's career as The American Bard: "He became a national celebrity, our nearly official Poet Laureate, and a great performer in the tradition of that earlier master of the literary vernacular, Mark Twain."

About Frost, President John F. Kennedy said, "He has bequeathed his nation a body of imperishable verse from which Americans will forever gain joy and understanding."

Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont, and died in Boston on January 29, 1963.

From Poets.crg (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/192)

The Road Not Taken Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And both that morning equally lay And sorry I could not travel both In leaves no step had trodden black. And be one traveler, long I stood Oh, I kept the first for another day! And looked down one as far as I could Yet knowing how way leads on to way, To where it bent in the undergrowth; I doubted if I should ever come back.

Then took the other, as just as fair, I shall be telling this with a sigh And having perhaps the better claim, Somewhere ages and ages hence: Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- Though as for that the passing there I took the one less traveled by, Had worn them really about the same, And that has made all the difference.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know, He gives his harness bells a shake, His house is in the village though. To ask if there is some mistake. He will not see me stopping here, The only other sound's the sweep, To watch his woods fill up with snow. Of easy wind and downy flake.

My little horse must think it queer, The woods are lovely, dark and deep, To stop without a farmhouse near, But I have promises to keep, Between the woods and frozen lake, And miles to go before I sleep, The darkest evening of the year. And miles to go before I sleep.

In 1961, poet Robert Frost read his poem "The Gift Outright" at the inauguration of John Kennedy. -Courtesy of the St. Lawrence University Archives

The land ws our before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England's, Still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely; realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become. 19

Dedication

Summoning artists to participate "New order of the ages" did they say? In the august occasions of the state If it looks none too orderly today, Seems something artists ought to celebrate. 'Tis a confusion it was ours to start Today is for my cause a day of days. So in it have to take courageous part. And his be poetry's old-fashioned praise No one of honest feeling would approve Who was the first to think of such a thing. A ruler who pretended not to love This verse that in acknowledgement I bring A turbulence he had the better of. Goes back to the beginning of the end Everyone knows the glory of the twain Of what had been for centuries the trend; Who gave America the aeroplane A turning point in modern history. To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane. Colonial had been the thing to be Some poor fool has been saying in his heart As long as the great issue was to see Glory is out of date in life and art. What country'd be the one to dominate Our venture in revolution and outlawry By character, by tongue, by native trait, Has justified itself in freedom's story The new world Christopher Columbus found. Right down to now in glory upon glory. The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were Come fresh from an election like the last, downed The greatest vote a people ever cast, And counted out. Heroic deeds were done. So close yet sure to be abided by, Elizabeth the First and England won. It is no miracle our mood is high. Now came on a new order of the ages Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs That in the Latin of our founding sages Better than all the stalemate an's and ifs. (Is it not written on the dollar bill There was the book of profile tales declaring We carry in our purse and pocket still?) For the emboldened politicians daring God nodded his approval of as good. To break with followers when in the wrong, So much those heroes knew and understood, A healthy independence of the throng, I mean the great four, Washington, A democratic form of right divine John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison To rule first answerable to high design. So much they saw as consecrated seers There is a call to life a little sterner, They must have seen ahead what not appears, And braver for the earner, learner, yearner. They would bring empires down about our ears Less criticism of the field and court And by the example of our Declaration And more preoccupation with the sport. Make everybody want to be a nation. It makes the prophet in us all presage And this is no aristocratic joke The glory of a next Augustan age At the expense of negligible folk. Of a power leading from its strength and pride, We see how seriously the races swarm Of young ambition eager to be tried, In their attempts at sovereignty and form. Firm in our free beliefs without dismay, They are our wards we think to some extent In any game the nations want to play. For the time being and with their consent, A golden age of poetry and power To teach them how Democracy is meant. Of which this noonday's the beginning hour.

Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas was born in Wales in 1914. He was a neurotic, sickly child who shied away from school and preferred reading on his own; he read all of D. H. Lawrence's poetry, impressed by Lawrence's descriptions of a vivid natural world. Fascinated by language, he excelled in English and reading, but neglected other subjects and dropped out of school at sixteen. His first book, Eighteen Poems, was published to great acclaim when he was twenty. Thomas did not sympathize with T. S. Eliot and W. H. Auden's thematic concerns with social and intellectual issues, and his writing, with its intense lyricism and highly charged emotion, has more in common with the Romantic tradition. Thomas first visited America in January 1950, at the age of thirty-five. His reading tours of the United States, which did much to popularize the poetry reading as new medium for the art, are famous and notorious, for Thomas was the archetypal Romantic poet of the popular American imagination: he was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, engaged in roaring disputes in public, and read his work aloud with tremendous depth of feeling. He became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. Tragically, he died from alcoholism at the age of 39 after a particularly long drinking bout in New York City in 1953.

From Poets.org (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/150)

Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas

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 they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their 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 sight Blind 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.

Alfred Noyes

Alfred Noyes was born on September 16, 1880, in In 1907, Noyes married Garnett Daniels. They had Wolverhampton, England to Alfred and Amelia three children. His increasing popularity allowed the Adams Noyes. His father, a grocer and a teacher, family to live off royalty checks. In 1914, Noyes taught Noyes Latin and Greek. Noyes attended Exeter accepted a teaching position at Princeton University, College, Oxford, but left before he earned a degree. At where he taught English Literature until 1923. He was the age of twenty-one he published his first collection a noted critic of modernist writers, particularly James of poems, The Loom Years (1902), which received Joyce. Likewise, his work at this time was criticized praise from respected poets such as William Butler by some for its refusal to embrace the modernist Yeats and George Meredith. movement.

Between 1903 and 1908, Noyes published five In 1922 he began an epic called The Torch Bearers, volumes of poetry including The Forest of Wild Thyme which was published in three volumes (Watchers of (1905) and The Flower of Old Japan and Other Poems the Sky, 1922; The Book of Earth, 1925; and The Last (1907). In his early work, Noyes claimed he was Voyage, 1930). The book arose out of his visit to a seeking to "follow the careless and happy feet of telescope located at Mount Wilson, California and children back into the kingdom of those dreams attempted to reconcile his views of science with which...are the sole reality worth living and dying for; religion. His wife died in 1926 and Noyes turned those beautiful dreams, or those fantastic jests." His increasingly to Catholicism and religious themes in his books were widely reviewed and were published both later books, particularly The Unknown God (1934) and in Britain and the United States. Among his best- If Judgment Comes (1941). During the World War II, known poems from this time are "The Highwayman" Noyes lived in Canada and America and was a strong and "Drake." "Drake," which appeared serially in advocate of the Allied effort. In 1949, he returned to Blackwood's Magazine, was a two-hundred page epic Britain. As a result of increasing blindness, Noyes about life at sea. Both in style and subject, the poem dictated all of his subsequent work. His autobiography, shows a clear influence of Romantic poets such as Two Worlds for Memory, was published in 1953. Tennyson and Wordsworth. Alfred Noyes died on June 25, 1958, and was buried on Isle of Wight.

From Poets.org (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/674)

The Highwayman Alfred Noyes

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. 22

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side. There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast. "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say-- Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good. She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood. They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood. Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding-- Riding--riding-- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Nikki Giovanni

Yolande Cornelia "Nikki" Giovanni, born in Knoxville, Tennessee, is a world-renowned poet, writer, commentator, activist, and educator. Over the past thirty years, Nikki's outspokenness, in her writing and in person, has brought the eyes of the world upon her. One of the most widely read American poets, she prides herself on being "a Black American, a daughter, a mother, a professor of English." Giovanni remains as determined and committed as ever to the fight for civil rights and equality. Always insisting on presenting the truth as she sees it, she has maintained a prominent place as a strong voice of the Black community. Her focus is on the individual, specifically, on the power one has to make a difference in oneself, and thus, in the lives of others.

Nikki Giovanni has written more than two dozen books, including volumes of poetry, illustrated children's books, and three collections of essays. Her book Racism 101 includes bold, controversial essays about the situation of Americans on all sides of various race issues. She has received nineteen honorary doctorates and a host of other awards, including "Woman of the Year" awards from three different magazines as well as Governors' Awards in the Arts from both Tennessee and Virginia. Her two most recent volumes of poetry, Love Poems and Blues: For All the Changes, were both winners of the NAACP Image Award, in 1998 and 2000, respectively. Since 1987, she has taught writing and literature at Virginia Tech, where she is a University Distinguished Professor. As a devoted and passionate writer, teacher, and speaker, she inspires not only her students, but also readers and audiences nationwide.

From Poets.org (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/173)

Choices Nikki Giovanni

If i can't do Since i can't go what i want to do where i need then my job is to not to go . . . then i must . . . go do what i don't want where the signs point to do through always understanding parallel movement It's not the same thing isn't lateral but it's the best i can do When i can't express what i really feel If i can't have i practice feeling what i want . . . then what i can express my job is to want and none of it is equal what i've got and be satisfied I know that at least there but that's why mankind is something more to want alone among the animals learns to cry