Poetry Page
"Making words rhyme for a living is one of the great joys of my life . . . That's a superpower I've been very conscious of developing.
I started at the same level as everybody else, and then I just listened to more music and talked to myself until it was an actual superpower I could pull out on special occasions." --Lin-Manuel Miranda, author of Hamilton: An American Musical, music from Moana, and In the Heights L'art ne vit que des contraintes qu'il s'impose à lui-même.
|
|
Poetry is a kind of writing that says more and says it more intensely than ordinary language. It is the most condensed and concentrated form of literature, because every word, syllable, and sound has to count for something. Poetry can be intellectual (about ideas), emotional (about feelings), imaginative (creative), or engage the senses (sight, sound, scent, taste, and touch). At its best, it does all of these.
|
Reading Poetry
|
|
Figurative Language
simile - comparison marked out by specific word of likening (like or as). metaphor - implies a likeness without a word of comparison. personification gives human attributes to an animal, an object, or a concept. A subtype of metaphor, where the figurative term is always a human being. Giving human capacities/feelings to natural objects (dancing leaves). apostrophe - addressing something nonhuman as if that thing could reply to what is being said. hyperbole - makes exaggerated comparisons for dramatic effect. These may be intentionally funny. Structure:
Stanza - the building block of formal poetry, like paragraphs in a story or verses in a song. They usually have the same number of lines each time, and often use a rhyming pattern that repeats with each new set of lines. Verse - a single single poetic line. In much of the poetry in European tradition is written using a metrical "beat," a rhythm or pattern of a certain number of accented and unaccented syllables. Measuring a verse is referred to as scansion: a short curved line indicates an unaccented syllable, a short horizontal line indicates a stressed syllable. End-Stopped Lines - each line ends with a strong mark of punctuation. Blank verse - unrhymed iambic pentameter. Free verse - no intentional pattern of rhyme or rhythm; the line breaks can create surprise or emphasis for ideas. Traditional and more modern structures include those below-- |
Sound and Meaning complement one another in most poetry.
Musical Devices in poetry (and prose) include the choice and arrangement of words based on sound and accent. The essential elements of music in poetry are repetition and variation. Alliteration - consonant repetition. "The daredevil Russian dancers delighted the audience." Assonance - vowel sound repetition. "Rain made the windowpanes wavy; Avery's heart ached." Consonance - repetition of a pattern of consonants. The catcher caught the practice pitches, his back to the crowd in the packed stands. "He straddled the fence and rested his back against the post and searched the grass for signs of the snake." Rhyme - repetition of accented sounds in words, usually at the end of verse lines. Whose woods these are, I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. Rhythm and Meter, together with the musical devices discussed above, are the key elements that appeal to readers of poetry. Rhythm refers to any wavelike recurrence of motion or sound. Meter is the arrangement of accented speech at regular intervals. This can give some metered poetry a song-like quality. |
Acrostic
|
A poem where the first letter of each line, read vertically, spells out the title or subject of the poem. Alternatively, it can also be a secret message . . .
|
An acrostic poem
Can be about anything. Really! I'm not kidding. Of course, most times Some people focus on the ending rhyme. That's perfectly fine! I enjoy poems of all kinds; after all, my friends, Creativity can be about beginnings as well as ends. |
Sunny days
|
|
Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes, "Something Under the Bed is Drooling," 1988.
Try as I might I can't get out of bed, stuck to it with fear
Every inch and the horrid shadows get so near
Rogues I can only think of lurk in my dreams
"Run downstairs," I tell myself, "No more screams!"
Open the door and fear stands in your way
"Ruthless thoughts, go away, I want to have my own say!"
- Ella Bella
Abecederian Challenge Poem
Poetry in which every word or line begins with a successive letter of the alphabet. The first word begins with A, the second with B, etc.
Some sequential alphabet poems may only use a handful of successive letters of the alphabet per line or stanza instead of the entire alphabet.
An Abecedarian poem could be considered a special type of acrostic poem.
Some sequential alphabet poems may only use a handful of successive letters of the alphabet per line or stanza instead of the entire alphabet.
An Abecedarian poem could be considered a special type of acrostic poem.
|
|
Ballad
The ballad is a poem that tells a story. They are often arranged in quatrains with the rhyme scheme ABAB, AABB, or ABBA.
Ballads are descended from oral narratives that rhymed as an aid to memory, later becoming folk songs and continuing to be used in modern music to the present day.
Ballads are descended from oral narratives that rhymed as an aid to memory, later becoming folk songs and continuing to be used in modern music to the present day.
The Raven
| |||||
| _raven--poe.pdf |
The Ballad of Billy the Kid
Billy Joel
From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande.
Well, he started with a bank in Colorado
In the pocket of his vest, a Colt he hid
And his age and his size
Took the teller by surprise
And the word spread of Billy the Kid.
Well, he never traveled heavy
Yes, he always rode alone
And he soon put many older guns to shame
And he never had a sweetheart
And he never had a home
But the cowboy and the rancher knew his name.
Well, he robbed his way from Utah to Oklahoma
And the law just could not seem to track him down.
And it served his legend well
For the folks, they'd love to tell
'Bout when Billy the Kid came to town.
Well, one cold day a posse captured Billy
And the judge said, "String 'im up for what he did!"
And the cowboys and their kin
Like the sea came pourin' in
To watch the hangin' of Billy the Kid.
Well, he never traveled heavy
Yes, he always rode alone
And he soon put many older guns to shame
And he never had a sweetheart
But he finally found a home
Underneath the Boot Hill grave that bears his name,
From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande.
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande.
Well, he started with a bank in Colorado
In the pocket of his vest, a Colt he hid
And his age and his size
Took the teller by surprise
And the word spread of Billy the Kid.
Well, he never traveled heavy
Yes, he always rode alone
And he soon put many older guns to shame
And he never had a sweetheart
And he never had a home
But the cowboy and the rancher knew his name.
Well, he robbed his way from Utah to Oklahoma
And the law just could not seem to track him down.
And it served his legend well
For the folks, they'd love to tell
'Bout when Billy the Kid came to town.
Well, one cold day a posse captured Billy
And the judge said, "String 'im up for what he did!"
And the cowboys and their kin
Like the sea came pourin' in
To watch the hangin' of Billy the Kid.
Well, he never traveled heavy
Yes, he always rode alone
And he soon put many older guns to shame
And he never had a sweetheart
But he finally found a home
Underneath the Boot Hill grave that bears his name,
From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande.
Ballad of Billy the Kid
Come with Me
Phil Collins
I'll try to make the sunshine brighter for you
I will even play the fool if it makes you smile
I'll try to make you laugh if there's a tear in your eye
After all is said
After all is done
I'll do anything for you.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hands, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
I'll try to make the star shine brighter for you
And I'll take you on my shoulders, hold you way up high
I'll even chase the rainbow hanging in the sky
Cause after all is said
After all is done
I'll do anything for you.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hand, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
Through the eyes of innocence
You will find, you will see
There'll come a time it all makes sense
And you won't know, but it will show inside, deep inside.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hand, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
I'll try to make the days last longer for you
From the daybreak, 'til the sunset, 'til the end of time
I'll keep you safe, away from the heartache
Cause when all is said
And when all is done
I'd do anything for you.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hand, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
I will even play the fool if it makes you smile
I'll try to make you laugh if there's a tear in your eye
After all is said
After all is done
I'll do anything for you.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hands, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
I'll try to make the star shine brighter for you
And I'll take you on my shoulders, hold you way up high
I'll even chase the rainbow hanging in the sky
Cause after all is said
After all is done
I'll do anything for you.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hand, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
Through the eyes of innocence
You will find, you will see
There'll come a time it all makes sense
And you won't know, but it will show inside, deep inside.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hand, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
I'll try to make the days last longer for you
From the daybreak, 'til the sunset, 'til the end of time
I'll keep you safe, away from the heartache
Cause when all is said
And when all is done
I'd do anything for you.
Come with me, close your eyes
Hold my hand, it'll be alright
Don't be scared, don't be shy
Lift your head it's gonna be alright.
Paul Revere’s Ride
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
| paul_revere’s_ride.pdf |
Sir Elton John Makes a Ballad from an Oven Instruction Manual
You and your new oven
Are capable of great things
But remember no two ovens are the same.
Rather than jump in at the deep end
with your brand new oven
Don’t forget it may differ in its characteristics
to your previous model.
We strongly recommend
you take time
To read this leaflet
fully from
cover to cover.
Get to know – get to know
(minor key)
(it’s a bad oven)
Get to know all there is to know
about your new oven
Before you begin preparing your –
preparing you –
(No, this is ridiculous)
Your own mouth watering meals
(No I have to do that one again)
We strongly recommend
you take time
To read this leaflet
Fully from
cover to cover.
Get to know all there is to know
about your new oven
Before you begin preparing
your own
mouth watering meals.
It may seem like a chore.
But it will pay off in the long run.
So let's begin at the beginning
with
your
new
oven.
Are capable of great things
But remember no two ovens are the same.
Rather than jump in at the deep end
with your brand new oven
Don’t forget it may differ in its characteristics
to your previous model.
We strongly recommend
you take time
To read this leaflet
fully from
cover to cover.
Get to know – get to know
(minor key)
(it’s a bad oven)
Get to know all there is to know
about your new oven
Before you begin preparing your –
preparing you –
(No, this is ridiculous)
Your own mouth watering meals
(No I have to do that one again)
We strongly recommend
you take time
To read this leaflet
Fully from
cover to cover.
Get to know all there is to know
about your new oven
Before you begin preparing
your own
mouth watering meals.
It may seem like a chore.
But it will pay off in the long run.
So let's begin at the beginning
with
your
new
oven.
Cinquain
|
Poems that create a 5-line pattern. Over the years, they have become very popular in schools because they can be used to teach about grammar or topics such as science and social studies.
|
Concrete Poetry
|
Concrete, or Shape Poetry, mimics the shape of the topic of the poem.
It can also be in the form of a riddle, wherein the topic of the poem is never named. 
|
|
Couplets
|
A couplet is two rhymed lines with the same meter (pattern of stresses on syllables da DUM da DUM da DUM, or da da DUM da da DUM). Couplet poems may be two lines, four lines, six, or so on, but must have pairs of rhymed lines.
|
|
Diamonte
Diamond-Shaped Poetry, and a Grammar Workout
First name of person
Two nouns related to the person
Three verbs describing the subject's actions
Quote by or about the person, giving an example of their life or work.
Three adverbs modifying and enhancing the verbs
Two adjectives enhancing the nouns
Last name of the person
The diamonte forces the writer to choose words very carefully for meaning and the shape of the poem. The shape of the poem also allows the artist to decorate the page around the central diamond-shaped poem. Here are some from an Inventors assignment from 4th grade--
Free Verse
No rules, just write! Free verse waxes and wanes in popularity with poets.
American poet Robert Frost said free verse "is like playing tennis without a net."
The challenges of free verse are to create an internal pattern of sounds, choose words with precision, and pace the verses so an important word receives attention and allows the reader to create connections with their own experience.
American poet Robert Frost said free verse "is like playing tennis without a net."
The challenges of free verse are to create an internal pattern of sounds, choose words with precision, and pace the verses so an important word receives attention and allows the reader to create connections with their own experience.
Haiku
|
A traditional form of Japanese poetry with a strict three-line structure with a pattern of 5 syllables, 7 syllables, and 5 syllables. The traditional topic is often a scene from nature or country life, although this is not required.
|
The black cat rests on
a red wheelbarrow beside the white chicken coop. |
Limericks
|
List Poem
|
A list poem will be a poem composed or made up of a long list of things. List poems usually have a list in the middle, plus a few introductory lines at the beginning and a few lines at the end. You can think of the beginning and end of a list poem like the top and bottom slices of bread in a sandwich. The list is like the meat or peanut butter or whatever else is between the bread.
Picture it like this: Beginning List List List List Ending List poems often rhyme, and they are usually funny; some lists include very unusual items. Putting strange, unexpected, or exaggerated things on your list is a good way to make your poem funny or make a point to the reader. Endings may also include an unexpected "twist" in the final lines.
|
My Lunch
A candy bar. A piece of cake. A lollipop. A chocolate shake. A jelly donut. Chocolate chips. Some gummy worms and licorice whips. A candy cane. A lemon drop. Some bubblegum and soda pop. Vanilla wafers. Cherry punch. My mom slept in while I made lunch. --Kenn Nesbitt |
|
game over
When my mother calls, Hope Dell Jackie—inside! the game is over. No more reading beneath the streetlight for Dell. But for my brother and me it’s no more anything! No more steal the bacon coco levio 1-2-3 Miss Lucy had a baby spinning tops double Dutch. No more freeze tag hide the belt hot peas and butter. No more singing contests on the stoop. No more ice cream truck chasing: Wait! Wait, ice cream man! My mother’s gonna give me money! No more getting wet in the johnny pump or standing with two fisted hands out in front of me, a dime hidden in one, chanting, Dumb school, dumb school, which hand’s it in? When my mother calls, Hope Dell Jackie—inside! we complain as we walk up the block in the twilight: Everyone else is allowed to stay outside till dark. Our friends standing in the moment-- string halfway wrapped around a top, waiting to be tagged and unfrozen, searching for words to a song, dripping from the johnny pump, silent in the middle of Miss Lucy had a . . . The game is over for the evening and all we can hear is our friends’ Aw . . . man!! Bummer! For real?! This early?! Dang it! Shoot. Your mama’s mean! Early birds! Why she gotta mess up our playing like that? Jeez. Now the game’s over! --Jacqueline Woodson |
Chemistry
When Hope speaks, it’s always about comic books and superheroes until my mother tells him he has to talk about something else. And then it’s science. He wants to know everything about rockets and medicine and the galaxy. He wants to know where the sky ends and how, what does it feel like when gravity’s gone and what is the food men eat on the moon. His questions come so fast and so often that we forget how quiet he once was until my mother buys him a chemistry set. And then for hours after school each day he makes potions, mixing chemicals that stink up the house, causing sparks to fly from shaved bits of iron, puffs of smoke to pop from strange-colored liquids. We are fascinated by him, goggled and bent over the stove a clamped test tube protruding from his gloved hand. On the days when our mother says she doesn’t want him smelling up the house with his potions, he takes his trains apart, studies each tiny piece, then slowly puts them together again. We don’t know what it is he’s looking for as he searches the insides of things, studies the way things change. Each whispered Wow from him makes me think that he with his searching—and Dell with her reading and even Roman with his trying to eat to the other side of our walls—is looking for something. Something way past Brooklyn. Something out There. --Jacqueline Woodson |
5 Ws
|
A 5 Ws poem is structured around the inquiry questions in the English language that begin with W:
Who What When Where Why The answers to the inquiry questions should be focused on a single topic, not scattered in 5 different directions. 
The typical order follows the journalist's effort to introduce and explain a topic as quickly and effectively as possible in the order newspaper, article, or website readers would expect: Who did What, Where and When did it happen, and Why. Who (noun) What (action phrase) When (time phrase) Where (place phrase) Why (explanation-phrase or sentence) Poets may sometimes approach the questions in different order to create a riddle or puzzle for the reader that is only answered in the final line. 
|
|
|
|
