Poetry

Pablo Neruda, 1904-1973

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,

drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

_________________________________________
Post-Reading Response:
Respond to each of the following questions with a
few sentences, citing quotes from the text.
1. In the first stanza, how does Neruda
describe his first encounter with poetry?
What words seem most important or striking
in this description?
2. In the second stanza, Neruda describes
his first attempts at writing poetry (I wrote
the first faint line, / faint, without substance,
pure / nonsense, / pure wisdom). How does
his world change after this experience? What
words seem most important or striking in this
description?
3. How has poetry changed Neruda, as he
describes in the third stanza? What words
seem most important or striking in this
description?

Because You Asked about the Line Between

Prose and Poetry
Howard Nemerov, 1920 - 1991

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle

That while you watched turned to pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.
There came a moment that you couldnt tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

Extended Metaphor Poems

Hope is the Thing with Feathers
Emily Dickinson

Mother to Son
Langston Hughes

'Hope' is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stopsat all

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.

And sweetestin the Galeis heard

And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumbof Me.
--------------------Abash - To destroy ones confidence. To
dishearten or make embarassed