"Poetry...is speaking a picture, with this end: to teach and delight."
-Sir Philip Sydney

April's Poetry:

1:Rough Draft of Memory Poem: (using metaphor and alliteration)

I was your little band member, your potential piano player as you saw me.
Chumbawumba was our favorite listen.
The disk you always took from your giant glass case.
It was the disk we danced to, the beat we bounced to.
Two earthquakes at once shaking our aging abode.
Your big belly was round with booze, the same special drink that colored your eyes pink.
The drink you kept in a brown paper bag under the coffee table, the same one that made you fun.
You danced with me tirelessly
Till your favorite song played and you'd sit.
"Sit," you'd tell me. "Sit, and listen."
I did my best to float as the ocean carried you away
"The ships come sailing in" the lyrics boomed.
"The ships come sailing out" and they sailed you away into your memories.

+the connection you made with the song and the man's
+ Description of the man
+ Using actions and connecting them to quotes "Till your favorite song played and you'd sit.
"Sit," you'd tell me. "Sit, and listen." "
- Play around with metaphors and similes to describe the dancing even further
- use a lyric in the beginning i think this would make the poem more interesting
- symbolize the brown bag

2:Rough Draft, Ode Assignment: (using metaphor and imagery) "Ode to My Sketchbook"

Hard bound, much too good for cold metal rings
No scratchy cardboard surface or big bold pictured cover
A rarity among books, royalty, sleek and so silently beautiful.
Paper inside, none too thick, none too thin, none too rough, but smooth and strong.
Two hundred and sixteen pages were two hundred and sixteen flat pieces of gold
bound in hard, imitation leather,
black and scaly textured,
A crisping lizard in the sun.

I am humbled to think that such rarity is my possession
I did not choose it at the art store as it chose me
This glorious thing that I did not deserve to any affect
other than the money I'd earned to buy it
ashamed, I carried it home in a white plastic bag,
only because i hadn't a velvet sack as it deserved.

Thirty- three pages today are now simply paper
the sheen that once was there of a crisp, new, golden page was now marked in and out with pencil, marker and paint.
Covered all in unworthy drawings that will never measure up to such a hard bound glory.
Fine lines and gradual shading
though improved over years
5 years of practice and care
Can not compare
to pages themselves.

My Pride
My obsession
My artful art-container
My Sketchbook.

3:Rough Draft of 10 Line poem.
"What people say"

Philly girls are so dirty.
Compare Blacknism
Shit's about to get real.
You're going to have to do better than that; we just saw Finnick in his underwear.
Shit just got real
I got all the black girls jealous 'cause my main girl's vanilla
Ask your man. He'll Know
Thats 'cause, you know Lexus, she's ...
Its a parabola!
Are you still getting quotes for your final poem?
Shake it up you guys!

4:I was raised by poem.

I was raised by the malicious and benevolent
the hot and the cold icy burn
of a mother and a father
who were both and neither strict and lenient
but never fair or just.

My sanity created by the forced fairness
the justice and consistency of the playground
where 10 year-olds made the rules unocompanied by parents who could never understand
the so perfect balance of good and evil
such as a child can govern himself.

I was taught
by teachers and adults and mentors
revered for educating the youth but in a place
where educating meant telling a child that there is one answer
and you have only to remember it.
You cannot search nor research the vast amount of opinions and perceptions from facts to form a conclusion, no
you must remember only what the teacher has taught you
just as she remembers only what her teacher has taught her
just as he remembers only
just as his teacher can only remember.

I was refined by books
and authors who beat the system of knowledge over art.
Those who conquered the analysis and constant picking and nitting of perfection
that they never acheived
that they admitting to never having
the analysis that they never did.
the forshadowing that only the teacher sees
as the author never thought about it.
that moment
where someone
picks something apart
into something more than what it is,
a feeling

William Blake, being not just a poet but a visual artist, obviously had a high appreciation for the beauty of things such as love, divinity, innocence, and nature. He also had an eye for detail in maters that were more brutal and gruesome in human behaviors. In the five poems I have chosen, Blake writes about both of these things, whereupon mentioning a deathly hatred, a gorgeous and happy sleeping infant, a beautiful and fearful love affair, and a message for all to enjoy life as it passes.
Blake usually works in rhyme, and usually in the same patterns: a,a,b,b, like in “I was angry with my friend;/I told my wrath, my wrath did end.” This is seen in all of the poems I’ve used for this analysis and is constant throughout most of his writings.
His perspective of the beauty he writes about often uses his mention of the divine, or holy image. In A Song he mentions the sleeping infant reminding him of the holy one, or the baby Jesus. In A Little Girl Lost he tells of the daughter shaking in fear as her father’s kind and worried face reminds her of the holy scriptures. This is something else that is signature for him, both in his pretty and gruesome works.