- November 15, 2018
- By Admin: mrbauld
- Comments: 00
If you would like to have a poem posted, please consider the following guidelines:
- All submissions must be by e-mail
- Poems must be proofread perfectly – grammar, punctuation, capitals, spacing, should be exactly as intended
- No anonymous poems
- Three poem maximum per student.
- Save any profanities for your own personal collection
- Savor your rejection slips to throw in my face when you become famous
- READ lots of good poetry by lots of good poets.
- If you think “old fashioned” poetry is boring, start reading some of it.
- Experiment with different forms as are described in “Glossary of Poetic Terms.”
- LISTEN to your poems and consider deeply the meaning of rhythm, meter, and cadence.
- Let IMAGES carry your meaning.
- Be as HONEST as you are able, as you move from emotion and idea to word and sound.
- Reach for the tricky BALANCE between a forceful compression and a natural voice.
- Keep a NOTEBOOK on you to jot down the phrases that come to you on the wind.
- A TUNEFUL PHRASE can quickly reveal a poem.
- A real EMOTION, however slight, can give birth to a poem.
- Every word is not sacred: Prune and Pare and Park.
Jessica Wile and Kent Smith (’03) have very Chaucer-like additions to the Tabard crew
The Game Keeper A 31st Canterbury Character
There was a game keeper among the crowd.
His matted hair was black, his voice was loud.
He gave the king and friends a joyous time
Of hunting game, like deer, just in their prime.
And if the king had made a wealthy catch,
Then at the head of table Lawrence sat.
Of numbers great did think him fine and swell
The Knight, the Squire, the Reeve, the cook as well,
Was always mindful when it came to game.
Inventions for the sport were never lame.
One Squire thought him so mighty, O so grand,
For catching dozen poachers on his land.
His job involved the breeding of new stock
To keep the numbers up in pheasant flocks.
Good Lawrence always said his claim to fame
Was – use the game to keep them entertained.
And now he rides a horse built for his style
And off to Canterbury – fifty mile!
-Jessica Wile (’03)
The Gypsy: A 32nd Canterbury Character
A Gypsy woman prideful young and fair,
with eyes like fire and luscious coal black hair,
Did come with us along the winding trail.
Her pace would be enjoyed by any snail.
Her long gray cloak it gave but only a taste,
of such a lovely face, oh what a waste.
Her endless omens cause for good and bad,
she came quite near to driving us all mad!
Her endless chatter spoke of growing fat.
Her potions were for this and charms for that.
Her fortune made she far and near in towns,
With potions, charms and laughter, ne’er with frowns.
Her wit as quick as any have I seen,
I could ne’er have seen all the ways she’s been.
In all the time we traveled ‘long the way,
There was no frown that she did cast my way.
Her horse and cart were poor. For all her penny
it seems like both had seen a year too many.
Kent Smith ‘03
Sebastian Margarit (’01)seems to have caught a poetry virus and here is but one of his many intricate submissions this year:A fire broods of fallen autumn leaves.
They quickly burn from simple sparks of light.
Black soot no longer life nor spark receives–
Does only smother other sparks with blight.
A spark is struck with filling fuel of mind:
At first it dies and gains no fiery life,
But then reborn, and spirit double signed,
It kindled flames eternal love of strife.
Both flames with heat do comfort and fulfill
The one who in her hands holds flint and stone.
Though fire comes from other places still,
It does no other place than here dethrone.
When burning choice be made from fires two
Which move the ash, and burn the fire true.
This rich sonnet is by Meaghan Thurston who graduates in 2001.
The World in White Spectacle
A winding shroud of snow wraps field and tree,
So silent, still, like birds in gliding flight
Whose shadows cast with icy wings on sea
And land, spread restful peace of winter’s night.When crystal droplets hang from branches bare
To catch the strands of moonlight soft and low
As if to mourn the fall of seasons fair,
Old Winter hides sweet grass and buds in snow.
Yet frozen death is birth in white disguise
As hilltops shine so bright in moonlight pale;
The world is made anew before my eyes;
Oh see the snow so smooth like tall ship’s sails.
And as the birds alight on powdered tree;
The feel of winter’s peace takes flight in me.