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Ballad of Birmingham, Study notes of Poetry

Ballad of Birmingham. BY DUDLEY RANDALL. (On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963) ... And march the streets of Birmingham.

Typology: Study notes

2021/2022

Uploaded on 09/12/2022

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TYPES OF POEMS
Ballad: a narrative poem (tells a story) that is often dramatic or emotional. They
are often written in quatrains (4 lines per stanza), have repeated refrains, are
written in rhythmic verse, and may be sung.
Ballad of Birmingham
BY DUDLEY RANDALL
(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)
“Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?”
“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren’t good for a little child.”
“But, mother, I won’t be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free.”
“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.
But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children’s choir.”
She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.
The mother smiled to know her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.
She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?”
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TYPES OF POEMS

Ballad : a narrative poem (tells a story) that is often dramatic or emotional. They

are often written in quatrains (4 lines per stanza), have repeated refrains, are

written in rhythmic verse, and may be sung.

Ballad of Birmingham

BY D U D L E Y R A N D A L L

(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963) “Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play, And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today?” “No, baby, no, you may not go, For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren’t good for a little child.” “But, mother, I won’t be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free.” “No, baby, no, you may not go, For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children’s choir.” She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes on her feet. The mother smiled to know her child Was in the sacred place, But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face. For when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child. She clawed through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out a shoe. “O, here’s the shoe my baby wore, But, baby, where are you?”

Blank verse : poetry that has regular meter (rhythm) but lacks rhyme.

Mending Wall

BY R O B E R T F R O S T

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours."

Lyric poetry : short poems which express a single feeling, mood, or opinion.

(Elegies, odes, and sonnets are all forms of lyric poems).

Elegy : a sad poem that expresses sorrow (usually over someone who has died).

Encounter B Y C Z E S L A W M I L O S Z

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. A red wing rose in the darkness. And suddenly a hare ran across the road. One of us pointed to it with his hand. That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive, Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture. O my love, where are they, where are they going The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

Ode : a poem that expresses deep feeling or admiration for something (such as a

person).

ODE TO INCENSE CEDAR You rise among oak and ponderosa on the ridge, your bark corded like the knees of old temples. Your green skirts flounce the edge of meadow with its mazing paths and creeklets that meander down to depths of canyon, and forgetful river. In this meadow, someone has built a tepee - cedar-bark bound together in the ancient way; shadowed, mysterious, a blessed house with crevices enfolding scent that floats on air, and holds the memory of whoever passes by. Thunderclouds swirl the afternoon with weather. Still you stand, cambium-flute on ageless knees; at last, a silver spire that points to higher sky the traveler's spirit's caught in cedar-bark, wanderer long-gone, waking to each morning.

Sonnet : a poem with 14 lines of iambic pentameter and a fixed rhyme scheme

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (Sonnet 18)

William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616 Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.