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Wendy Cope presents great sympathy towards Eliza in the poem 'Names'. Through the mere exploration of the names one woman takes on in her lifetime, Cope is able ...
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Simile Two things are compared by using the words 'like' or 'as'. Symbolism When something (character, object, colour etc.) is used to represent an abstract idea or concept. Tone Mood or atmosphere of a text.
Accent A distinctive way of pronouncing a language , especially one associated with a particular country, area, or social class. Anaphora The repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of a line, clause or sentence. Dialect A particular form of a language , specific to a region or social group. Caesura A strong pause within a line, and is often found alongside enjambment. Enjambment A line ending in which the sense continues, with no punctuation, into the next line or stanza. Elegy A poem that laments the death of someone or is simply sad or thoughtful. Juxtaposition Two things being seen or placed close together with contrasting effect. Octave Stanza made up of eight lines written in iambic pentameter. Usually found in the first part of Petrarchan sonnet. Quatrain Stanza made up of four lines. Refrain A phrase, line or group of lines repeated throughout a poem. Rhyme The same, or similar, sounds at the ends of verse lines. Rhyming couplet Two lines that rhyme, often completing one thought. Sestet Stanza made up of six lines written in iambic pentameter. Usually found in the second part of Petrarchan sonnet.
Sonnet A poem consisting of 14 rhyming lines of equal length. Petrarchan/Italian sonnet = 8 line octave (ABBAABBA) and 6 line sestet (CDECDE OR CDCDCD). Shakespearean/English sonnet = 3 quatrains and a rhyming couplet (ABABCDCDEFEFGG). Stanza Two or more lines of poetry that split the poem up, like paragraphs in prose texts. Volta The turn in the argument or mood in a sonnet.
First person narrator Written in "I" (occasionally a "we") who speaks from her/his subject position. That narrator is usually a character in the story, who interacts with other characters; we see those interactions through the narrator's eyes, and we cannot know anything the narrator does not know. Third person narrator Not a figure in the story, but an "observer" who is outside the action being described. A third-person narrator (he/she/it) might be omniscient (i.e., able to tell what all the characters are thinking), but that is not always the case. Third-person narration may also be focalized through a particular character, meaning that the narrator tells us how that character sees the world, but cannot, or at least does not, read the mind of all the characters this way. Omniscient narrator A storyteller who knows what all the characters are doing, saying and thinking.
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If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house and unlatch the door to the canary's cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb, a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies* seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table, releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day.
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes on a pile of broken dishes by the house; a tall man too, says the length of the bed in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man, says the Bible with a broken back on the floor below the window, dusty with sun; but not a man for farming, say the fields cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn. A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves covered with oilcloth, and they had a child, says the sandbox made from a tractor tire. Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole. And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames. It was lonely here, says the narrow country road. Something went wrong, says the empty house in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste. And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard like branches after a storm—a rubber cow, a rusty tractor with a broken plow, a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say. Ted Kooser
Girls dressed for dancing, board the tube at Earl’s Court, flutter, settle. chattering, excited by a vision of glitter, their fragile bodies carry invisible antennae, missing nothing. Faces velvet with bright camouflage. they’re unsung stars – so young it’s thrilling just to be away from home. One shrieks, points, springs away. She’s seen a moth caught up in the blonde strands of her companion’s hair, a moth, marked with all the shallow colours of blonde. The friend’s not scared; gently she shakes her head, tumbles it, dead, into her hands. At Piccadilly Circus they take flight, skimming the escalator, brushing past the collector, up to the lure of light. Carole Satyamurti
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away on two round wheels, my own mouth rounding in surprise when you pulled ahead down the curved path of the park, I kept waiting for the thud of your crash as I sprinted to catch up, while you grew smaller, more breakable with distance, pumping, pumping for your life, screaming with laughter, the hair flapping behind you like a handkerchief waving goodbye. Linda Pastan
My little sister likes to try my shoes, to strut in them, admire her spindlethin twelveyearold legs in this season's styles. She says they fit her perfectly, but wobbles on their high heels, they're hard to balance. I like to watch my little sister playing hopscotch, admire the neat hopsandskips of her, their quick peck, never missing their mark, not overstepping the line. She is competent at peever. I try to warn my little sister about unsuitable shoes, point out my own distorted feet, the callouses, odd patches of hard skin. I should not like to see her in my shoes. I wish she could stay sure footed, sensibly shod. Liz Lochhead *peever – another name for the game of hopscotch
The rich eat three full meals, the poor two small bowls But peace is what matters. Thirsty, I drink sweet plum tea; Warm, I lie in the shade, in the breeze; My paintings are mountains and rivers all around me, My damask, embroidered, the grass. I rest at night, rest easy, Am awake with the sun And enjoying Heaven’s heaped-up favours. Nguyen Binh Khiem
She was Eliza for a few weeks when she was a baby – Eliza Lily. Soon it changed to Lil. Later she was Miss Steward in the baker’s shop And then ‘my love’, ‘my darling’, Mother. Widowed at thirty, she went back to work As Mrs Hand. Her daughter grew up, Married and gave birth. Now she was Nanna. ‘Everybody Calls me Nanna,’ she would say to visitors. And so they did – friends, tradesmen, the doctor. In the geriatric ward They used the patients’ Christian names. ‘Lil,’ we said, ‘or Nanna,’ But it wasn’t in her file And for those last bewildered weeks She was Eliza once again. Wendy Cope
She was a dog-rose kind of girl: elusive, scattery as petals; scratchy sometimes, tripping you as like briars. She teased the boys turning this way and that, not to be tamed or taught any more than the wind. Even in school the word ‘ought’ had no meaning for Sally. On dull days she’d sit quiet as a mole at her desk delving in thought. But when the sun called she was gone, running the blue day down till the warm hedgerows prickled the dusk and moths flickered our. Her mother scolded; Dad gave her the hazel switch, said her head was stuffed with feathers and a starling tongue. But they couldn’t take the shine out of her. Even when it rained you felt the sun saved under her skin. She’d a way of escape laughing at you from the bright end of a tunnel, leaving you in the dark. Phoebe Hesketh
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! William Wordsworth