Eighth Grade Education circa - 1895 - - (long)

[Carol]

Steve wrote: 
> One of my favorites is "The Drummer-Boy's Burial" by 
> Anonymous from "The Illustrated Library of World Poetry".
> 
> All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley
> swept;
> All night long the stars in heaven o'vr the slain sad vigils
> kept.
> 
> O the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the
> night!
> O the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!
> 
> ...
> 
> I find poems about war very moving for some reason. 
> 
> Steve/bluewizard
>
Carol responds:

I hope I don't ruin it for you, then, but the rhyme scheme is couplets
(AA, BB) and the meter is trochaic heptameter (just like "the Raven"
but with one less trochee per line). Like "The Raven, it's very
regular but lacks the internal rhyme. This kind of poem can sound very
monotonous, especially today when so many poets write in free verse
(no rhyme or identifiable meter).

If you like war poetry, I'd recommend either Walt Whitman or Wilfred Owen.

Here's Whitman:

BEAT! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow! 
Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet-
no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace,
ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums-
so shrill you bugles blow.

Beat! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities-
over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?
no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers' bargains by day-
no brokers or speculators-would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking?
would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court
to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums-
you bugles wilder blow. 
Beat! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow!

Make no parley-stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child's voice be heard,
nor the mother's entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead
where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums-
so loud you bugles blow.

More Whitman war poems here:

http://members.tripod.com/~DizzyDi2/contents.html#drum

And here's Wilfred Owens's most famous poem, "Dulce et Decorum Est."

        Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 
        Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 
        Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 
        And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 
        Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 
        But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 
        Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 
        Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

        Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! –  An ecstasy of fumbling, 
        Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 
        But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 
        And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . 
        Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 
        As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 
        In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 
        He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

        If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
        Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
        And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
        His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 
        If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
        Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
        Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
        Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 
        My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 
        To children ardent for some desperate glory, 
        The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 
        Pro patria mori.

Here's a link to the poem, with explanatory notes:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

Whitman's poem is free verse. Owens's has a recognizable rhyme scheme
(ababcdcd) and meter (iambic tetrameter), both altered for the last
four lines of the final stanza. Notice that it reads very naturally,
with no deviations from natural word order or contractions for the
sake of the meter (like "o'er" for "over," which must be what your
anonymous poet had in mind when he wrote "o'vr"), and yet it's clearly
a poem, not prose, with vivid imagery and metaphors and diction so
concrete that you can visualize the horrible cruelty and suffering.

Anyway, a knowledge of the elements that make up a poem shouldn't ruin
it for you any more than watching a "making of" documentary should
ruin a film or seeing how a flute is put together on "How It's Made"
or knowing how to read music should ruin the sound of James Galway's
flute playing. It will, however, help you know a good poem when you
encounter it.

Carol, who had to memorize Whitman's "O Captain, My Captain" in
seventh grade and wishes she'd learned more poems then, when she still
had the ability to memorize easily