Students’ Goal

Write an elegy for Rudy (or another character from the Book Thief). Remember to make it clear: who is the speaker? Liesel? His father? Death?

Elegies can be traced back to the ancient Greeks and were written in response to the death of a person or group. The word elegeia means “song of mourning.”An elegy is similar to an epitaph which is more concise; think of something written on a gravestone. The ode serves to exalt and does not have to be written about the dead. See John Keats, “Ode to Grecian Urn.” The eulogy differs from an elegy because it is traditionally written in more formal prose.

(from www.poets.org)

The elegy follows the 3 stages of loss.

Grief and lament
Praise and admiration
Comfort and solace

Brainstorm:

With your partners, brainstorm words or phrases that express these 3 things. These questions should help.

Lament – Express what is missing from the world now that this person gone. What does the speaker wish he or she had done before they passed on? Why is this a powerful loss for the speaker and the world as a whole? How does this death make the speaker feel? What did the speaker do/react when he or she learned about it? What physical metaphors describe these emotions?
Praise – Celebrate what this person did for the world. In what ways will they be remembered? What did they build? Who did they teach? How will the speaker never be the same? Honor the dead with a unique and detailed description of that relationship. Recall specific times spent together, conversations, gifts and occasions. How has the speaker's life improved because of this person? What will never be the same? How will their memory be carried on?
Consolation – what can be learned from this deth? Wht “silver lining’ can be found in such tragedy? What did they build, say, write, invent or otherwise create that affected the speaker? How would the speaker's life be different without them? Collect quotes and other details that convey your point.

Because this is an ancient form of poetry, aim for writing fourteen lines as in sonnet. However, you do not need to write in rhymed couplets or in blank verse( iambic pentameter.)See if you can identify the three stages in these well-known elegies.

In Memory of W. B. Yeats

W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

He disappeared in the dead of winter:

The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,

And snow disfigured the public statues;

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

What instruments we have agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness

The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,

The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;

By mourning tongues

The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,

An afternoon of nurses and rumours;

The provinces of his body revolted,

The squares of his mind were empty,

Silence invaded the suburbs,

The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities

And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,

To find his happiness in another kind of wood

And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.

The words of a dead man

Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow

When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the

Bourse,

And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly

accustomed,

And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his

freedom,

A few thousand will think of this day

As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

"ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD"

1The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

2The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

3The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

4And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

5Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

6And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

7Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

8And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

9Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

10The moping owl does to the moon complain

11Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,

12Molest her ancient solitary reign.

13Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

14Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

15Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

16The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

17The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

18The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

19The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

20No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

21For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

22Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

23No children run to lisp their sire's return,

24Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

25Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

26Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

27How jocund did they drive their team afield!

28How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

29Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

30Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

31Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

32The short and simple annals of the poor.

33The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

34And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

35Awaits alike the inevitable hour.

36The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

37Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,

38If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

39Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

40The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

41Can storied urn or animated bust

42Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

43Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

44Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

45Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

46Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

47Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

48Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

49But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

50Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

51Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

52And froze the genial current of the soul.

53Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

54The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:

55Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

56And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

57Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

58The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

59Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

60Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

61The applause of listening senates to command,

62The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

63To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

64And read their history in a nation's eyes,

65Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

66Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

67Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

68And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

69The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

70To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

71Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

72With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

73Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

74Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

75Along the cool sequestered vale of life

76They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

77Yet even these bones from insult to protect

78Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

79With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

80Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

81Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,

82The place of fame and elegy supply:

83And many a holy text around she strews,

84That teach the rustic moralist to die.

85For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

86This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,

87Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

88Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

89On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

90Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

91Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

92Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

93For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead

94Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

95If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

96Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

97Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

98'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

99'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

100'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

101'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

102'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

103'His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

104'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

105'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

106'Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,

107'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

108'Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

109'One morn I missed him on the customed hill,

110'Along the heath and near his favourite tree;

111'Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

112'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

113'The next with dirges due in sad array

114'Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.

115'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,

116'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

The Epitaph

117Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

118A youth to fortune and to fame unknown.

119Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

120And Melancholy marked him for her own.

121Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

122Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

123He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,

124He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

125No farther seek his merits to disclose,

126Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

127(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

128The bosom of his Father and his God.

Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)

John Donne, 1572 - 1631

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou’art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy’or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Source: Leaves of Grass (David McKay, 1891)

Fugue of Death

Paul Celan, 1930 - 1970

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he
whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in
the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the
sky it is
ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others
you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are
his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on
for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He shouts play sweeter death’s music death comes as a
master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you
shall climb to the sky
then you’ll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie
there

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from
Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and
drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are
blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit
you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a
grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a
master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.

To an Athlete Dying Young

BY A. E. HOUSMAN

The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay,

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl’s.

For the Union Dead

Robert Lowell, 1917 - 1977

“Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam.”

The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.

Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.

My hand draws back. I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.

Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,

shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens’ shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage’s earthquake.

Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city’s throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.

He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound’s gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.

He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man’s lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die--
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.

On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.

The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year--
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns . . .

Shaw’s father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son’s body was thrown
and lost with his “niggers.”

The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling

over a Mosler Safe, the “Rock of Ages”
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.

Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the blessèd break.

The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.

Notes from class:

Grief

too young to die

never got to kiss Liesel

Praise

Ootgoing spirit

athlete

Kind to Thomas

Supportive of Liesel

loved Jesse Owens

saved the book inthe river

Abetted the Book Thief

Solace

at least he did what he wanted

Middle School English with Mrs. Sullivan

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

English 8: Elegy prewriting

Monday, January 26, 2015

English 8: Plans January 26 - 30, 2014

English 8: Elegy Writing