Friday, October 26, 2012

Extra Credit Poems

How does this poem by Rita Dove  fit with themes found in  The Giver?
Memorize it for up to 8 points of extra credit.  (This offer expires May 23.)


The First Book, by Rita Dove   

Open it.
Go ahead, it won't bite.
Well...maybe a little.
More a nip, like. A tingle.
It's pleasurable, really.
You see, it keeps on opening.
You may fall in.
Sure, it's hard to get started;
remember learning to use
knife and fork? Dig in:
you'll never reach bottom.
It's not like it's the end of the world-
just the world as you think
you know it. 
--found at 
How could you relate this poem to The Giver?  Earn up to ten points of extra credit.  (This offer expires May 23.)

When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer
          -- Walt Whitman

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;        
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

A "science fiction" poem:   Up to 15 points for memorizing the whole poem.

This poem works as a riddle.  Can you  figure out what is being described and who is seeing it that way. You could call this a "science fiction" poem!
Here is the poem: (By the way, May Swenson originally came from Utah. She was born in Logan, attended the University of Utah, and became a world-famous poet.)

Southbound. . .
By May Swenson

A tourist came in from Orbitville,
parked in the air, and said:

The creatures of this star
are made of metal and glass.

Through the transparent parts
you can see their guts.

Their feet are round and roll
on diagrams or long

measuring tapes, dark
with white lines.

They have four eyes.
The two in the back are red.

Sometimes you can see a five-eyed
one, with a red eye turning

on the top of his head.
He must be special—

the others respect him,
and go slow

when he passes, winding
among them from behind.

They all hiss as they glide,
like inches, down the marked

tapes. Those soft shapes,
shadowy inside

the hard bodies—are they
their guts or their brains?

More poems:
A welcome to winter:

A grammar poem: