Edgar Allan Poe

Think about what you learned in class today about Edgar Allan Poe's life.  Read this poem and explain what you think it's about.  What makes you think so? 

Alone
Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring -
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone -
And all I ever lov'd - I lov'd alone -
Then - in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still -
From the torrent, or the fountain -
From the red cliff of the mountain -
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by -
From the thunder, and the storm -
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view -

Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes often used dialect in his poetry.  Read the poem below and answer ALL THREE questons about it.  1. What do you think it's about?  2. Why do you think he used dialect here?  3. What effect does it have on the poem? 

Homesick Blues
Langston Hughes

De railroad bridge's
A sad song in de air.
De railroad bridge's
A sad song in de air.
Ever time de trains pass
I wants to go somewhere,.

I went down to de station.
Ma heart was in ma mouth.
Went down to de station.
Heart was in ma mouth.
Lookin' for a box car
To roll me to de South.

Homesick blues, Lawd,
'S a terrible thing to have.
Homesick blues is
A terrible thing to have.
To keep from cryin'
I opens ma mouth an' laughs.

Emily Dickinson's Riddle Poems

Many of Emily Dickinson's poems are very descriptive and riddle-like... can you figure out what this one is about?  Here are some definitions of vocab words that might help:

sieves: strainers or sifters
artisans: skilled workers who make things that show imagination and feeling

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, -
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, -
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
And ankles of a queen, -
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

Where are you when it comes to poetry?

What has been your experience with poetry so far in your life?  What kinds of poems have you read or written?  How do you feel about poetry?  Be honest!