“In Flanders Fields” · PDF fileWWI Homework Poetry Project Mrs. Beard 12 Hours (6 writing) In order to both understand poetic devices and continue analyzing poetry using the TP-CASST

WWI Homework Poetry Project

Mrs. Beard

12 Hours (6 writing)

In order to both understand poetic devices and continue analyzing poetry using the TP-CASST

method, we will be working on a poetry analysis report. You have chosen a WWI poet, and

below is the first poem you will analyze. You must find and TP-CASTT two (2) more of the

author’s poems. Once you have analyzed all three, you will write an essay about the overarching

theme (underlying message or universal truth) of the author’s work. In the essay you must

explain the types of literary devices the author uses, and how those devices help to give meaning

to their work.

Your essay must be 5paragraphs. You must adhere to MLA formatting standards for the final

draft. Your TP-CASTTs may be in draft. You should include either typed or hand-written copies

of the poems you chose with each TP CASTT. Include a table of contents, and turn in the entire

project for 12 homework hours. Do NOT use subheadings in the body of your essay. Only

completed projects will be accepted.

“In Flanders Fields” by John MacRae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“For the Fallen” by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are

known

As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;

As the stars that are starry in the time of our

darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“Dulce et decorum est” by Wilfred Owen

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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 floundering 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,

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.


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“On Passing the New Menin Gate” by Siegfried Sassoon

Who will remember, passing through this Gate,

The unheroic Dead who fed the guns?

Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate, -

Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?

Crudely renewed, the Salient holds its own.

Paid are its dim defenders by this pomp;

Paid, with a pile of peace-complacent stone,

The armies who endured that sullen swamp.

Here was the world's worst wound. And here with pride

'Their name liveth for evermore' the Gateway claims.

Was ever an immolation so belied

As these intolerably nameless names?

Well might the Dead who struggled in the slime

Rise and deride this sepulchre of crime.


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“On Receiving News of the War” by Isaac Rosenberg

Snow is a strange white word.

No ice or frost

Has asked of bud or bird

For Winter's cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow

From earth to sky

This Summer land doth know.

No man knows why.

In all men's hearts it is.

Some spirit old

Hath turned with malign kiss

Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face.

God's blood is shed.

He mourns from His lone place

His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse!

Corrode, consume.

Give back this universe

Its pristine bloom.


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“The War Sonnets: V. The Soldier” by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“The Silent Slain” by Archibald MacLeish

We too, we too, descending once again

The hills of our own land, we too have heard

Far off -- Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine --

The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,

the first, the second blast, the failing third,

And with the third turned back and climbed once more

The steep road southward, and heard faint the sound

Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war,

And crossed the dark defile at last, and found

At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain

The dead against the dead and on the silent ground

The silent slain --


Mrs. Beard








to their work.






“Memorial Day” by Joyce Kilmer

"Dulce et decorum est"

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,

But not of war it sings to-day.

The road is rhythmic with the feet

Of men-at-arms who come to pray.

The roses blossom white and red

On tombs where weary soldiers lie;

Flags wave above the honored dead

And martial music cleaves the sky.

Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,

They kept the faith and fought the fight.

Through flying lead and crimson steel

They plunged for Freedom and the Right.

May we, their grateful children, learn

Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,

Who went through fire and death to earn

At last the accolade of God.

In shining rank on rank arrayed

They march, the legions of the Lord;

He is their Captain unafraid,

The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a

sword.

Writing on a “Body of Work” by a single author is complex, but no more difficult than

analyzing and writing about one work at a time.

After analyzing each of the three poems, look for a “defining characteristic” that they all

have in common. If someone had an anonymous poem and asked you if you thought

your poet was the author, would you be able to decide if it was written by your poet?

Look for aspects that set them apart – is it a unique slant on war? Does he always use

nature metaphors? Is there always dialogue? Does he focus mainly on the injured, the

dead, or the reaction of others?

Compare and contrast them in terms of poetic devices – style, figurative language,

attitude, mood and tone, for more - see notes

“” “” in terms of theme or subject

Background on your poet or WWI is acceptable, but not always necessary. Generally

anything not specific to the poetry should be in the OP and CP only.

Think about how you will organize your essay:

o You can focus on one poem at a time explaining which aspect(s) is unique or

characteristic of your poet

o Alternatively, you can focus on a characteristic at a time, showing how each poem

demonstrates the aspect

o Whatever you think is appropriate and easy for your audience to follow logically.

Documents

“In Flanders Fields” · PDF fileWWI Homework Poetry Project Mrs. Beard 12 Hours (6 writing) In order to both understand poetic devices and continue analyzing poetry using the TP-CASST