Rhythm John Keenan John keenannewman ac uk 1

Rhythm John Keenan John. keenan@newman. ac. uk 1

The syllable • A syllable is a beat – Crème Egg for longest syllable word. 2

Metre – rhythm structure • meter – Greek - measure • stressed and unstressed syllables 3

The Wave of Speech I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee; A poet could not be but gay, In such a jocund company! I gazed and gazed but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth 4

I have a dream 5

Where are we? • • Syllable Rhythm Metre Stress - unstressed 6

Poetry has Feet • stressed and unstressed syllables • pattern and rhythm of steps equal to pattern and rhythm of poems 7

Let’s walk to a beat • • https: //youtu. be/o. FRb. ZJXj. WIA https: //youtu. be/Q 9 h. Lc. RU 5 w. E 4 https: //youtu. be/EUr. Uf. JW 1 JGk https: //youtu. be/GHEqsg. WNLW 4 8

Let’s walk to a beat • O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ; But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins, " when the band begins to play The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins, " when the band begins to play. 9

I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here. " The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ; But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins, " when the band begins to play The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins, " when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside "; But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap. An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? " But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind, " But it's " Please to walk in front, sir, " when there's trouble in the wind There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's " Please to walk in front, sir, " when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! " But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot; 10 An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees! Tommy – Rudyard Kipling

11 I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy. Do I terrify? —— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand foot The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Lady Lazarus

12 Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash — You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Scansion • Graphic representation of rhythm • gives the broad wave pattern 13

Kinds of patterns iamb(ic) – unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable • • * ‘ The way a crow * ‘ Shook down on me. 14

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. Robert Frost 15

16 And that has made all the difference. I took the one less traveled by, Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— Somewhere ages and ages hence: I shall be telling this with a sigh I doubted if I should ever come back. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, Oh, I kept the first for another day! In leaves no step had trodden black. And both that morning equally lay Had worn them really about the same, Though as for that the passing there Because it was grassy and wanted wear; And having perhaps the better claim, Then took the other, as just as fair, To where it bent in the undergrowth; And looked down one as far as I could And be one traveler, long I stood And sorry I could not travel both Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, The Road Not Taken By Robert Frost

Trochee (trochaic) • stressed followed by unstressed ‘ * ‘ * • Once upon a midnight dreary 17

18 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning— little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore. ” Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, " I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. " Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely, " said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; — 'Tis the wind and nothing more. " Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore? " This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — Merely this, and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Sir, " said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more. " Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis some visitor, " I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more. " The Raven – Edgar Allan Poe

Anapest (anapestic) has two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed one There once was a man from Nantucket Who kept all his cash in a bucket. But his daughter, named Nan, Ran away with a man, And as for the bucket, Nantucket Limericks at 40 paces 19

Dactyl • one stressed followed by two unstressed • ‘ * * ‘ ** • Hickory, dock 20

Into the mouth of hell Into the jaws of Death, Boldly they rode and well, Stormed at with shot and shell, Volleyed and thundered; Cannon in front of them Cannon to left of them, Cannon to right of them, III Rode the six hundred. Into the valley of Death Theirs but to do and die. Theirs not to reason why, Theirs not to make reply, Someone had blundered. Not though the soldier knew Was there a man dismayed? “Forward, the Light Brigade!” II Rode the six hundred. Into the valley of Death Charge for the guns!” he said. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Rode the six hundred. All in the valley of Death Half a league onward, Half a league, half a league, Rode the six hundred. 21 Noble six hundred! Tennyson Charge of the Light Brigade Honour the Light Brigade, Honour the charge they made! All the world wondered. O the wild charge they made! When can their glory fade? VI Left of six hundred. All that was left of them, Back from the mouth of hell, Came through the jaws of Death, They that had fought so well While horse and hero fell. Stormed at with shot and shell, Volleyed and thundered; Cannon behind them Cannon to left of them, Cannon to right of them, V Not the six hundred. Then they rode back, but not Shattered and sundered. Reeled from the sabre stroke Cossack and Russian Right through the line they broke;

Spondee (spondaic) • stressed syllables • ‘ ‘ ‘ • We, real, cool. We left school. 22

The Song of Hiawatha Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers, With their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations As of thunder in the mountains? I should answer, I should tell you, "From the forests and the prairies, From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Feeds among the reeds and rushes. I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer. " Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell you, "In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver, In the hoof-prints of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle! "All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fen-lands, In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!" If still further you should ask me, Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha, " I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow. "In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. Round about the Indian village Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter, Ever sighing, ever singing. "And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, By the alders in the Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley. "There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how be fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people!" Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries; -Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken; -Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness And are lifted up and strengthened; -Listen to this simple story, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder On a half-effaced inscription, Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter; -Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha! Longfellow 23

Pyrrhic • three unstressed followed by a stressed • * * * ‘ • At their/return, /up the/high strand, / 24

How vainly men themselves amaze When we have run our passion’s heat, Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, To win the palm, the oak, or bays, Love hither makes his best retreat. Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, And their uncessant labours see The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Casting the body’s vest aside, Crown’d from some single herb or tree, Still in a tree did end their race: My soul into the boughs does glide; Whose short and narrow verged shade Apollo hunted Daphne so, There like a bird it sits and sings, Does prudently their toils upbraid; Only that she might laurel grow; Then whets, and combs its silver wings; While all flow’rs and all trees do close And Pan did after Syrinx speed, And, till prepar’d for longer flight, To weave the garlands of repose. Not as a nymph, but for a reed. Waves in its plumes the various light. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, What wond’rous life in this I lead! Such was that happy garden-state, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Ripe apples drop about my head; While man there walk’d without a mate; Mistaken long, I sought you then The luscious clusters of the vine After a place so pure and sweet, In busy companies of men; Upon my mouth do crush their wine; What other help could yet be meet! Your sacred plants, if here below, The nectarine and curious peach But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share Only among the plants will grow. Into my hands themselves do reach; To wander solitary there: Society is all but rude, Stumbling on melons as I pass, Two paradises ’twere in one To this delicious solitude. Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass. To live in paradise alone. No white nor red was ever seen Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, How well the skillful gard’ner drew So am’rous as this lovely green. Withdraws into its happiness; Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new, Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, The mind, that ocean where each kind Where from above the milder sun Cut in these trees their mistress’ name; Does straight its own resemblance find, Does through a fragrant zodiac run; Little, alas, they know or heed Yet it creates, transcending these, And as it works, th’ industrious bee How far these beauties hers exceed! Far other worlds, and other seas; Computes its time as well as we. Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, Annihilating all that’s made How could such sweet and wholesome hours No name shall but your own be found. To a green thought in a green shade. Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs! 25 Marvell The Garden

Mnemonic • A poem to remember the rhythm 26

Poetry 27

http: //www. kgbanswers. co. uk/ever ything-we-do-is-driven-by-you-isthe-slogan-of-whichcompany/3415230 Everything we do is driven by you. Slogan competition 28