Appendix

Appendix A
Subdivisions of the Genre of Poetry
Narrative Poetry 1) Ballad - A narrative poem that has a refrain and is written as a song, usually telling of an exciting or dramatic episode. 2) Epic - A very long poem about the adventures of a hero written in lofty language.

Lyric Poetry 1) Haiku - Originally a Japanese form of poetry about nature that has three lines and seventeen syllables. The first and third lines have five syllables, and the second line has seven syllables. 2) Limerick - A light, humorous poem of five lines with a rhyme scheme of aaba, meaning that the first, second and last lines rhyme with each other, and the third and fourth lines rhyme. 3) Sonnet - A highly-stylized poem of exactly 14 lines written in iambic pentameter. 4) Elegy - A poem written about the death of someone. 5) Ode - Originally developed by the Greek and Latin poets, Odes soon began to appear in different cultures across the world. Odes possess a formal poetic diction and deal with a variety of different subjects.

Dramatic Poetry 1) Soliloquy - A speech a character gives of his thoughts and reflections. 2) Monologue - A long utterance by one person, especially one that prevents others from participating in the conversation.

Appendix B Samples of Poems

Narrative Poem
Ballad of A Mother's Heart
By Jose La Villa Tierra
The night was dark, for the moon was young
And the stars were asleep and rare;
The clouds were thick, yet Youth went out
To see his Maiden fair.

"Dear One," he pleaded as he knelt
Before her feet, in tears,
"My love is true; why have you kept
Me waiting all these years?"

The maiden looked at him unmoved,
It seemed, and whispered low:
"Persistent Youth, you have to prove
By deeds your love is true."

"There's not a thing I would not do
For you, Beloved," said he.
"Then go," said she, "to your mother dear
And bring her heart to me."

Without another word,
Youth left and went to his mother dear.
And opened her breast and took her heart.
He did not shed a tear!

Then back to his Maiden fair he ran,
Unmindful of the rain;
But his feet slipped and he fell down
And loud he groaned with pain!

Still in his hand he held the prize
That would win his Maiden's hand;
And he thought of his mother dear
So kind, so sweet, so fond.

And then he heard a voice,
Not from his lips but all apart:
"Get up," it said; "Were you hurt, Child?"
It was his mother's heart.

Lyric Poem
First, A Poem Must Be Magical
By Jose Garcia Villa

First, a poem must be magical,
Then musical as a seagull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird’s flowering
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must hold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poem’s cover.

Dramatic Poem
Hamlet’s Soliloquy (To Be or Not to Be)
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.