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Lesson
Reading and Writing Poetry
Types of Poetry

Forms of Poetry

Poetry has been around for almost four thousand years and remains an important part of art and
culture. Like other forms of literature, poetry is written to share ideas, express emotions, and create imagery. Poets
choose words for their meaning and acoustics, arranging them to create a tempo known as the meter. Some poems
incorporate rhyme schemes, with two or more lines that end in like-sounding words. Poetry comes in three
classifications (narrative, lyric, and dramatic), under which are different forms.

Read the poem “Sonnet 18” written by William Shakespeare.

SONNET 18
(Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?)
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Some people look at poetry as something they could never write. They think it’s too overwhelming to
capture thoughts in concise lines, so they shy away from it, but there is a poetry form for everyone.

There are forms that don’t worry about rhyme scheme, syllable count, stanzas, or the number of lines.
Then there are others that are much more structured, providing a needed challenge for some people. They could
also provide the necessary structure for those who don’t know where to begin when it comes to writing a poem.

Poets generally have their favorite form(s), the one(s) they come back to again and again. As time passes,
this form becomes second nature for them to create. The challenge is no longer there, so to keep a poet fresh, he or
she might set out to try a less familiar poetry form. Following different rules of a new structure helps to stretch the
imagination.

Whether you are a novice or expert poet, try some of the different forms. Who knows, you might discover a
new favorite. Take some time to enjoy the creative expression of writing poetry. Explore these common forms, and
give them a try.

Let us now discuss the different forms of poetry. A literary form is often known as a literary genre. Here we
will give you some of the poetic forms you will read in the course of your study.
Forms of Poetry

 The Ballad

Etymologically, the word ballad has been taken from Latin word ballare, which

means dancing song. Ballad is a shorter narrative poem, which comprises of short stanzas.
Ballad is a short story in verse, which is intended to be sung with the accompaniment of music.
It is opposite to the Epic, which is a lengthy story in verse.

Two distinct kinds of ballads

 Folk or traditional ballad

The traditional ballad, popular in England and in Scotland in the 15th century was a specific
form of narrative poem which has become a part of the world of folk-song.  

Traditional ballad was developed by anonymous poets in the ancient times and handed down to
our generation by word of mouth. It has no written form. It is a verbal sort of poetry, which
underwent reasonable changes during the course of time due to new circumstances and
conditions. In every new age, it altered a lot and absorbed many traits of the contemporary age.

Example :

Barbara Allen
BY ANONYMOUS

In Scarlet town, where I was born,

There was a fair maid dwellin’,
Made every youth cry Well-a-way!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,

When green buds they were swellin’,
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man in to her then,

To the town where she was dwellin’;
“O haste and come to my master dear,
If your name be Barbara Allen.”

So slowly, slowly rase she up,

And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by—
“Young man, I think you’re dyin’.”

“O it’s I am sick and very very sick,

And it’s all for Barbara Allen.”—
O the better for me ye’se never be,
Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!

“O dinna ye mind, young man,” says she,

“When the red wine ye were fillin’,
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?”

He turned his face unto the wall,

 And death was with him dealin’:
“Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!”

As she was walking o’er the fields,

She heard the dead-bell knellin’;
And every jow the dead-bell gave
Cried “Woe to Barbara Allen.”

“O mother, mother, make my bed,

O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me today,
I’ll die for him tomorrow.”

“Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all,

And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.”

 Literary ballad.

Literary ballad is actually an imitation of the traditional ballad. The only difference between the
two ballads is the authorship. The author of the literary ballad is a known personality, while the
author of the traditional ballad is anonymous. The author of the traditional ballad may be a
common man or a shepherd, villager or a farmer. Nobody knows about the real author of the
traditional ballad. Moreover, time cannot bring about any change in the text of the literary
ballad as t it is preserved in hard and soft copies. The poet is the legal owner of his ballads.
Literary ballads are more polished and lengthy when compared with the traditional ballads.
Literary ballads possess all the remaining features of the traditional ballad.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

John Keats

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

  Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
  And the harvest's done.
I see a lilly on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
  A faery's song.
 I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
  And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
  I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes—
  So kissed to sleep.
And there we slumbered on the moss,
  And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
  On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried—"La belle Dame sans merci
  Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
  On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

 Epic

The epic is a long, narrative poem on an exalted theme or action involving heroic characters and
supernatural agencies and rendered in a grand style. Epics are also sometimes based on myths
and legends. Obviously, this implies that an epic surpasses the dimensions of realism and it
celebrates the exploits of exceptional men, thereby gaining for itself grandeur and universality.
There are the classical epics singing the praise of a hero or a civilization like that of the Romans
or of Christendom. The well-known epics are Homer's The ILIAD and the Odyssey. Virgil's
Aeneid, Milton's Paradise Lost, besides the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, the two Indian
epics.

Example ;

The Odyssey 

“Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the
famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners
and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his
own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for
 they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the
god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, O daughter
of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.”

Paradise Lost by John Milton

“Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast Brought
Death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and
regain the blissful Seat,”

Ramayana and Mahabharata

“Oh great one, do not praise me,” “I am after all a fighter and conqueror—base qualities when
compared to the learning and special attainments of one like you. I am not easily led by
appearances. I can know how great you must be. I shall be happy if you will accept a gift in
return for the honour you have done in visiting me.”

 Sonnet

A sonnet is a type of poem that is comprised of fourteen lines of iambic pentameter verse
that follow a specific rhyme scheme. The word “sonnet” comes from the Italian word sonetto
which mean “little song.” There are two distinct kinds -the English or the Elizabethan or
Shakespearean sonnet and the Italian or the Petrarchan sonnet. A third kind is the Spenserian
sonnet (Edmund Spencer, an English poet), which is a variation of the English sonnet.

English poets borrowed the sonnet form from the Italian poet Francesco Petrarch.
Sonnets are associated with desire: for centuries poets have used the frame of the sonnet to
explore the complicated human experience of romantic love. Sonnet XVIII is one of the famous
sonnet written by William Shakespeare.

Example :

Italian or the Petrarchan sonnet

Sonnets from the Portuguese 43:

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways 
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
 With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Spenserian Sonnet

Amoretti LXXV:
One Day I Wrote her Name
BY EDMUND SPENSER

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise."
"Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."

 Dramatic Monologue

Dramatic Monologue is a poem in which a single speaker - not the poet - speaks at a critical
moment or situation in which he finds himself and he is seen addressing one or more persons
who do not speak but whose presence we strongly feel. This form makes the reader follow the
story from the point of view of the speaker who is involved in the action and it also throws light
on his character. The dramatic element is to be seen in the speech that is uttered aloud by the
speaker who is a character in a situation and who is seen speaking to other characters.
A dramatic monologue is also called a persona poem, and the character speaking in the poem is
referred to as a “persona.” The narrator of a persona poem or dramatic monologue is most
frequently a person, but dramatic monologues can also be told by animals, objects, places, or
abstract concepts (such as love or destiny).
Example :
MY LAST DUCHESS
BY ROBERT BROWNING

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
 The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
 ACTIVITY : Directions: Read the poem below. Determine its form and discuss why it is such.

The Conversion
by J. Neil Garcia

It happened in a metal drum.

They put me there, my family
That loved me. The water
Had been saved just for it, that day.
The laundry lay caked and smelly
In the flower-shaped basins.
Dishes soiled with fat and swill
Pilled high in the sink, and grew flies.
My cousins did not get washed that morning.
Lost in masks of snot and dust,
Their faces looked tired and resigned
To the dirty lot of children.
All the neighbors gathered around our
open-aired bathroom. Wives peered out
from the upper floor of their houses
into our yard. Father had arrived booming
with cousins, my uncles.
They were big, strong men, my uncles.
They turned the house inside-out
Looking for me. Curled up in the deepest corner
Of my dead mother’s cabinet, father found me.
He dragged me down the stairs by the hair
Into the waiting arms of my uncles.
Because of modesty, I merely screamed and
cried. Their hands, swollen and black with hair,
bore me Up in the air, and touched me. Into the
cold
Of the drum I slipped, the tingling
Too much to bear at times my knees
Felt like they had turned into water.
Waves swirled up and down around me, my head
Bobbing up and down. Father kept booming,
Girl or boy. I thought about it and squealed,
Girl. Water curled under my nose.
When I rose the same two words from father.
The same girl kept sinking deeper,
Breathing deeper in the churning void.
In the end I had to say what they all
Wanted me to say. I had to bring down this diversion
To its happy end, if only for the pot of rice
Left burning in the kitchen. I had to stop
Wearing my dead mother’s clothes. In the mirror
I watched the holes on my ears grow smaller,
Until they looked as if they had never heard
Of rhinestones, nor felt their glassy weight.

I should feel happy that I’m now

Redeemed. And I do. Father died within five years
I got my wife pregnant with the next.
Our four children, all boys,
Are the joy of my manhood, my proof.
Cousins who never shed their masks
Play them for all their snot and grime.
Another child is on the way.
I have stopped caring what it will be.
Water is still a problem and the drum
Is still there, deep and rusty.
The bathroom has been roofed over with plastic.
Scrubbed and clean, my wife knows I like things.
She follows, though sometimes a pighead she is.
It does not hurt to show who is the man.
A woman needs some talking sense into. If not,
I hit her in the mouth to learn her.
Every time, swill drips from her shredded lips.
I drink with my uncles who all agree.
They should because tonight I own their souls
And the bottles they nuzzle like their prides.
While they boom and boom flies whirr
Over their heads that grew them. Though nobody
Remembers, I sometimes think of the girl
Who drowned somewhere in a dream many dreams ago.
I see her at night with bubbles
Springing like flowers from her nose.
She is dying and before she sinks I try to touch
Her open face. But the water learns
To heal itself and closes around her like a wound.
I should feel sorry but I drown myself in gin before
I can. Better off dead, I say to myself
And my family that loves me for my bitter breath.
We die to rise to a better life.