Rhythm

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

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

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

4. The Wave of Speech I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloudThat 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 shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling leaves in glee;A poet could not be but gay,In such a jocund company!I gazed and gazed but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth

5. I have a dream

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

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

8. Let’s walk to a beat • https://youtu.be/oFRbZJXjWIA • https://youtu.be/Q9hLcRU5wE4 • https://youtu.be/EUrUfJW1JGk • https://youtu.be/GHEqsgWNLW4

9. 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 playThe band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

10. 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 playThe 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 tideThe 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 sleepIs cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap. An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bitIs 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 rollThe 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 windThere'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 faceThe 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; 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. Lady Lazarus 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 and 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.

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 the 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  Beware.  Out of the ash  I rise with my red hair  And I eat men like air.

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

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

15. The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock treeHas given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued. Robert Frost

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

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

18. 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."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 borrowFrom 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.And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled 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."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.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.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."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.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."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 beingEver 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.” The Raven – Edgar Allan Poe

19. Anapest (anapestic) has two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed one There once was a man from NantucketWho 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

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

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

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

23. 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 reverberationsAs 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-landsWhere the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Feeds among the reeds and rushes.I repeat them as I heard themFrom the lips of Nawadaha,The musician, the sweet singer."  Should you ask where NawadahaFound 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 inquiriesStraightway 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 villageSpread 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 riversThrough their palisades of pine-trees,And the thunder in the mountains,Whose innumerable echoesFlap 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 offCall to us to pause and listen,Speak in tones so plain and childlike,Scarcely can the ear distinguishWhether 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 agesEvery human heart is human,That in even savage bosomsThere are longings, yearnings, strivingsFor the good they comprehend not,That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness,Touch God's right hand in that darknessAnd are lifted up and strengthened;--Listen to this simple story,To this Song of Hiawatha!  Ye, who sometimes, in your ramblesThrough the green lanes of the country,Where the tangled barberry-bushesHang their tufts of crimson berriesOver stone walls gray with mosses,Pause by some neglected graveyard,For a while to muse, and ponderOn a half-effaced inscription,Written with little skill of song-craft,Homely phrases, but each letterFull of hope and yet of heart-break,Full of all the tender pathosOf the Here and the Hereafter;--Stay and read this rude inscription,Read this Song of Hiawatha!  Longfellow

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

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

26. Mnemonic • A poem to remember the rhythm

27. Poetry

28. http://www.kgbanswers.co.uk/everything-we-do-is-driven-by-you-is-the-slogan-of-which-company/3415230http://www.kgbanswers.co.uk/everything-we-do-is-driven-by-you-is-the-slogan-of-which-company/3415230 Everything we do is driven by you. Slogan competition