Poetry in Motion Trivia Quiz

Answer: The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, USA. His date of birth was January 19th, 1809. Both of his parents died when he was very young. He was adopted by John Allen. After a life of turmoil, alcohol and failure, he eventually published "The Raven" which has remained immortal. Works by Poe that have long stood strong are "The Fall of the House of Usher", "The Gold Bug", "The Purloined Letter" and "The Murders of the Rue Morgue", just to name a few of them. He died on October 7th, 1849 at the very young age of forty.

"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

"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 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.

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."

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 marvelled 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."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore:
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!"

Answer: Requiescat

Born in Dublin, Ireland, Oscar Wilde's mother, Lady Jane Francesca Wilde, penname Sperenza, was both a poet and a journalist. His father, Sir William Wilde, also a gifted writer, specialized in diseases of the ears and the eyes.
From 1887 to 1889, Oscar Wilde edited for "Woman's World" magazine. He published "The Happy Prince and Other Tales" in 1888, with "The Picture of Dorian Gray" in 1890. He was sent to prison for homosexuality and deprived of any paper for writing, for 19 months. He eventually wrote "De Profundis" in 1905. He was released from prison in 1897 and wrote under the name of Sebastian Melmoth. Under this name he wrote "The Ballad of Reading Gaol".

"Requiescat" by Oscar Wilde

"Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it."

Answer: Within my Garden, Rides a Bird

Emily Dickinson lived from 1830 to 1886. Her poems dealt with the issues of death, immortality, faith, nature, domesticity and language. She started to compose her poetry sometime around 1850. Her earliest known poem was dated March 4, 1850 and was published in 1852.

"Within my Garden, Rides a Bird" by Emily Dickinson

"Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel --
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill --

He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose --
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted --
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres --
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us
If positive, 'twere we --
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity --

But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye --
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply!"

Answer: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways (sonnet 43)

Elizabeth Barret Browning (1809 to 1861), was born in County Durham, England. Her father was able to provide her with an excellent classical education. He was her public and her critic in all that she did. She was of a delicate and fragile build but made up for that with her most beautiful writings, especially poetry. When she was thirty-seven, she married Robert Browning, a well noted English poet, and moved to Italy. She has long been admired and loved for her exquisite poems.

"Sonnet 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."

Answer: I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud

Born in Cockermouth, Cumberland County, England was a wonderful poet by the name of William Wordsworth. He lived from April 7th, 1770 until April 28th, 1850. In 1795 a dying friend, Raisley Calvert, left Wordsworth a sum of money to be used for study. He spent a great deal of his life composing amazing poetry. The universities of both Oxford and Durham gave him academic honors and in 1843 he was made Poet Laureate of England which gave him a yearly pension. He had a long and happy life, dying in 1850 at the age of eighty.

"I Wander'd Lonely As A Cloud" ("Daffodils") by William Wordsworth

"I wander'd 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."

Answer: Mirror

Sylvia Plath published her first poem when she was a mere eight years old. Her beloved father died when she was eight years old also. She was a very intelligent and sensitive person who was compelled toward perfection in everything she did. In 1950, when she entered Smith College, she had already published many works. She made a suicidal attempt which later was described in an autobiographical novel called "The Bell Jar" which was published in 1963. On February 11th, 1963 she committed suicide at the age of 30.

"Mirror" by Sylvia Plath

"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish."

Answer: The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874 to 1963) was a wonderful author who was born in San Francisco, California. After his father's death, when Robert was eleven, his mother supported the family as a school teacher. They lived in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Robert was very highly educated, married and had six children. At the age of 39 he published "A Boy's Will", which was his first collection of poems. Though very terrified of public speaking, even up to his death, he was worldly traveled and gave many lectures and readings throughout his lifetime.

"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."

Answer: The Poem Cat

Erica Jong is a poet, essayist and novelist, known best for her best-selling novels, one of which is "Fear of Flying". She started her writing career as a poet and has actually published six collections, which are award-winning collections at that. She was awarded the Bess Hokin Prize of Poetry, the Borestone Mountain Award for Poetry and many other awards. Her works have been translated into twenty-seven languages. She was also awarded the Premio Internationale Sigmund Freud, and the United Nations Award of Excellence. She was President of the Authors Guild of the USA from 1991 to 1993. One of her most recent works is her comical story "Fear of Fifty" which was published in 1994.

"The Poem Cat" by Erica Jong

"Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.

Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.

The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her."

Answer: Trees

Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 to 1918) was a poet as well as an American journalist. He was born in New Brunswick, New Jersey, went to Rutgers College and Columbia University. As a soldier he was killed during WWI, by a sniper. There is a Joyce Kilmer Memorial forest in North Carolina, which was for the purpose of stopping extensive over-logging in the area. It was dedicated to Kilmer on July 10th, 1936. Kilmer had been the Vice President of a collegiate literary society at Columbia University. The Philolexian Society from Columbia University hold an annual Joyce Kilmer Memorial Bad Poetry Contest, every year, in honor of Kilmer.

"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

"I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree."

Answer: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Coleridge was born in Ottery, St. Mary, Devonshire, England in 1772. He died in 1834 and was buried in a vault at Highgate Church. When his father died he was taken to study for eight years, showing a rare memory and an ability to retain everything he read. He eventually enlisted as a soldier, since he grew tired of study. Once discharged he eventually wrote "Religious Musings" which is regarded as one of his finest poems. By 1823 he wrote his best prose titled "Aids to Reflection". In 1830 he created "Church and State". His best known poems include "Christabel" and "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.".

"The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Coleridge

Part I

"It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
Mayst hear the merry din.'"



The following link is for the poem in its entirety. Due to its length it takes up too many pages on the site.

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/samuel_coleridge/poems/7097