| GOLDEN ELITE EDUCATIONAL CONSULTANCY |
| POETRY REVISION QUESTIONS |
Read the poem below and answer the questions that follow. (20 marks)
Old and New
She went up the mountain to pluck wild herbs,
She came down the mountain and met her former husband,
She knelt down and asked her former husband,
“What do you find your new wife like?”
“My new wife, although her talk is clever, Cannot charm me as my old wife could,
In beauty of face there is not much to choose,
But in usefulness they are not at all alike,
My new wife comes in from the road to meet me, My old wife always came down from her tower.* My new wife is clever at embroidering silk; My old wife was good at plain sewing. Of silk embroidery one can do an inch a day; Of plain sewing, more than five feet.
Putting her silks by the side of your sewing,
I see that the new will not compare with the old.”
Anonymous 1st Century B.C.
Questions
“My new wife, although her talk is clever, cannot charm me as my old wife” (3 marks)
Read the poem below and answer the questions that follow:
THE VILLAGE WELL
By the well,
Where fresh water still quietly whisper
As when I
First accompanied Mother and filled my baby gourd,
By this well,
Where many an evening its clean water cleaned me;
This silent well
Dreaded haunt of the long haired Musambwa
Who basked
In the mid-day sun reclining on the rock
Where I now sit
Welling up with many poignant memories;
This spot,
Which has rung with the purity of child laughter;
This spot,
Where eye spoke secretly to responding eye;
This spot,
Where hearts pounded madly in many a breast;
By this well,
Over-hung by leafy branches of sheltering trees
I first noticed her
I saw her in the cool of red, red evening
I saw her
As if I had not seen her a thousand times before
By this well
My eyes asked for love, and my heart went mad.
I stuttered
And murmured my first words of love
And cupped
With my hands, the intoxication that were her breasts
In this well,
In the clear waters of this whispering well,
The silent moon
Witnessed with a smile our inviolate vows The kisses
That left us weak and breathless.
It is dark.
It is dark by the well that still whispers.
It is darker
It is utter darkness in the heart that bleeds
By this well
Where magic has evaporated but memories linger.
Of damp death
The rotting foliage reeks,
And the branches
Are grotesque talons of hungry vultures,
For she is dead
The one I first loved by this well.
Questions:
(iv)Explain the meaning of the following lines as used in the poem.
Read the poem below and answer the questions that follow.
Your Cigarette Burnt the Savannah Grass.
Come
Listen to a boiling pot torch its heart and tell me What do you hear?
the sun sent down sowers of it
that burnt to cinder your eddying conscience the earth at the touch of your fingers
cracked
Colour melts at your stare Orange white blurred and all are the same to you
Your cigarette burnt the savannah grass The scorpion bit me and I cried.
Charles Owuor
Questions
Listen to a boiling pot‟
A TAX DRIVER ON DEATH BED. (By Timothy Wangusa)
When with prophetic eye I peer in to the future
I see that I shall perish upon this road
Driving men that I do not know
This metallic monster that I now dictate,
This docile elaborate horse,
That in silence seems to simmer and strain Shall surely revolt some tempting day.
Thus u shall die: not that I care
For any man‟s journey,
Nor for proprietors gain
Nor yet for the love of my own.
Not for these do I attempt the forbidden limits. For those deft the traffic – man and the cold cell, Risking everything for the little little more.
They shall say, I know, who pick up my bones „Poor chap, another victim to the ruthless machine” concealing my blood under the metal.
Questions.
THE WAR LORD
Cut, thrust, plunge
Slash, slit, stab
Starve, maim, shoot Torch, burn, scar
The trumpets herald you with regal glory Epaulettes glisten and medals gleam
Plunder, loot and steal
Blind, brand, rape
Curse, crush, kidnap Smash, torture, kill
Your arrival is welcomed with carpets of steel Ramrod backed your subjects hail you
Bind, bludgeon, bury
Garotte, impale, castrate
Order, imprison, enslave
Censor, cajole and destroy
Your scarlet cape billows as you sense fresh converts Ever more shrill their praises grow.
Barren, bleak, blackened
Shattered, sterile, stricken
Torn, poisoned, defiled
Bloodied, emtombed, rotting
The prize presented on some stolen silver
A maggot riddled remnant of a once serene world.
Questions
Read the following poem and answer the questions that follow. (20 Marks) Operating Room, By John Reed
Sunlight floods the shiny many-windowed place,
Coldly glinting on flawless steel under glass, And blaring imperially on the spattered gules Where kneeling men grunt as they swab the floor.
Startled eyes of nurses swish by noiselessly,
Orderlies with cropped heads swagger like murderers; And three surgeons, robed and masked mysteriously, Lounge gossiping of guts, and wish it were lunch-time.
Beyond the porcelain door, screaming mounts crescendo
Case 4001 coming out of the ether,
Born again half a man, to spend his life in bed.
Read the poem below and answer the questions below. (20 marks) Theme for English B.
The instructor said,
Go home and write a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you.
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it is that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went there, then Durham, then here To this college on the hill above Harlem, I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harem,
Through a park, then I cross St Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, seventh, and I come to the Y
The Harlem BranchY, where I take the elevator Up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It‟s no easy to know what is true for you or me
At twenty-two, my age. But I guess I‟mwhat I feel and see and hear. Harlem, I hear you:
Hear you, hear me-we two-you, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too) me- who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, Or records- Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn‟t make me not like The same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be A part of you, instructor.
You are white
Yet a part of me, as I am part of you.
That‟s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don‟twant to be part of me. Nor do I often want to be part of you.
But we are, that‟s true! As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me- Although you are older- and white- And somewhat more free. This is my page for English B.
(Langstone Hughes)
Questions.
You don’t want to be part of me. Nor do I often want to be part of you l mk
Read the following poem and answer the questions that follow.
The Gourd of Friendship.
Where is the curiosity we’ve lost in discovery?
Where is the discovery we’ve lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we’ve lost in communication?
Where is the communication we’ve lost in mass media?
And where is the community we’ve lost in all these?
Where is the message we’ve lost in the medium?
It is easy to go to the moon:
There, there are no people.
It is easier to count the stars:
They will not complain.
But the road to your neighbour’s heart – who has surveyed it?
The formula to your brother’s head – Who has devised it?
The gourd that doesn’t spill friendship – In whose garden has it ever grown?
You never know despair Until you’ve lost hope;
You never know your aspiration Until you’ve seen others disillusionment.
Peace resides in the hearts of men.
Not in conference tables and delegates signatures.
True friendship never dies – It grows stronger the more it is used.
By Richard Ntiru
DEATH OF MY FATHER
His sunken cheeks, his inward-looking eyes,
The sarcastic, scornful smile on his lips
The unkempt, matted, grey hair,
The hard, coarse sand-paper hands, Spoke eloquently of the lifehe had lived. But I did not mourn for him.
The hammer, the saw and the plane,
These were his tools and his damnation, His sweat was his ointment and his perfume. He fashioned dining tables, chairs, wardrobes, And all the wooden loves of colonial life. No, I did not mourn for him.
He built colonial mansions,
Huge,unwieldy,arrogant constructions;
But he squatted in a sickly mud-house,
With his children huddled stuntedly,
Under the bed-bug bed he shared with Mother.
I could not mourn for him.
I had already inherited
His premature old-age look,
I had imbibed his frustration;
But his dreams of freedom and happiness Had become my song, my love. So, I could not mourn for him.
No, I did not shed any tears;
My father‟s dead life still lives in me, He lives in my son, my father, I am my father and my son.
I will awaken his sleepy hopes and yearnings, But I will not mourn for him, I will not mourn for me.
iii) I will awaken his sleepy hopes and yearnings,
Read the poem below and answer the questions below that follows
Building the nation
Today I did my share
In building the nation
I drove the Permanent Secretary
To an important urgent function
In fact to luncheon at the Vic.
The menu reflected its importance
Cold bell beer with small talks,
The fried chicken with niceties
Wine to fill the hollowness of the laughs
Ice-cream to cover the stereotype jokes
Coffee to keep the PS awake on return journey.
I drove the Permanent Secretary back.
He yawned many times in the back of the car
Then to keep awake, he suddenly asked,
Did you have lunch friend?
I replied looking straight ahead
And secretary smiles at his belated concern.
That I had not, but was slimming!
Upon which he said with seriousness
That amused more than annoyed me,
Mwananchi, I too had none!
I attended to matters of the state.
Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know,
And friend it goes against my grain,
Causes me stomach ulcers and wind.
Ah, he continued, yawning again,
The pains we suffer in building the nation!
So the PS had ulcers too!
My ulcers I think are equally painful
Only they are caused by hunger,
Not sumptuous lunches!
So two nation builder
Arrived home this evening
With terrible stomach pains
The result of building the nation-
-Different ways.
Questions
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Read the poem below and answer the questions that follow.
“Sympathy”
| I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass And the river flows like a stream of grass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its petals steals – I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats its wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he rather would be on the branch a –swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting – I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, When he beats his bars and would be free; It is not a song of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core, But a plea, that upward to heaven he fings – I know why the caged bird sings!
(Adapted from the poem by Laurence Donbar in ‘American Negro Poetry’ edited by ArnaBomtemps. New York: Hill and Waug 1974)
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Questions
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(i) And the faint perfume from the petals steals (1 mark)
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Read the following poem and answer the questions that follow.
BEGGAR IN THREE PIECE
My jumbo
Shot its way
Across the sky
To distant lands
Across blue seas.
I descended the ladder
To a waiting ribbon
Of blood-red carpet
A quick glance at my
Three piece suit
And the tie
That beautifully strangled my neck.
On my left hand hang
My beaded knobkerrie
On my right clutched
My rusty inter-Nation begging Bowl
On my face I wore humility and need
And of course dignity.
Sir, the dearth of food
Has rendered my people thin
And hungry
Scoop us a little
You know,
Just a little,
To keep the till next rains’
‘But Sir, beggars
In three piece
Are a rare sight
But your suit is beautiful
Now my suit
Which cost me a fortune
In a Parisian Textile
Has denied me a fortune
And my countrymen, lie.
L.O. Sunkuli
Questions
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Shots its way
Across the sky
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iii) To keep them till next rains
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Read the poem below and answer the questions that follow (20marks)
Song of Agony
I put on a clean shirt
And go to work
Which of us
Which of us will come back?
Four and twenty moons
Not seeing women
Not seeing my ox
Not seeing my hand
Which of us
Which of us will die?
I put on a clean shirt
And go to work my contract
To work far away
I go beyond the mountain
Into the bush
Where the roads end
And the rivers run dry
Which of us
Which of us will come back?
Which of us
Which of us will die?
Questions
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Read the poem given below and answer the questions that follow.
THAT OTHER LIFE
(By Everett M Standa)
I have only faint memories
Memories of those days when all our joyful moment
In happiness, sorrow and dreams
Were so synchronized
That we were in spirit and flesh
One soul;
I have only faint memories
When we saw each other’s image everywhere;
The friends, the relatives,
The gift of flowers, clothes and treats,
The evening walks where we praised each other,
Like little children in love;
I remember the dreams about children
The friendly neighbors and relatives
The money, the farms and cows
All were the pleasures ahead in mind
Wishing for the day of final union
When the dreams will come true
On that day final union
We promised each other pleasures and care
And everything good under the sun
As a daily reminder that you and me were one forever.
QUESTIONS
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(i) Happiness, sorrow and dreams were so synchronized………… (2marks)
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(ii) ……. praised each other like children in love (2 marks)
(iii) All were pleasures ahead in mind. (2marks)
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Read the poem below and answer the questions that follow.
I FORGIVE YOU, NYASAYE
I forgive you, Nyasaye
For creating me
When the once stretching fields
Have been turned into skyscrapers
The silvery water turned
Black with factory waste.
Nyasaye, I forgive you
For creating me
When the smile of the moon
The glitters of stars have been blurred by flood
Lights and Neon lights.
I forgive you, Nyasaye
For denying me the chance
To dance the throb of ngoma ngoma
Dance in the open field,
Nyasaye, I forgive you
For creating me
When beautiful black girls
Turn soprano yellow skins
With patches and blots
I forgive you, Nyasaye
For inviting me into the world
When the bull’s flesh has been eaten
To lick the bones for a minute’s satisfactory.
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iii) With patches and blots.
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iii) blots
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Read the poem below and the answer the question that follow (20marks)
“Song of the wagon driver” B5 Johnson
My first love was a ten-tun truck. They gave me when I started, and though she played the bitch with me I grieved when we were parted.
Since then I’ve had a dozen more
The wound was quick to heal
And now it’s easier to say
I’m married to my wheel
I’ve trunked it north, I’ve trunked it south, on
Wagons good and bad, but none was ever really like
The first I ever had.
The life is hard, the hours are long.
Sometimes I cease to feel,
But I go on, for it seems to me
I’m married to my wheel.
Often I think of my home and kids, out on the road
At night, and think of taking a local job
Provided the money’s right.
Two nights a week I see my wife and eat a
Decent meal, but otherwise for all my life,
I’m married to my wheel.
(From “The earth is ours.” Poems for secondary schools selected by I am Gordon.)
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Read the poem below and then answer the questions that follow:-
MONANGAMBA
On that big estate there is no rain
It’s the sweat of my brow that waters the crops
On that big estate there is coffee ripe
And that cherry – redness
Is drops of my blood turned sap.
The coffee will be roasted,
Ground, and crushed,
Will turn black, black with the colours of
The contract labourer
Black with the colour of the contract labourer
Ask the birds that sing,
The streams in carefree wandering
And the high wind from inland
Who gets up early? Who goes to toil?
Who is it that carries on the long rod
The hammock or the bunch of kernels?
Rotten maize, rotten fish,
Ragged clothes, fifty shillings
Beating for biting back?
Who?
Who makes the millet grow
And the orange groves to flower?
Who?
Who gives the money for the boss to buy
Cars, machinery, women
And Negro heads for motors?
And the birds that sing,
The streams in carefree wandering
And the high wind from inland
Will answer
Mongambeeee…
Ah! Let me at least climb the palm trees
Let me drink wine, palm wine
And fuddle by my drunkenness forget.
Mongambeeee…
Questions
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(Rewrite beginning :He wanted ………………)
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