When naming things, you have to use a noun;
A verb shows action or a state of being.
An adjective describes—that is, marks down
The qualities of objects that you’re seeing.
An adverb tells you how, or else how soon
A deed is done—say, “painfully” or “fast.”
When placed with adjectives they help fine-tune
Descriptive force, like “absolutely gassed.”
A pronoun takes the place of proper names
Or else alludes to antecedent things.
A preposition points, and always frames
The noun or noun-linked phrase to which it clings.
A participle emanates from verbs
And functions as a hybrid in good diction.
It can take past or present form, and serves
To add a tense-based nuance to depiction.
Conjunctions tie together words and clauses;
They also can disjoin by act of scission.
Like plus and minus signs, they marshal forces
For union, separation, or division.
An article is just an honorific
You put before some nouns so we’ll discern
Whether your focus on them is specific
Or just a passing glance of unconcern.
An interjection is a mere effusion—
A word you blurt out from your guts or heart
In rage, joy, spite, emotional confusion…
It stands alone, syntactically apart.
These are the parts of speech that make up discourse,
At least for folks in literacy’s fold.
So if you’re hoping to get by in this course
Don’t give me any backtalk—learn them cold.
Joseph S. Salemi has published five books of poetry, and his poems, translations, and scholarly articles have appeared in over one hundred publications worldwide. He is the editor of the literary magazine TRINACRIA and writes for Expansive Poetry On-line. He teaches in the Department of Humanities at New York University and in the Department of Classical Languages at Hunter College.
This snapshot of a classroom from the early 1920s shows intrigued schoolboys and their teachers. Public Domain
Homophonophobic
(This poem is so vain and humorousyou’ll burst a vein or break your humerus)
By Michael Pietrack
My editor returned my latest piece,
but all my comrades lay in pools of red
revisions. Storms of mourning blew my peace
away on that blue morning, as I read.
My angry tears died on the stationery
and dyed the marks that villain chose to write,
but idle as an idol, stationary,
I weathered thoughts of whether he was right.
Okay, I missed a comma—that is fair.
Ah yes—good catch—it should be ‘reins,’ not ‘reigns.’
But wait—this edit weighed more than the fare,
and now I wade in criticism’s rains!
It’s true—that noun does need a capital.
What’s this I’ve seen? “Please knead the scene with patience.”
You sail from off your ivory capitol
with medicine for sale that harms your patients!
But now it seems my seams will pop the sew,
he writes, “Thus based on standards held by our
elites, your rhyme of ‘stairs’ with ‘stares’ was so
unskilled, I deem your work as Amateur Hour!”
How dare he meddle, as if he’s won some medal,
and charge me one gold metal bar plus tax
to only steal away my writer’s mettle
and crucify my work of steel with tacks.
My mirror pane revealed my pain; and pale,
I wadded up the poem and I threw
it through the waist of the waste paper pail.
But then … a piquing thought came peeking through.
Though I was preyed upon and shredded bare,
this lesson will not lessen me from higher
reaches than the claws of such a bear,
and so I prayed the vow to never hire
such a raging homophonophobic!
Edits made in red pen can be jarring, especially for the budding writer. Nic McPhee/CC BY-SA 2.0
Michael Pietrack is a poet from western Colorado. He is the author of the first epic fable, “Legacy: The Saga Begins,” a novel in verse. He holds a Master’s Degree in Education and a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature and Theatre.
Four Letter Words
By Gigi Ryan
My dad was smart, my dad was wise;
He crossed his t’s and dotted i’s.
His grammar skills were without taint.
And he did not say y’all or ain’t.
He taught an English class to teens
(In a suit and never jeans).
“Raise your hand, do not be late,
And never utter y’all or ain’t.”
“Be creative in your work.
Do not proper grammar shirk.
And never in your papers state
A shameful word like y’all or ain’t.”
He loved to read and loved to write
And made sure all his words were right;
What a story he could paint
(Never using y’all or ain’t).
He didn’t cuss except to quote
A necessary anecdote—
Even then he’d rather faint
Than stoop to words like y’all or ain’t.
From my mouth four letter words
Were never by him ever heard,
I did not dare to aggravate
My dad with words like y’all or ain’t.
When I moved to Tennessee
Words I thought were heresy
Were used with shocking unrestraint—
Everywhere were y’all and ain’t!
It’s taken many years for me
To say y’all with apparent ease.
I feel some guilt—I’ll tell you straight—
When I speak out a y’all or ain’t.
A pre-1910 cartoon by Homer Davenport from his memoir "The Country Boy." Public Domain
Gigi Ryanis a wife, mother, grandmother, and home educator. She lives in rural Tennessee.
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Evan Mantyk
Author
Evan Mantyk is an English teacher in New York and President of the Society of Classical Poets.
