A5 Poetry Book Grade 8

Literature in English
Grade 08
………………………………………………………..
Boswell College International 2
What is Literature?
Literature is the author‘s written form of expression that
reflects his views or opinions on life and living.
Three main divisions of literary works.
 Poetry
 Prose
 Drama
Eras of Literature in English
 Anglo- Saxon (449-1066 AD)

 Medieval Period (1066-1485)
 Elizabethan Period (1485-1625)
 Puritan Period (1625- 1700)
 Classicism Period (1700- 1800)
 The Romantic Period (1800-1839)
 The Victorian Period (1837-1900)
 The 20th Century or The Modern Period
Literary Devices
 Rhyme
Rhymes are the words usually placed at the end of

the line of the verse that repeats its final sound under
some systematic arrangement. This arrangement of
rhymes is called rhyme scheme.
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
 Simile
A comparison of two unlike things using the words

like or as.
She is as pretty as a picture.
 Metaphor
Comparison of two unlike things not using the words

like or as.
She is the picture of health.
 Personification
When an animal or object is given human qualities.

The trees sighed as the wind blew through them.
 Hyperbole
An outrageous exaggeration
I ate a ton of food for dinner.
 Alliteration
The repetition of consonant sounds.

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers
 Assonance
The repetition of vowel sounds .

Every elephant eats enormous eagles.
 Stanza
A stanza is a group of lines in poetry, typically more

than two that form the basic unit of the poem. Poets
typically separate the stanzas by putting space
between them.
Old Jack-o-lantern lay on the ground;

He looked at the Moon-man, yellow and round.
Old Jack-o-lantern gazed and he gazed,

And still as he looked he grew more amazed.
 Imagery
The literary term used for language and description

that appeal to our five senses. When a writer attempts
to describe something so that it appeals to our sense
of smell, sight, taste, touch, or hearing.
 Visual Imagery (See)
It was dark and dim in the forest
 Auditory Imagery (Hear)
The children were screaming and shouting in the

fields
 Olfactory Imagery (Smell)
He whiffed the aroma of brewed coffee.
 Tactile Imagery (Feel)
The girl ran her hands on a soft satin fabric.
 Gustatory Imagery (Taste)
The fresh and juicy orange is very cold and sweet
 Repetition
Repetition is a literary device that repeats the same

words or phrases a few times to make an idea
clearer. There are several types of repetitions
commonly used in both prose and poetry
“A horse is a horse, of course, of course,

And no one can talk to a horse of course”
 Symbolism
Symbolism is the use of symbols to signify ideas and

qualities by giving them symbolic meanings that are
different from their literal sense.
 The dove is a symbol of peace.

 A red rose or red color stands for love or romance.
 Black is a symbol that represents evil or death
 Irony
Irony is a figure of speech in which words are used

in such a way that their intended meaning is different
from the actual meaning of the words. It may also be
a situation that may end up in quite a different way
than what is generally anticipated. In simple words, it
is a difference between the appearance and the
reality.
“Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink."
Introducing a poem: The Four R’s

Poetry is the foremost an auditory experience, so it is
particularly well suited to elementary readers. Here is the
sequence of steps to introducing a poem.
 Read Aloud until a word is in the child’s listening

vocabulary, it cannot become a part of his or her reading
vocabulary. To begin to recognize and enjoy poetry,
children need to hear the rhythm, the correct phrasing and
the pronunciation of unfamiliar words.
 Read Along once the class has heard the poem read aloud a
few time, the children can try reading along in unison,
imitating what they have heard. The technique called choral
reading, allows all levels of reading to participate without
embarrassment.
 Read Alone after several rounds of listening to the poem
read aloud and then reading aloud in unison, the children
can try to read the poem aloud by them. Be sure to repeat
the first two steps enough times so that children can be
successful. If a child has difficulty with a word, supply the
word immediately to avoid the flow of the language.
 Recite there are various approaches to memorizing a poem.
1. Read the entire poem over and over until the entire poem
can be recited.
2. Read and learn one line at a time, adding another line
and repeating it with the lines already learnt.
3. Use meaning to remember a poem. If the poem is about
the four seasons, first learn the sequence in which the
seasons are presented. If it has the actions first learn the
sequence of the action.
Syllabus
Poetry
1. Sonnet 130 - William Shakespeare

2. Tyger William Blake
3. To Autumn - John Keats
4. The Solitary Reaper - William Wordworth
5. Grandmother - Sitakant Mahapatra
6. Leave Taking – Cecil Rajendra
7. A Smuggler’s Song Rudyard Kipling
8.Once Upon a Time Gabriel Okara
9. Burial - Vivimarie Vanderpooten
10. White Curse Anonymous
Prose
1. Monkeys- Punyakante Wijenaike

2. The Dark Years- Nelson Mandela
3. Lahore Attack- Kumar Sangakkara
Novel
- The Man Eater of Malgudi R.K Narayan

William Shakespeare
William
Shakespeare, byname Bard
of Avon or Swan of
Avon who was born in
Stratford-upon-Avon,
Warwickshire, England—
died April 23, 1616,
English poet, dramatist, and
actor, often called the English
national poet and considered
by many to be the greatest
dramatist of all time. The parish register of Holy Trinity
Church in Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, shows that he
was baptized there on April 26, 1564; his birthday is
traditionally celebrated on April 23. His father, John
Shakespeare, was a burgess of the borough, and mother Mary
Arden, of Wilmcote, Warwickshire, came from an ancient
family and was the heiress to some land. At the age of 18 he
married Anne Hathaway with whom he had three
children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Sometime
between 1585 and 1592, he began a successful career in
London as an actor, writer, and part-owner of a playing
company called the Lord Chamberlain's Men. Shakespeare
produced most of his known work between 1589 and 1613.[6][nb
4]
His early plays were primarily comedies and histories, which
are regarded as some of the best work ever produced in these
genres. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608,
including Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth,
considered some of the finest works in the English language
Sonnet 130
My mistress‘ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips‘ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare
William Blake
He was born in Soho,

London, where he lived
most of his life, and was
son to a hosier and his
wife, both Dissenters.
Blake's early ambitions
lay not with poetry but
with painting and at the
age of 14, after attending drawing school, he was apprenticed to
James Basire, engraver. After his seven-year term was complete,
Blake studied at the Royal Academy, After getting married to
Catharine in 1782 he set up a print shop, but within a few years
the business floundered and for the rest of his life Blake eked out
a living as an engraver and illustrator. In 1789, he published his
Songs of Innocence, the gentlest of his lyrics, but the collection
was followed by Songs of Experience. In 1824 his health began
to weaken, and he died singing in London, England, on August
12, 1827
Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
John Keats
A revered English poet whose

short life spanned just 25
years, John Keats was born
October 31, 1795, in London,
England. He was the oldest of
Thomas and Frances Keats'
four children. His father, a
livery-stable keeper, died
when Keats was eight; his
mother died of tuberculosis
six years later. When Keats was fifteen, he had to apprentice with
an apothecary-surgeon and study medicine in a London hospital.
In 1816 Keats became a licensed apothecary, but he never
practiced his profession, deciding instead to write poetry. By the
Spring of 1820 Keats was suffering from tuberculosis; the same
disease which had killed his mother and his younger brother
Tom. On the advice of his doctors Keats left England in
September, intending to spend the winter in Italy with his friend
Joseph Severn. He no longer had any money of his own and was
dependent on the support of his friends. He wrote no more poetry
and died in a tiny apartment above the Spanish Steps in Rome on
the 23 February, 1821 when he was twenty-five years old.
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss‘d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o‘er-brimm‘d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap‘d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
was born on 7th of
April, 1770 at
Cockermouth. His father
John Wordsworth was
an attorney. His mother
Anne Cookson was the
only daughter of
William Cookson, a well to do mercer a dealer in milk products.
He was second of the five children of his parents, the others
being Richard, Dorothy, John and Christopher. Wordsworth‗s
mother died when he was 7, and he was an orphan at 13.
Despite these losses, he did well at Hawkshead Grammar
School—where he wrote his first poetry—and went on to study
at Cambridge University. He did not excel there, but managed to
graduate in 1791. He married Mary Hutchinson in 1802.
Wordsworth‗s most famous work, The Prelude is considered by
many to be the crowning achievement of English Literature
during the Romantic period. Devastated by the death of his
daughter Dora in 1847, Wordsworth seemingly lost his will to
compose poems. William Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount on
April 23, 1850.
The Solitary Reaper
Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth
Sitakant Mahapathra
Sitakant Mahapatra (born 17
September 1937) is an eminent
Indian poet and literary
critic in Odia as well as English.
He was in the Indian
Administrative Service (IAS)
since 1961 until retiring in 1995,
and has held ex officio posts
such as the Chairman of National
Book Trust, New Delhi since
then.
He has published over 15 poetry collection, 5 essay collections, a

travelogue, over 30 contemplative works, apart from numerous
translations. His poetry collection has been published in several
Indian languages. His notable works are, Sabdar Akash (1971)
(The Sky of Words), Samudra (1977) and Anek Sharat (1981).
He was awarded the 1974 Sahitya Akademi Award in Odia for

his poetry collection, Sabdar Akash (The Sky of Words). He was
awarded the Jnanpith Award in 1993 "for outstanding
contribution to Indian literature" and in its citation the Bharatiya
Jnanpith noted, "Deeply steeped in western literature his pen has
the rare rapturous fragrance of native soil"; he was also awarded
the Padma Bhushanin 2002 and Padma Vibhushan in 2011for
literature apart from winning the Soviet Land Nehru Award,
Kabeer Samman and several other prestigious awards.
Grandmother
The matchbox bus full of passengers

Like matches, the uneven road
The drizzling rain, the crossing of rivers.
The narrow path between crop fields
Full of crabs and dead snails:
It was already twilight when we arrived
After going through all this.
She used to say: even the god of death
Reaches our village struggling and late.
Everything is over, it was too late,

The pallbearers had arranged everything.
Her second long journey was about to start.
She had journeyed once before.
A shy tamarind-coloured bride on a bullock cart
Leaving her father's house for ours.
" i've become an eroded shore

Do come sometimes, my son
I might not be able to see you at all, who knows?"
The tree at the floodwater's edge slips,
Is swept along helpless in the wind

In the blowing current
Where is he need for sound or noise"
In the innermost room i lifted the white sheet

And peered into history's face:
As vast as the sky, dumb as the earth.
Once more silence heaved a deep sigh.
Night, the crickets singing, the glowworms

Winking in the bamboo forest: in the dark sky
A few stars glimmering
Everyone had departed after eating
The traditional neem-bitter food
Shadows danced on.
The cowdung washed walls.
His face to the wall, his back to us,

Father wept. That
Was the first time that i saw him weep
What could i have said to console him?
Walking out of the house i meerly
Looked up at the sky where
She had become another star.
That day i realized for the first time

How every weeping act in this life
Is performed in a hidden way secretly.
Sitakant Mahapatra
Cecil Rajendra
Cecil Rajendra (born
1941) is
a Malaysian poet and
lawyer. His poems have
been published in more
than 50 countries and
translated into several
languages. He was born
in Penang, Rajendra
completed his education at St. Xavier's Institution (elementary),
the University of Singapore (undergraduate), and Lincoln's
Inn (legal, London). Though Rajendra's works are highly
acclaimed internationally, within Malaysia his works are not well
acknowledged. Rajendra, nicknamed 'The Lawyer-Poet', writes
controversial poems that address human rights and
environmental problems. As an attorney, his work has focused on
helping poorer people who are in need of legal aid. He is a co-
founder of Penang Legal Aid Centre (PLAC).
Working with photographer Ismail Hasim, Rajendra explored the

backstreets of the island of Penang before the pair compiled and
published Scent of an Island, a collection of poetry and black-
and-white photographs of Penang.
In 1993 he had his passport taken from him by the Malaysian
government, to prevent him from traveling. A Malaysian High
Commission spokesman stated, "Mr Rajendra's passport was
retained for his anti-logging activities, which it was felt could
damage the country's image overseas".
Leave Taking
The only joy
Of his old age
He often said
Was his grandson
Their friendship
Straddled
Eight decades
Three generations
They laughed, played, quarreled, embraced
Watched television together
And while the rest had
Little to say to the old man
The little fellow was
A fountain of endless chatter
When death rattled

The gate at five
One Sunday morning
Took the old man away
Others trumpeted their
Grief in loud sobs
And lachrymose blubber

He never shed tear
Just waved one of his
Small inimitable goodbyes
To his grandfather
And was sad the old man
Could not return his gesture
Cecil Rajendra
Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling is one of

the best-known of the late
Victorian poets and story-
tellers. Although he was
awarded the Nobel Prize for
literature in 1907, his
unpopular political views
caused his work to be
neglected shortly after his death. Critics, however, recognize the
power of his work. Kipling was born in Bombay, India, in 1865.
His father, John Lockwood Kipling, was principal of the
Jeejeebyhoy School of Art, His mother, Alice Macdonald,
In 1892, Kipling married Caroline Balestier, the sister of an
American friend, and the couple moved to Vermont in the United
States, where her family lived. Their two daughters were born
there and Kipling wrote 'The Jungle Book' (1894). In 1896, a
quarrel with his wife's family prompted Kipling to move back to
England and he settled with his own family in Sussex. His son
John was born in 1897. Kipling kept writing until the early
1930s, but at a slower pace and with much less success than
before. On the night of 12 January 1936, Kipling suffered a
hemorrhage in his small intestine. He underwent surgery but died
less than a week later on 18 January 1936, at the age of 70.
A Smuggler’s Song
IF you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,

Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.
Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.
Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!
Running round the woodlump if you chance to find

Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again - and they'll be gone next day !
If you see the stable-door setting open wide;

If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more !
If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,

You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you " pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been !
Knocks and footsteps round the house - whistles after dark -

You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie
They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by !
'If You do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,

You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -
A present from the Gentlemen, along 'o being good !
Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by !
Rudyard Kipling
Gabriel Okara
Gabriel Okara (born 24 April
1921) is a Nigerian poet and
novelist whose work has been
translated into several languages.
After his first poem, ―The Call of
the River Nun,‖ won an award at
the Nigerian Festival of Arts in
1953, several of his poems were
featured in the Nigerian literary
journal Black Orpheus. In his
poetry, Okara draws from
Nigerian folklore and religion while exploring extremes within
daily life through circular patterns. In addition to a novel, and
several books of adult poetry, including The Fisherman’s
Invocation (1978), Okara has published two collections of
children‘s poetry, Little Snake and Little Frog (1992) and An
Adventure to Juju Island (1992).
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts
and laugh with their eyes:
but now they only laugh with their teeth,
while their ice-block-cold eyes
search behind my shadow.
There was a time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts:
but that‘s gone, son.
Now they shake hands without hearts
while their left hands search
my empty pockets.
‗Feel at home!‘ ‗Come again‘:

they say, and when I come
again and feel
at home, once, twice,
there will be no thrice-
for then I find doors shut on me.
So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces
like dresses – homeface,
officeface, streetface, hostface,
cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles
like a fixed portrait smile.
And I have learned too

to laugh with only my teeth
and shake hands without my heart.
I have also learned to say,‘Goodbye‘,
when I mean ‗Good-riddance‘:
to say ‗Glad to meet you‘,
without being glad; and to say ‗It‘s been
nice talking to you‘, after being bored.
But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be
when I was like you. I want
to unlearn all these muting things.
Most of all, I want to relearn
how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror
shows only my teeth like a snake‘s bare fangs!
So show me, son,

how to laugh; show me how
I used to laugh and smile
once upon a time when I was like you.
Gabriel Okara
Vivimarie VanderPoorten
Vivimarie
VanderPoorten is a Sri
Lankan poet. Her
book Nothing Prepares
You won the
2007 Gratiaen Prize. She
was also awarded the
2009 SAARC Poetry
Award in Delhi. She was
Born in Kandy, Sri Lanka of Belgian and Sinhala ancestry.
Vanderpoorten grew up in Kurunegala. She holds

a PhD from the University of Ulster, UK, and is currently a
senior lecturer in English language, literature and linguistics at
the Open University of Sri Lanka Vanderpoorten's first
book, Nothing Prepares You, was published in 2007 by
Zeus Publishers. Her second collection of poems, Stitch
Your Eyelids Shut (2010) addresses issues that include
feminism and the aftermath of Sri Lanka's Civil War. Her
third collection of poems "Borrowed Dust" was published
by Sarasavi, Colombo in 2017.
Burial
It was raining hard

yesterday, when we buried
the dog.
he had died in the early hours
before sunrise
and lay as though asleep
except for the rigid outstretched paws.
Old age, everyone at home said,
for they had known him
since he was born.
I, newcomer, wife/daughter-in-law
had only just grown
to love him,
so there was no comfort there.
He was just an ordinary brown

but proud
and hadn‘t welcomed me with enthusiasm
as my in-laws did
but was sceptical
and eyed me cautiously
with no hint of wagging tail.
He took his time to know me

and unencumbered by the need of presence
or hypocrisy
he one day admitted,
by wagging his tail and yelping when I returned from
work,
that I‘d won his doggy heart
Since then he was a companion

and imposed only one rule on me:
I couldn‘t go for a walk
without him.
It was an easy rule to follow
and I never needed to prove to him
that I was anything
but my flawed and complicated self.
The pit was hard to dig

because the earth in the filled-up land
was hard and rocky despite the rain
and soaked to bone,
I shivered as my husband and I
lowered him in an old
sheet
into his shallow grave
My sister-in-law
brought her kids over
to participate in the ritual
because they had never seen anything
dead before.
Wide-eyed, in two little raincoats
they watched and asked
where the dog had gone
or if he was only sleeping.
As I placed red and yellow flowers on his grave \
I was glad
I wasn‘t the one expected
to answer that
Vivimarie VanderPoorten
White Curse
Hiding in fear
relying on the stars for protection.
Victim of superstitious minds;
ashamed of his reflection.
Not a ghost of European colonization

nor a result of infidelity with the devil.
Persecuted by intransigent beliefs,
a trophy for spiritual rituals.
Everyday a battle to be accepted.

A worn out boxer-
fighting against a cultured giant.
Defeat inevitable -
wondering if he will last 12 rounds.
Just a boy
with no superpowers;
suppressed by the sun,
cursed by pigmentation.
Different than his mother;

but still her son.
Whose father walks slumped,
eyes always fixed to the ground.
Fingers point - constantly mocked.
Same motherland – same mother tongue.

Not a deficient product,
nor an omen - but still rejected.
His blood devoured.
Witch doctors dance and chant,

seducing minds of dollar hungry wolves.
Thirsting for blood they hunt
as their prey shelters in despair.
On that sinister night,

moon hid behind clouds -
stars remained silent.
His arms hacked like branches;
his trunk drenched in claret fluid.
Nobody heard his screams -

nobody cared for his mother's cries.
An Anonymous Poet
Punyakante Wijenaike
Punyakante Wijenaike, one of
Sri Lanka's best-known
English writers, was born in
Colombo in 1933. Her writing
is recognized for its simple yet
powerful style, which holds
the reader's attention. She
published her first collection
of short stories, The Third
Woman, in 1963. Since then,
she has published six novels
and four collections of short
stories, with more than 100
stories published in newspapers, journals and anthologies locally
and internationally as well as broadcast in Sri Lanka and on
BBC. Although she has spent most of her life in Colombo, she
initially used rural villages as her theme, only later turning to
urban themes. Her writings highlight, "the tyranny of a
community or a group towards its weaker members." Her 1998
novel, An Enemy Within, uncovers "the masks that tend to hide
the reality of present times."
Her novel Giraya was adapted into a teledrama. She was awarded
the Woman of Achievement Award in 1985. The rank
of 'Kalasuri Class 1' (literary achievement) was conferred on her
by the Government of Sri Lanka in 1988. In 1994 she won the
Gratiaen Award for her novel Amulet and in 1996, the
Commonwealth Short Story Competition for Radio along with a
joint winner from Sierra Leone.
The Library of Congress has ten works by her.
Monkeys
The sun was right overhead and the rock was warm. Its
heat bounced off and touched him even though the heavy folds of
his yellow robe. The robe hindered free movement, but
nevertheless he managed to clamber up. so strong was his desire
to see this monkeys. At last he sat on the nock stir face. The
monkeys running, barefooted like him, did not appear to suffer
from the sun. They jumped and frisked their furry bodies
accustomed to heat. Their mother and fathers watched them from
a dignified distance.
He brought out the black begging bowl hidden in the
folds of his yellow robe.
‗Here, Here‘ he called to the baby monkeys.
They came to eat out of his hand. A simple diet, bits of
leftover food for which he had gone a begging at noon with the
older monks It was his sole meal for the day, for at night even
samaneras did not eat. From his meagre meal he had managed to
save two slices of bread and a plantain. He now broke these into
pieces and fed the monkeys. He peeled off the yellow skin from
the plantain and let them nibble at the pulp. He loved the feel of
their tiny lips tugging at his food. They were his playmates, his
sole toys. The mother monkeys sat by watchful on the sun
warmed rock while the fathers went back to swinging on the
branches. The small heady eyes of the young monkeys shone into
his and their little tufts of hair blew in the wind reminding him
that his own head was shaven.
No one in the hermitage knew about this daily meeting
with the monkeys. Each day, at this time he stole away from his
disciplined life during his sole leisure hour twelve between noon
to one o‘clock- just to be with his monkeys instead of resting
from the heat of the sun, as he should be.
Now, he stretched out on the rock, ignoring the scorching
sun. The little monkeys clambered all over him. They pulled his
robes, tickled his bald scalp, brushed his cheeks with their long
tails. One or two of the mother monkeys came near. Suddenly he
wished he was a baby monkey with a monkey mother who
allowed him to tug at her pink breasts, drink her warm milk.
Gingerly he put a hand and touched a nipple, but the mother
monkey giggled, chattered and sprang back in to troupe.
He shaded his eyes with his hand and wondered about his
own mother. She had died at his birth. The head priest of the
hermitage had told him so. His grief stricken father had gifted
him, as a babe to the hermitage to be trained a s a monk. ‗His
horoscope must be very bad to have him kill his mother at birth.‘
And so he had lived in th hermitage in the forest,
knowing only the yellow robed hermit monks and now he was
six years old. H had been content until the monkeys came in to
his life. Now when he was with the monkeys, he was not a young
priest but a child with his playmates. When he touched the
monkeys and they touched him, he touched love. And he had

never known love until now. No one in the hermitage touched
him with love. Compassion, understanding, yes, but not love.
When the sun grew stronger, he knew it was time to
return to the hermitage, to return home he got up reluctantly and
the monkeys scrambled back to their mothers. How he wished he
could follow them up into the cool of the treetops, swinging from
branch to branch as a giant trapeze, naked yet warm with love,
carefree and happy. He wished he could make the treetops his
home because the sun only filtered in there through green leaves,
not like the scorching of the earth.
He signed as he slid down to earth. He straightened and
adjusted his robe. He went sadly, leaving the monkeys laughing
and screaming in the treetops. He went back to silence and
obedience.
He was tired. He had been up from four in the morning
and now he was sleepy. Every morning the hermitage woke
before the sun came into the sky. Everyone washed their faces in
the cold darkness and mist that rose around the hills; The ice-
cold water of the stream at that hour was invigorating. It shook
the sleep out of his eyes. But now he was sleepy.
He tried to sit down to his meditation but found it difficult
to concentrate on the breath coming in and out at the tip of his
nostrils. He kept falling asleep.
The next day he rose again to the summons of the temple

bell. He memorized the stanzas for the day rapidly enough but,
once again, meditation was difficult. He found it difficult to keep
his mind on his breathing, knowing that in a little while, he
would witness the glory of the sunrise over the hills.
It was the birds who warned him of it. Quickly he opened
his eyes a little bit and saw the first pale pink streaks of light
growing longer and then turning gold in colour. The birds grew
stronger in their announcement of daylight.
They chirped and sang
And then suddenly, the sun exploded in a burst of scarlet
splendor. Quickly he closed his eyes. Now he could concentrate
on his breathing. But the temple bell summoned him to his daily
tasks.
First he went and worshipped the Buddha sitting still with
half closed eyes on his slab of cold cement. He removed the dead
flowers that had lain flesh and fragrant only the night before and
threw them into the dustbin. He arranged freshly plucked
flowers, cleaned out the black oil, poured flesh clear oil into the
clay lamps, and lit fresh incense sticks. It was his duty, as the
youngest samanera, to keep the altar clean and flesh. Then he
swallowed his breakfast of gruel made out of boiled rice and
coconut milk, mixed with green leaves of the hathavariya
creeper that grew on the hermitage wall.
His stomach full again, after a night of fasting, he went

and ―sat next to his guru, the Chief Priest, to learn his letters.
Then he helped to clean out the spittoons of the older monks and
boil water in a clay urn for drinking. After which he sat again
with the Chief Priest, learning, memorizing religious verses, until
it was time to go a begging for his black bowl, waiting patiently
until food was put into it. They went down the forest footpath,
down into the valley and from house to house. Climbing back to
the hermitage he could feel his friends, the monkeys calling to
him from the treetops. But he dared not lift his eyes to them for
fear the other priests would see.
After the noon meal, when the heat of the sun became
unbearable and the monks were resting, he ran off into the forest
to climb his rock again, this time his bowl filled with some
sweetmeats given him by a householder. He was trembling with
tiredness because he had got up before the sun. But the sight of
his monkeys banished the weariness. He even dozed off on the
rock surface. He had to be careful where he lay down for the
surface was cratered with depressions in which wild flowers and
cactuses grew. He fell asleep despite the discomfort of the
unyielding rock surface and the monkeys clambered all over his
little body, chattering and giggling.
The Chief Priest was tolerant of his youngest samanera
as he nodded off to sleep after the afternoon meditation. But in
the evening, when the boy went to bathe in the pool, he took a
peek at his face reflected in the water and he saw the face of a
monkey grinning at him above his head. Quickly, he put his hand
and stirred the water into ripples and the monkeys vanished.
Later, while he was sweeping the compound with an
ekelbroom he stopped to watch the sun set. Sunset was the
opposite of sunrise; brilliant hues fading into soft pastel shades
which gave ways to darkness. And then he became aware of dark
shapes in treetops.- small mischievous eyes blinking and looking
down at him. But he dared not raising his eyes from his
sweeping.
He feared that he looked up the monkeys might come
down from the trees and run about the temple compound looking
for tidbits. How had they followed him here? Did they follow his
smell?
As the sun rose and the pure light of early morning
sharpened the outlines of the branches the following day, he saw
his monkeys, hordes of them, waiting and watching him. Now
they came boldly down, some jumping, some climbing and they
walked all over the hermitage compound, startling the priests out
of their morning meditations. He was bewildered. Why had they
followed him here, Why? Now his secret was a secret no more.
His hidden love was out in the open. The monkeys plucked the
fruit and berries grown by the Chief Priest and flung them down
at his feet. One even hung on the bell rope and rang the temple
bell. The other priests were laughing at the invasion of the

monkeys but not the Chief Priests. He looked grave.
After the monkeys had run all over the compound chasing
him, they climbed back screaming and laughing into the treetops.
And it was then he saw the Chief Priest took him by the hand and
led him into an inner room where the monkeys could not follow
him nor could he watch them and closed the door. There was no
window in this room open to the sky and trees. He tried to
understand the advice of the Chief Priest. He must not allow
monkeys to dominate him, follow him here to the temple. He
must not play with them or feed, them, for then they would
always follow him. Nor must he spend so much time looking at
the sunrise and sun set. ―You are yet a child and are drawn to
nature. But the natural life is not what we are seeking, my child.
We are seeking to withdraw from life itself, not to be born again.
Time will pass and you will grow into a young monk and a true
son of Buddha. Our family will be the Sangha, the brethren, not
chattering monkeys. Therefore, it is not too early to start training
yourself not to be distracted by those who leap from tree to tree,
chattering, laughing, but clinging mindlessly. They are only
monkeys but you have been gifted with mind of a man. You must
seek to liberal yourself from bondage. My son, always remember
how fortunate you are to be born a man.‖
He refrained from going to his rock that day an him the
next. He could hear his monkeys call him, screaming; crying but
he did not go to them. If he went on playing with them, feeding

and loving them, they would always haunt him. They would not
let him go. And so, with a sad look, he turned away from the
trees and the birds and the muted brilliance of the failing light of
day. He must remember, he was, after all. Born a man.
Punyakante Wijenaike
Nelson Mandela
Nelson Mandela was a civil rights leader in South Africa.

He fought against apartheid, a system where non-white citizens
were segregated from whites and did not have equal rights. He
served a good portion of his life in prison for his protests, but
became a symbol for his people. Later he would become
president of South Africa.
Nelson Mandela was born on July 18, 1918 in Mvezo,

South Africa. His birth name is Rolihlahla. He got the nickname
Nelson from a teacher in school. Nelson was a member of
Thimbu royalty and his father was chief of the city of Mvezo. He
attended school and later college at the College of Fort Hare and
the University of Witwatersrand. At Witwatersrand, Mandela got
his law degree and would meet some of his fellow activists
against apartheid.
Nelson Mandela became a leader in the African National

Congress (ANC). At first he pushed hard for the congress and the
protesters to follow Mohandas Gandhi's non-violence approach.
At one point he started to doubt that this approach would work
and started up an armed branch of the ANC. He planned to bomb
certain buildings, but only the buildings. He wanted to make sure
that no one would be hurt. He was classified as a terrorist by the
South African government and sent to prison. Mandela would
spend the next 27 years in prison. His prison sentence brought
international visibility to the anti-apartheid movement. He was
finally released through international pressure in 1990. Once
released from prison, Nelson continued his campaign to end
apartheid. His hard work and life long effort paid off when all
races were allowed to vote in the 1994 election. Nelson Mandela
won the election and became president of South Africa. There
were several times during the process where violence threatened
to break out. Nelson was a strong force in keeping the calm and
preventing a major civil war.
He spent 27 years in prison. He refused to bend on his
principals in order to be released and stated that he would die for
his ideals. He wanted all people of all races to have equal rights
in South Africa.
The Dark Years

(An extract from the novel “Long walk to freedom”)
TIME MAY SEEM to stand still for those of us in prison,

but it did not halt for those outside. I was reminded of this when I
was visited by my mother in the spring of 1968. I had not seen
her since the end of the Rivonia Trial. Change is gradual and
incremental, and when one lives in the midst of one‘s family, one
rarely notices differences in them. But when one doesn‘t see
one‘s family for many years at a time, the transformation can be
striking. My mother suddenly seemed very old.
She had journeyed all the way from the Transkei,
accompanied by my son Makgatho, my daughter Makaziwe, and
my sister Mabel. Because I had four visitors and they had come a
great distance, the authorities extended the visiting time from a
half an hour to forty-five minutes.
I had not seen my son and daughter since before the trial
and they had become adults in the interim, growing up without
me. I looked at them with amazement and pride. But though they
had grown up, I am afraid I still treated them more or less as the
children they had been when I went to prison. They may have
changed, but I hadn‘t.
My mother had lost a great deal of weight, which
concerned me. Her face appeared haggard. Only my sister Mabel
seemed unchanged. While it was a great pleasure to see all of

them and to discuss family issues, Iwas uneasy about my
mother‘s health.
I spoke with Makgatho and Maki about my desire for
them both to pursue further schooling and asked Mabel about
relatives in the Transkei. The time passed far too quickly. As
with most visits, the greatest pleasure often lies in the
recollection of it, but this time, I could not stop worrying about
my mother. I feared that it would be the last time Iwould ever see
her.
Several weeks later, after returning from the quarry, I was
told to go to the Head Office to collect a telegram. It was from
Makgatho, informing me that my mother had died of a heart
attack. I immediately made a request to the commanding officer
to be permitted to attend her funeral in the Transkei, which he
turned down. ―Mandela,‖ he said, ―while I know you are a man
of your word and would not try to escape, I cannot trust your
own people, and we fear that they would try to kidnap you.‖ It
added to my grief that Iwas not able to bury my mother, which
was my responsibility as her eldest child and only son.
Over the next few months, I thought about her a great
deal. Her life had been far from easy. I had been able to support
her when I was practicing as an attorney, but once Iwent to
prison, Iwas unable to help her. I had never been as attentive as I
should have been.
A mother‘s death causes a man to look back on and

evaluate his own life. Her difficulties, her poverty, made me
question once again whether I had taken the right path. That was
always the conundrum: Had I made the right choice in putting
the people‘s welfare even before that of my own family? For a
long time, my mother had not understood my commitment to the
struggle. My family had not asked for or even wanted to be
involved in the struggle, but my involvement penalized them.
But I came back to the same answer. In South Africa, it is
hard for a man to ignore the needs of the people, even at the
expense of his own family. I had made my choice, and in the
end, she had supported it. But that did not lessen the sadness I
felt at not being able to make her life more comfortable, or the
pain of not being able to lay her to rest.
In the early hours of the morning of May 12, 1969, the
security police awakened Winnie at our home in Orlando and
detained her without charge under the 1967 Terrorism Act,
which gave the government unprecedented powers of arrest and
detention without trial. The raid, I later learned, was part of a
nationwide crackdown in which dozens of others were detained,
including Winnie‘s sister. The police dragged Winnie away
while Zeni and Zindzi clung to her skirts. She was placed in
solitary confinement in Pretoria, where she was denied bail and
visitors; over the next weeks and months, she was relentlessly
and brutally interrogated.
When Winnie was finally charged — six months later —

I managed to send instructions that she be represented by Joel
Carlson, a longtime antiapartheid lawyer. Winnie and twenty-two
others were charged under the Suppression of Communism Act
for attempting to revive the ANC. Later, George Bizos and
Arthur Chaskalson, both members of the Rivonia team, joined
the defense. In October, seventeen months after her arrest, the
state withdrew its case without explanation, and Winnie was
released. Within two weeks, she was again banned, and placed
under house arrest. She immediately applied for permission to
visit me and was rebuffed.
There was nothing I found so agonizing in prison as the
thought that Winnie was in prison too. I put a brave face on the
situation, but inwardly I was deeply disturbed and worried.
Nothing tested my inner equilibrium as much as the time that
Winnie was in solitary confinement. Although I often urged
others not to worry about what they could not control, I was
unable to take my own advice. I had many sleepless nights. What
were the authorities doing to my wife? How would she bear up?
Who was looking after our daughters? Who would pay the bills?
It is a form of mental torture to be constantly plagued by such
questions and not have the means to answer them.
Brigadier Aucamp allowed me to send letters to Winnie,
and relayed one or two from her. Normally, prisoners awaiting
trial are not permitted mail, but Aucamp permitted it as a favor to
me. I was grateful, but knew the authorities had not granted
permission out of altruism: they were reading our letters, hoping
to glean some information that would assist their case against
Winnie.
During this time, I experienced another grievous loss.
One cold morning in July of 1969, three months after I learned of
Winnie‘s incarceration, I was called to the main office on
Robben Island and handed a telegram. It was from my youngest
son, Makgatho, and it was only a sentence long. He informed me
that his older brother, my first and oldest son, Madiba
Thembekile, whom we called Thembi, had been killed in a
motorcar accident in the Transkei. Thembi was then twenty-five
years old, and the father of two small children.
What can one say about such a tragedy? I was already
overwrought about my wife, I was still grieving for my mother,
and then to hear such news . . . I do not have words to express the
sorrow, or the loss I felt. It left a hole in my heart that can never
be filled.
I returned to my cell and lay on my bed. I do not know
how long I stayed there, but I did not emerge for dinner. Some of
the men looked in, but I said nothing. Finally, Walter came to me
and knelt beside my bed, and I handed him the telegram. He said
nothing, but only held my hand. I do not know how long he
remained with me. There is nothing that one man can say to
another at such a time.
I asked permission of the authorities to attend my son‘s

funeral. As a father, it was my responsibility to make sure that
my son‘s spirit would rest peacefully. I told them they could send
a security cordon with me, and that I would give my word that
Iwould return. Permission was denied. All I was permitted to do
was write a letter to Thembi‘s mother, Evelyn, in which I did my
best to comfort her and tell her that I shared her suffering.
I thought back to one afternoon when Thembi was a boy
and he came to visit me at a safe house in Cyrildene that I used
for secret ANC work. Between my underground political work
and legal cases, I had not been able to see him for some time. I
surprised him at the house and found him wearing an old jacket
of mine that came to his knees. He must have taken some
comfort and pride in wearing his father‘s clothing, just as I once
did with my own father‘s. When I had to say good-bye again, he
stood up tall, as if he were already grown, and said, ―Iwill look
after the family while you are gone.
Nelson Mandela
Kumar Sangakkara
Kumar Sangakkara
(Kumar Chokshananda
Sangakkara) is one of Sri
Lanka‘s foremost
cricketers who has
received international
acclaim. He was born on
27th October 1977.
Sangakkara was one of the most important members of the team

that won the 2014 World T20 as well as the team that made the
finals to the 2007 World Cup and the 2012 World T20.
Sangakkara captained the national team from 2008 to 2011
stepping down after the 2011 world cup finals. The same year, he
was named the ODI cricketer of the year at the ICC Cricket
Awards Ceremony.
This is an extract from Kumar Sangakkara‘s Colin Cowdrey
Lecture delivered on 5th of July 2011 at Lords, which
mesmerized the whole world, by its sincerity, dignity and
patriotism. The elocutionary force of the speech comes from its
sheer love and regard for his country and countrymen. It is a
unique expression of responsibility as a leader, for Kumar it as a
leader in cricket. He thinks that the love and regard the people of
Sri Lanka have for the game of cricket and cricketers should be
reciprocated by the cricketers themselves.
An extract from ‘Colin Cowdrey Lecture’

‘The Lahore Attack’
I was fortunate that during rny life I never experienced

violence in Sri Lanka first hand. There have been so many bomb
explosions over the years but I was never in the wrong place at
the wrong time.
In Colombo, apart from these occasional bombs, life was
relatively normal. People had the luxury of being physically
detached from the war. Children went to school, people went to
work, I played my cricket.
In other parts of the country, though people were putting
their lives in harm's way every day either in the defense of their
motherland or just trying to survive the geographical
circumstances that made them inhabit a war zone.
For them, avoiding bullets, shells, mines and grenades,
was imperative for survival. This was an experience that I could
not relate to. I had great sympathy and compassion for them, but
had no real experience with which I could draw parallels.
That was until we toured Pakistan in 2009. We set-off to

play two Tests in Karachi and Lahore. The first Test played on a
featherbed, past without great incident.
The second Test was also meandering along with us
piling up a big first innings when we departed for the ground on
day three. Having been asked to leave early instead of waiting

for the Pakistan bus, we were anticipating a day of hard toil for
the bowlers.
At the back of the bus, the fast bowlers were loud in their
complaints. I remember Thilan Thushara being particularly
vocal, complaining that his back was near breaking point. He
joked that he wished a bomb would go off so we could all leave
Lahore and go back home.
Not thirty seconds had passed when we heard what
sounded like firecrackers going off. Suddenly a shout came from
the front ―Get down they are shooting at the bus.‖
The reaction was immediate. Everyone dived for cover
and took shelter on the aisle or behind the seats. With very little
space, we were all lying on top of each other.
Then the bullets started to hit. It was like rain on a tin
roof. The bus was at a standstill, an easy target for the gunmen.
As bullets started bursting through the bus, all we could
do was stay still and quiet, hoping and praying to avoid death or
injury.
Suddenly Mahela, who sits at the back of the bus, shouts
saying he thinks he has been hit in the shin. I am lying next to
Tilan. He groans in pain as a bullet hits him in the back of his
thigh.
As I turn my head to look at him I feel something whizz

past my ear and a bullet thuds into the side of the seat, the exact
spot where my head had been a few seconds earlier.
I feel something hit my shoulder and it goes numb. I
know I had been hit, but I was just relieved and praying I was not
going to be hit in the head.
Tharanga Paranavithana, on his debut tour, is also next to
me. He stands up, bullets flying all around him, shouting, ―I have
been hit‖ as he holds his blood-soaked chest. He collapsed onto
his seat, apparently unconscious.
I see him and I think, ―Oh my God, you were out first
ball, run out the next innings and now you have been shot. What
a terrible first tour.‖
It is strange how clear your thinking is. I did not see my
life flash by. There was no insane panic. There was absolute
clarity and awareness of what was happening at that moment.
I hear the bus roar in to life and start to move. Dilshan is
screaming at the driver: ―Drive...Drive.‖ We speed up swerve
and are finally inside the safety of the stadium.
There is a rush to get off the bus. Tharanga
Paranawithana stands up. He is still bleeding and has a bullet
lodged lightly in his sternum, the body of the bus tempering its
velocity enough to be stopped by the bone.
Tilan is helped off the bus. In the dressing room, there is
a mixture of emotions: anger, relief, joy. Players and coaching
staff are being examined by paramedics. Tilan and Paranavithana

are taken by ambulance to the hospital.
We all realized that what some of our fellow Sri Lankans
experienced every day for nearly 30 years. There was a new
respect and awe for their courage and selflessness.
It is notable how quickly we got over that attack on us.
Although we were physically injured, mentally we held strong.
A few hours after the attack, we were airlifted to the
Lahore Air Force Base.
Ajantha Mendis, his head swathed in bandages after
multiple shrapnel wounds, suggests a game of Poker. Tilan has
been brought back, sedated but fully conscious, to be with us and
we make jokes at him and he smiles back.
We were shot at, grenades were thrown at us, we were
injured and yet we were not cowed.
We were not down and out. ―We are Sri Lankan,‖ we
thought to ourselves, ―and we are tough and we will get through
hardship and we will overcome because our spirit is strong.‖
This is what the world saw in our interviews immediately
after the attack: we were calm, collected, and rational. Our
emotions held true to our role as unofficial ambassadors.
A week after our arrival in Colombo from Pakistan I was
driving about town and was stopped at a checkpoint. A soldier
politely inquired as to my health after the attack. I said I was fine
and added that what they as soldiers experience every day we
only experienced for a few minutes, but managed to grab all the
news headlines. That soldier looked me in the eye and replied. ―It
is OK if I die because it is my job and I am ready for it. But you
are a hero and if you were to die it would be a great loss for our
country.‖
I was taken aback. How can this man value his life less
than mine? His sincerity was overwhelming. I felt humbled.
This is the passion that cricket and cricketers evoke in Sri
Lankans. This is the love that I strive every-day of my career to
be worthy of.
Kumar Sangakkara
Rasipuram Krishnaswami Iyer Narayanaswami

(R.K Narayan)
RK Narayan was born on October

10, 1906, in Chennai which was
earlier part of Madras Presidency
during the British imperial era. He
was from a well-off family and
was exposed to a wide variety of
books from a young age. He
loved reading and read many novels like those of Dickens and
PG Wodehouse.
His father, a school headmaster, was frequently
transferred, and so, he spent most of his growing years with his
maternal grandmother in Chennai. He was well versed in
English and studied in many reputed schools like the Lutheran
Mission School and the Christian College High School. During
his high school years, he joined his parents and siblings in
Mysore. His love for literature further blossomed in Mysore
where he studied in the Maharajah‘s College High School which
had an excellent library. His father also had a very good
collection of books. After high school, RK Narayan spent one
year at home reading and writing as he failed to clear the
university entrance exam. He cleared the exam after the gap year
and joined the Maharaja College of Mysore in 1926 at the age of
20. He took four years to complete his Bachelor‘s degree instead

of the usual three years. He later decided to concentrate on
writing and began publishing his works in English magazines
and newspapers. His family and friends supported him in his
endeavors, even though pursuing writing meant that he was
veering off the beaten track. He also fell in love and married
Rajam, a young girl, from Coimbatore during a visit to his
sister‘s home. Unfortunately, she died when their daughter
Hema was only 3 years old from a bout of thypoid.
He is one of India‘s most endearing and prolific
writers. A few of the vast collection of books he wrote include
fictional books such as Swami and Friends (1935), The Bachelor
of Arts (1937), The Financial Expert (1952), The Guide (1958),
The Vendor of Sweets (1967) and The Talkative Man
(1986). His short story collections include Malgudi Days and An
Astrologer‘s Day and Other Stories. Apart from his myriad
fictional works, he also wrote non-fiction work like My Dateless
Diary and mythological work like Gods, Demons and Others.
Notes
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Literature in English

Three main divisions of literary works.

Eras of Literature in English

 Anglo- Saxon (449-1066 AD)

Rhymes are the words usually placed at the end of

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

A comparison of two unlike things using the words

Comparison of two unlike things not using the words

When an animal or object is given human qualities.

The repetition of consonant sounds.

The repetition of vowel sounds .

A stanza is a group of lines in poetry, typically more

Old Jack-o-lantern lay on the ground;

Old Jack-o-lantern gazed and he gazed,

The literary term used for language and description

 Visual Imagery (See)

It was dark and dim in the forest

 Auditory Imagery (Hear)

The children were screaming and shouting in the

 Olfactory Imagery (Smell)

He whiffed the aroma of brewed coffee.

 Tactile Imagery (Feel)

The girl ran her hands on a soft satin fabric.

 Gustatory Imagery (Taste)

The fresh and juicy orange is very cold and sweet

Repetition is a literary device that repeats the same

“A horse is a horse, of course, of course,

Symbolism is the use of symbols to signify ideas and

 The dove is a symbol of peace.

Irony is a figure of speech in which words are used

“Water, water, everywhere,

Introducing a poem: The Four R’s

 Read Aloud until a word is in the child’s listening

1. Sonnet 130 - William Shakespeare

1. Monkeys- Punyakante Wijenaike

- The Man Eater of Malgudi R.K Narayan

My mistress‘ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips‘ red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

He was born in Soho,

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?