Survey: Understanding Poetic Language Use the back of this page to complete a “SOAPS” analysis of the poem. Use this side to annotate the poem for critical elements of poetic language. Fifteen South of the bridge on Seventeenth I found back of the willows one summer day a motorcycle with engine running as it lay on its side, ticking over slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen. 1 I admired all that pulsing gleam, the shiny flanks, the demure headlights fringed where it lay; I led it gently to the road, and stood with that companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen. 6 We could find the end of a road, meet the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about hills, and patting the handle got back a confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen. 11 Thinking, back farther in the grass I found 16 the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale­ I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand over it, called me good man, roared away. I stood there, fifteen. ­­William Stafford 21 SOAPS Analysis
S
Who is the speaker?
O What is the occasion of the poem? (When and why was the poem written?)
A Who is the audience of the poem? (Be as specific as possible with
characteristics)
P What is the writer’s purpose in writing the poem? (What is the writer trying
to do?
S What is the subject of the poem? (On the surface, what happened in the
poem?)
Bike Ride with Older Boys
Laura Kasischke The one I didn't go on.
1
I was thirteen, and they were older. I'd met them at the public pool. I must have given them my number. I'm sure 5 I'd given them my number, knowing the girl I was. . . It was summer. My afternoons were made of time and vinyl. My mother worked,
but I had a bike. They wanted 10 to go for a ride. Just me and them. I said okay fine, I'd meet them at the Stop­n­Go 15 at four o'clock. And then I didn't show. I have been given a little gift— something sweet and inexpensive, something 20 I never worked or asked or said thank you for, most days not aware of what I have been given, or what I missed— 25 because it's that, too, isn't it?
I never saw those boys again. I'm not as dumb as they think I am but neither am I wise. Perhaps
30 it is the best afternoon of my life. Two cute and older boys pedaling beside me—respectful, awed. When we
35 turn down my street, the other girls see me ... Everything as I imagined it would be. Or, I am in a vacant field. When I stand up again, there are bits of glass and gravel
ground into my knees. I will never love myself again. Who knew then that someday I would be thirty­seven, wiping
45 crumbs off the kitchen table with a sponge, remembering them, thinking of this— those boys still waiting
outside the Stop­n­Go, smoking cigarettes, growing older. 50 40