BALLAD CAT'S IN THE CRADLE by Harry Chapin - Moore Public ...

BALLAD
a narrative poem
written in four-line stanzas
characterized by swift action
and narrated in a direct style
Most of the ballads have as
their subject a tragic incident,
often a murder or an
accidental death, generally
with supernatural elements.
CAT’S IN THE CRADLE by
Harry Chapin
My child arrived just the other day,
He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were planes to catch, and bills to
pay.
He learned to walk while I was away.
And he was talking 'fore I knew it, and as he
grew,
He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, dad.
You know I'm gonna be like you."
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver
spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad"
"I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."
My son turned ten just the other day.
He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on
let's play.
Can you teach me to throw" I said, "Not
today,
I got a lot to do." He said, "That's ok."
And he walked away, but his smile never
dimmed,
Said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him."
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver
spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad"
"I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."
Well, he came from college just the other
day,
So much like a man I just had to say,
"Son, I'm proud of you.
Can you sit for a while"
He shook his head, and he said with a
smile,
"What I'd really like, dad, is to borrow the
car keys.
See you later. Can I have them please"
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver
spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son"
"I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad.
You know we'll have a good time then."
I've long since retired and my son's moved
away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind."
He said, "I'd love to, dad, if I could find the
time.
You see, my new job's a hassle, and the
kid's got the flu,
But it's sure nice talking to you, dad.
It's been sure nice talking to you."
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to
me,
He'd grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.
And the cat's in the cradle and the silver
spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son" "I don't
know when,
But we'll get together then, dad.
You know we'll have a good time then."

The Rainy Day
from Ballads and Other Poems
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

The Village Blacksmith
from Ballads and Other Poems
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny
arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and
long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the
face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till
night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy
sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village
bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from
school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that
fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and
preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's
voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once
more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he
wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task
begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something
done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy
friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Take a familiar plunge.
If you’re dipping your toes into the waters of poetry writing, the ballad is a good place to start,
because the form is both basic and familiar. Whether you’ve taken literature classes, read poetry,
or simply listened to music, you’ve probably heard or read ballads hundreds or thousands of
times.
Structure and tone.
The core structure for a ballad is a quatrain, written in either abcb or abab rhyme schemes. The
first and third lines are iambic tetrameter, with four beats per line; the second and fourth lines are
in trimeter, with three beats per line.
The second ingredient is the story you want to tell. It can be about you, someone you know, a
relationship, or an experience – good, bad, triumphant, or tragic.
To begin, sketch out the tale. Don’t worry about beats per line, rhyme schemes, or stanza breaks.
Simply write the story you want to present as a ballad. Once you’ve written the narrative, pare
down the length and strike all words that don’t drive or describe the action. This bit of editing
will make the conversion process much easier.
Hook your reader.
Now, look at your piece and listen for the beat. Re-form your language into balladic form,
making sure to open with a stanza that sets the table for the story to unfold:
As I walked into the coffeehouse,
I spotted her sipping tea.
She looked up with her forlorn eyes,
Her sadness clear to me.
This particular stanza could take the story in two directions: an elegiac tale of how she became
sad and can’t overcome it or a hopeful story of how interaction with the narrator can lift her from
her malaise. Present a plot that can unfold in a number of ways, and you’ll hook your reader’s
imagination and heart.
She invited me to take a seat,
She had a story to tell,
About the day her husband left,
The day love turned to hell.

Tell your story.
Finish setting the stage in the second quatrain, and then unfold the story with crafty emotion,
letting the natural rhythm of the ballad seep from your mind and heart onto the page.
She gave him everything she had,
Her body, soul and heart,
His old habits got the best of him,
He relapsed; she fell apart.
Off he went on a bender, it seems,
A blur of drugs and drink–
When she confronted him, he said,
"Fine," and took off–just think
Of the pain it caused this woman,
Her eyes folded into her face,
Tears so sharp, bitter and fierce
They’re salting her in place.
Close with authority.
As your ballad winds toward its conclusion, you can retain the rhyme scheme for the closing
stanza or go off-beat with an envoi, or refrain. Either way, use the penultimate quatrain to make
the turn for home and the final quatrain to close the poem with authority.
Yet she turns up at the coffeehouse,
Loneliness not her style,
Through those sad eyes I can tell
She’s yearning for joy, while
Dealing with the tragedy of losing
A man once very sweet,
A man now lost in his shadows,
Her sadness under his feet.
From banal to mystical.
As you develop your narrative, remember the ballad’s focus on music and narrative. Even if you
write the most banal story about going to the grocery store, the music could transform your story
into a mystical piece. So as you revise your story into the ballad form, hone the rhythm and
rhyme, making surprising connections with word-sounds. Focus on the language, and you’ll
surely write something to sing.