The document contains a poem titled "Telephone Conversation" by Wole Soyinka. It describes a phone call between a man and a landlady, in which the landlady asks inappropriate questions about the man's race and skin color when inquiring about renting a property. The man responds with humor and metaphor to deflect the landlady's questions, comparing his skin tone to foods like "plain or milk chocolate" and describing how friction has lightened or darkened parts of his skin to different tones.

2. PRELIMINARIES
1) DLSZ Debate Varsity Team
2) Our first Scholastic session will be
on July 18, Monday.
3) Graded test papers of absentees
and special takers shall be returned
at the end of this class.

3. LITERACY PRO LIBRARY
• Go to Grade 10 English of Notes
and Homework.
• Look for the post entitled
SCHOLASTIC LOG IN URL.
• Enter the link.
• Enter your Scholastic Account
details:
USER NAME: CELINE (space) LAROZA
PASSWORD: scholastic1

4. LITERACY PRO LITERACY PRO LIBRARY
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• If no webpage appears, please inform me.

5. KEEP YOUR IPAD.

6. 6

7. • Poetry is a literary expression in which words
are used in a different way to convey
emotions and meanings.
• It applies creativity and measure to
language.
(Retrieved from: www.iclasses.org/assets/literature/literary_glossary.cfm)

8. 8
Telephone Conversation
by Wole Soyinka

9. The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"

10. The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."

11. The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

12. The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation
came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"

13. The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.”

14. The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
"HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African sepia"--and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding
"DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?"
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!"--
sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you
rather
See for yourself?"

15. Poetry is more
challenging
than prose for
it requires
greater effort
in getting the
meaning.
15

16. 16

17. 17

18. • Open Google Chrome.
• Type the following words into the search box:
blobla left or right brain test
• Click the first link. Read the instructions
carefully.
18

19. 19

20. 20
PERSONA ADDRESSEE TONE

21. • The Persona is the
speaker in a poem and
the addressee is the one
to whom the poem is
dedicated.
Persona & Addressee

22. 22
A Wonderful Mother by Pat O’Reilly
God made a wonderful Mother,
A Mother who never grows old;
He made her smile of the sunshine,
And he made her heart of pure gold;
In her eyes He placed bright shining stars,
In her cheeks, fair roses you see;
God made a wonderful Mother,
And He gave that dear Mother to me.
1) Who is the
persona of the
poem?
a) Someone who feels
thankful for having a
wonderful mother.
b) Someone who has
hatred towards his/her
mother.
c) Someone who loves
God.

23. 23
A Wonderful Mother by Pat O’Reilly
God made a wonderful Mother,
A Mother who never grows old;
He made her smile of the sunshine,
And he made her heart of pure gold;
In her eyes He placed bright shining stars,
In her cheeks, fair roses you see;
God made a wonderful Mother,
And He gave that dear Mother to me.
2) Who is the
addressee of the
poem? To whom is
it being dedicated?

24. 24
My Heart Is Locked by Angel C.
My heart is locked with so much pain
Black tear drops fall from my face
Every teardrop leaves a puddle
with a memory that's hiding from space
Stuck behind my soul
Shattered into pieces with nowhere to go
Locked away to never get out,
to see the good side of my broken heart.
1) Who is the
persona of the
poem?
a) Someone who is in
love.
b) Someone who has
been hurt by someone.
c) Someone who wants
to be alone.

25. 25
My Heart Is Locked by Angel C.
My heart is locked with so much pain
Black tear drops fall from my face
Every teardrop leaves a puddle
with a memory that's hiding from space
Stuck behind my soul
Shattered into pieces with nowhere to go
Locked away to never get out,
to see the good side of my broken heart.
2) Who is the
addressee of the
poem? To whom is
it being dedicated?

26. • The Tone is the writer’s
attitude toward a
subject that he/she is
talking about.
• Tone refers to two
things:
• 1) the topic being
talked about
• 2) the writer's view
towards the topic
Tone

27. 27
Love is sweet like
the nectar of the
garden flower,
It’s soothing like the
buzzing of a bumble
bee,
It’s warm like the
rays
of the morning sun.
Source:
http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem
/love-so-pure#ixzz3E2x6iBFP
Darkness cannot
drive out darkness,
only light can do
that.
Hate cannot hate,
only love can do
that.
Source:
www.thedailyquotes.com
TONE
1) the subject/topic
2) the writer’s view
towards the
subject/topic
Both poems talk
about love.
Love is amazing.
Love is painful.

28. 28
Rock music
allows you to
escape this
world filled with
chaos and darkness.
It teaches you to
face your problems
and at the same,
dance with them.
Source:
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rock-
music#ixzz3E2x6iBFP
This loud music they
call rock and roll -
Put it away!
for the dark forces
are its companion
and every time its
rhythms are placed
into your ears,
you become one as
well.
Source:
www.allpoetry.com/faerea&21232s-a
TONE
1) the subject/topic
2) the writer’s view
towards the
subject/topic
Both poems talk
about rock music.
Rock music is meaningful.
Rock music is bad.

29. 29
Magic –
Indeed.
With you, it is!
Every single day
feels like a
fairytale.
PERSONA
The speaker of
the poem.
Someone who is
in love. He/she
considers every
moment with
his/her love as
magical.
ADDRESSEE
The receiver of
the poem’s
message.
The addressee of
the poem is the
person whom the
speaker is in love
with.
Also, he tries to
send this
message to
people who don’t
know how love
feels.
TONE
1) the subject/topic
2) the writer’s view
towards the
subject/topic
Being with
someone you love
When you are with
someone whom you really
admire, every moment with
him/her is magical. It feels
amazing.

30. PERSONA
30
ADDRESEE
TONE
The speaker in a poem.
The one to whom the poem is
dedicated.
The writer’s attitude/perspective
towards a subject.

31. Love became the reason I lied to my parents.
Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure
we never missed a slow song.
Love changed. Love disappeared,
Slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed.
Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could
see the trapdoor but me.
When love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him.
Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back,
love came with freckles I didn’t recognize.
Love is messier now, not as simple.
Love chews too loud.
Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste.
And turns out, love sucks!
But love also cries.
Sarah Kay & Phil Kaye’s When Love Arrives
PERSONA
Someone who
has
experienced
love.
ADDRESSEE
For those who
haven’t
experienced
love yet.
TONE
Love is not
perfect.

32. You should know, bullying hurts.
It starts with one word, one word you blurt.
Fat, ugly, worthless. These are the words they hear.
Did you know, you're their biggest fear?
Day by day you torment them,
it takes so long for their hearts to mend.
All they ask for is one true friend,
but you make them want their lives to end.
Everyday they wake up with regret,
all they want to do is forget.
It's not just hitting and punching, it's the words you
say,
they hurt so much, they want to fade away.
Kaylynn Kennedy’s Words Hurt
PERSONA
• Someone who is
concerned about people
who get bullied.
• Someone who is an
advocate of anti bullying.
• Someone who has
experienced being bullied.
ADDRESSEE
This poem is dedicated to
those who torment people not
just physically, but also
emotionally.
TONE
Those who get bullied
suffer so much pain and
depression that they would
just rather kill themselves.

33. LET’S TRY!
• Prepare the following:
test folder
a pen
1/2 crosswise paper
TASK: Identify the poem’s persona, addressee,
and tone.
33

34. OLD AGE by Anacreon
The women tell me everyday
That all my bloom has passed away,
"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinned my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But I know and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer,
and had I but an hour to live,
that little hour to bliss I'd give.
34