Poetry A Brief Review to Flex your Poetic Muscles - PowerPoint Presentation

Slide1

Poetry

A Brief Review to Flex your Poetic MusclesSlide2

As a reminder…

Poetry is…

A kind of rhythmic, compressed language that uses figures of speech and imagery designed to appeal to our emotions and imagination.

Poetry is usually arranged in lines.

It often has a regular pattern of rhythm and may have a regular rhyme scheme.

Free verse is poetry that has no regular pattern of rhythm or rhyme, though it is generally arranged in lines

The major forms of poetry are lyric, narrative, epic, and ballad.Slide3
Slide4

Poetic Devices

Rhyme

: The repetition of accented vowel sounds and all sounds following them in words that are close together in a poem.

Onomatopoeia

: The use of words whose sounds imitate or suggest their meaning.

Diction

: A writer’s or speaker’s choice of words.

Rhythm: A musical quality produced by the repetition of stressed and unstressed syllables or by the repetition of certain other sound patterns.Homophones: Words that sound the same but are spelled differently.Slide5

Other Literary Terms Frequently Seen in Poetry…

Metaphor

: A direct comparison between two unlike things in which one thing is said to be another thing.

Simile

: A comparison between two unlike things using like or as.

Alliteration

: The repetition of consonant sounds in words that are close together.

Assonance: The repetition of vowel sounds in words that are close together.Repetition: The repetition of words or phrases to emphasize an idea or to draw attention to a passage.Slide6

Even More Literary Terms Frequently Seen in Poetry…

Personification

: Attributing human characteristics to non-human things, such as objects or animals.

Hyperbole

: An obvious or intentional exaggeration that is not intended to be taken seriously.

Idioms

: An expression unique to a language or culture that means something different from the literal meaning of the words.

Imagery: Language that appeals to the senses.Slide7

Shel

Silverstein

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,For the children, they mark, and the children, they knowThe place where the sidewalk ends. Slide8

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the

street begins,

And there the

grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,For the children, they mark, and the children, they knowThe place where the sidewalk ends.

Repetition

Shel

SilversteinSlide9

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the

street begins,

And there the

grass grows soft and white,

And there the

sun burns crimson bright,

And there the

moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke

b

lows blackAnd the dark street winds and bends.Past the pits where the asphalt flowers growWe shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And watch where the chalk-white arrows goTo the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Repetition

Alliteration

Shel

SilversteinSlide10

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the

street begins,

And there the

grass grows soft and white,

And there the

sun burns crimson bright,

And there the

moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the

peppermint wind

.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows blackAnd the dark street winds and bends.Past the pits where the asphalt flowers growWe shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Repetition

Alliteration

Imagery

Shel

SilversteinSlide11

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the

street begins,

And there the

grass grows soft and

white

,

And there the

sun burns crimson

bright

,

And there the

moon-bird rests from his flightTo cool in the peppermint wind.Let us leave this place where the smoke blows

b

lack

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers

grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and

slow

,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows

go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and

slow

,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows

go

,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they

know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

Repetition

Alliteration

Imagery

Rhyme

Shel

SilversteinSlide12

TAPS

T

A

P

S

Topic

Audience

Purpose

SpeakerSlide13

One Art

-Elizabeth Bishop

T:

A:

P:

S:

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn’t hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (

Write

it!) like disaster.Slide14

One Art

-Elizabeth Bishop

T:

Losing things. Specifically, losing a loved one (most likely a spouse/boyfriend).

A:

P:

S:

The art of losing

isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose

something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I

lost

two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing you

(the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to masterthough it may look like (

Write it!) like disaster.Slide15

One Art

-Elizabeth Bishop

T:

Losing things. Specifically, losing a loved one (most likely a spouse/boyfriend).

A:

Seems to be specifically written for the former spouse/bf.

P:

S:

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn’t hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing

you

(the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (

Write

it!) like disaster.Slide16

One Art

-Elizabeth Bishop

T:

Losing things. Specifically, losing a loved one (most likely a spouse/boyfriend).

A:

Seems to be specifically written for the former spouse/bf.

P:

To express and confirm the speaker’s ability to survive loss. S:The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their

loss is no disaster

.

Lose something every day

. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster

.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (

Write

it!) like disaster

.Slide17

One Art

-Elizabeth Bishop

T:

Losing things. Specifically, losing a loved one (most likely a spouse/boyfriend).

A:

Seems to be specifically written for the former spouse/bf.

P:

To express and confirm the speaker’s ability to survive loss. S: First-person, likely the author (Elizabeth Bishop).

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn’t hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (

Write

it!) like disaster.Slide18

Stamp it out!

S

T

A

M

P

Subject

Tone

Audience

Metaphor

Point-of-ViewSlide19

Fragments

-

Stephen

Dobyns

Now there is a slit in the blue fabric of air.

His house spins faster. He holds down books,

chairs; his life and its objects fly upward:vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.

He tries to repair it, but the memory

of death is like paste on his fingers

and certain days stick like dead flies.

Say the sky goes back to being the sky

and the sun continues as always. Now,

knowing what you know, how can you not see

thin cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air.

My friend, what can I give you or darknesslift from you but fragments of language,fragments of blue sky. You had threebeautiful daughters and one has died. for Donald MurrayS:

T:

A:

M:

P: Slide20

Fragments

-

Stephen

Dobyns

Now there is a slit in the blue fabric of air.

His house spins faster. He holds down books,

chairs; his life and its objects fly upward:vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.

He tries to repair it, but the memory

of death is like paste on his fingers

and certain days stick like dead flies.

Say the sky goes back to being the sky

and the sun continues as always. Now,

knowing what you know, how can you not see

thin cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air.

My friend, what can I give you or darknesslift from you but fragments of language,fragments of blue sky. You had threebeautiful daughters and one has died. for Donald Murray

S: The effect of a child’s death on the parents.

T:

A

:

M:

P: Slide21

Fragments

-

Stephen

Dobyns

Now there is a slit in the blue fabric of air.

His house spins faster. He holds down books,

chairs; his life and its objects fly upward:

vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.

The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.

He tries to repair it, but the memory

of death is like paste on his fingers

and

certain days stick like dead flies

.

Say the sky goes back to being the sky and the sun continues as always. Now, knowing what you know, how can you not seethin cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air. My friend, what can I give you or darknesslift from you but fragments of language,fragments of blue sky. You had three

beautiful daughters and one has died.

for Donald Murray

S: The effect of a child’s death on the parents.

T: Despairing; powerless to help, but sympathetic

A

:

M:

P: Slide22

Fragments

-

Stephen

Dobyns

Now there is a slit in the blue fabric of air.

His house spins faster. He holds down books,

chairs; his life and its objects fly upward:vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.

He tries to repair it, but the memory

of death is like paste on his fingers

and certain days stick like dead flies.

Say the sky goes back to being the sky

and the sun continues as always. Now,

knowing what you know, how can you not see

thin cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air.

My friend, what can I give you or darknesslift from you but fragments of language,fragments of blue sky. You had threebeautiful daughters and one has died. for Donald Murray

S: The effect of a child’s death on the parents.

T: Despairing; powerless to help, but sympathetic

A

:

Specific: Donald Murray

General: parents who’ve lost a child

M:

P: Slide23

Fragments

-

Stephen

Dobyns

S: The effect of a child’s death on the parents.

T: Despairing; powerless to help, but sympathetic

A: Specific: Donald MurrayGeneral: parents who’ve lost a childM: The poem is an extended metaphor comparing the destruction of the sky to the way losing a child alters a parent’s reality/world.

P:

Now there is a slit in the

blue fabric of air

.

His house spins faster. He holds down books,

chairs; his life and its objects fly upward:

vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.

The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.He tries to repair it, but the memoryof death is like paste on his fingersand certain days stick like dead flies.Say the sky goes back to being the sky

and the sun continues as always. Now,

knowing what you know,

how can you not see

thin cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air

.

My friend, what can I give you or darkness

lift from you but fragments of language,

fragments of blue sky. You had three

beautiful daughters and one has died.

for Donald MurraySlide24

Fragments

-

Stephen

Dobyns

Now there is a slit in the blue fabric of air.

His house spins faster. He holds down books,

chairs; his life and its objects fly upward:vanishing black specks in the indifferent sky.The sky is a torn piece of blue paper.

He tries to repair it, but the memory

of death is like paste on his fingers

and certain days stick like dead flies.

Say the sky goes back to being the sky

and the sun continues as always. Now,

knowing what you know, how can you not see

thin cracks in the fragile blue vaults of air.

My friend, what can I give you or darknesslift from you but fragments of language,fragments of blue sky. You had threebeautiful daughters and one has died. for Donald Murray

S: The effect of a child’s death on the parents.

T: Despairing; powerless to help, but sympathetic

A

:

Specific: Donald Murray

General: parents who’ve lost a childM:

The poem is an extended metaphor comparing the destruction of the sky to the way losing a child alters a parent’s reality/world.

P: Written from the POV of the author – 1

st

person, to friend who’s child died.Slide25

William Shakespeare

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

damask'd

, 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.Slide26

He's had the chest pains for weeks,

but doctors don't make house

calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,

blood tests make him faint,

hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset

his stomach, and it's only

indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,

he feels as if a monster fist

has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing. He can't

breathe, and the beautiful white

world he loves goes black,

and he drops on his jelly bellyin the snow and Mrs. Claustears out of the toy factory

wailing, and the elves wring

their little hands, and Rudolph's

nose blinks like a sad ambulance

light, and in a tract house

in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,

telling my mom that stupid

kids at school say Santa's a big

fake, and she sits with me

on our purple-flowered couch,

and takes my hand, tears

in her throat, the terrible

news rising in her eyes.

The Death of Santa Claus

-Charles WebbSlide27

Female Author

-Sylvia Plath

All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:

Favored (while suddenly the rains begin

Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled

And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin.

Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses

Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms

Where polished

higboys

whisper creaking curses

And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms.

The garnets on her fingers

twinkle quick

And

blood reflects across the manuscript;She muses on the odor, sweet and sick,Of festering gardenias in a crypt, And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats

From gray child faces crying in the streets.Slide28

Pablo Neruda

Ode to My Socks

Mara Mori brought me

a pair of socks

which she knitted herself

with her sheepherder's hands,

two socks as soft as rabbits.

I slipped my feet into themas if they were two casesknitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,Violent socks,my feet were two fish made of wool,

two long sharks

sea blue, shot through

by one golden thread,

two immense blackbirds,

two cannons,

my feet were honored in this way

by these heavenly socks.

They were so handsome for the first timemy feet seemed to me unacceptablelike two decrepit firemen,firemen unworthy of that woven fire,of those glowing socks.Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptationto save them somewhere as schoolboyskeep fireflies,as learned men collectsacred texts,I resisted the mad impulse to put them

in a golden cage and each day give them

birdseed and pieces of pink melon.

Like explorers in the jungle

who hand over the very rare green deer

to the spit and eat it with remorse,

I stretched out my feet and pulled onthe magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:

beauty is twice beauty

and what is good is doubly good

when it is a matter of two socks

made of wool in winter.Slide29

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Courage That My Mother Had

The courage that my mother had

Went with her, and is with her still:

Rock from New England quarried;

Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore

She left behind for me to wear; I have no thing I treasure more: Yet, it is something I could spare.

Oh, if instead she’d left to me

The thing she took into the grave!–

The courage like a rock, which she

Has no more need of, and I have.

Just in case you were wondering, a brooch is a large decorative pin, usually worn at the neck.Slide30

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.

Her eyes are sad

and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.

The light is dim.

The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,

their blond legs burn like brush.

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.

When I get on my knees and lick her hand,

she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark. Mark Strand Slide31

Julie Sheehan

Hate Poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.

Everything about me hates everything

about you.

The flick of my wrist hates you.

The way I hold my pencil hates you.

The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.

The history of this keychain hates you.

My sigh in the background as you

explain your relational databases hates you.

The goldfish of my genius hates you.

My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious symbol of how I hate you.My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.

My pleasant “good morning”: hate.

You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head

under your arm? Hate.

The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit practices it.

My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning to night hate you.

Layers of hate, a parfait.

Hours after our latest row,

brandishing the sharp glee of hate,

I dissect you cell by cell, so that I

might hate each one

individually and at leisure.My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity of my hate, which can never have enough of you,

Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.Slide32

[Buffalo Bill’s]

e

e

cummings

Buffalo Bill's

defunct

who used to ride a

watersmooth-silver

stallion

and break

onetwothreefourfive

pigeons

justlikethat

Jesus he was a handsome man and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death e

e

cummingsSlide33

The End