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Transcript of TPCASTT
Here is something small...
"The Seven Ages of Man"
Title: Ponder the title before reading the poem
Paraphrase: Translate the poem into your own words
Connotation:Contemplate the poem for meaning beyond the literal level
Attitude:Observe both the speaker’s and the poet’s attitude (tone).
Shifts:Note shifts in speakers and attitudes
Title:Examine the title again, this time on an interpretive level
Theme:Determine what the poet is saying
TP-CASTT is a method of analyzing poetry. The following is a breakdown of this method:
Look at the Instructions
What is TPCASTT
Photo credits: 'horizon' by pierreyves @ flickr
Following the first rule for TPCASTT, what are your predictions about this poem?
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything
Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden, 1913 - 1980
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Point of view
Identify the character's
to whom is this written? Who will benefit from the reading of the poem?
How is is spoken? Where does it change?