Send the link below via email or IMCopy
Present to your audienceStart remote presentation
- Invited audience members will follow you as you navigate and present
- People invited to a presentation do not need a Prezi account
- This link expires 10 minutes after you close the presentation
- A maximum of 30 users can follow your presentation
- Learn more about this feature in our knowledge base article
Do you really want to delete this prezi?
Neither you, nor the coeditors you shared it with will be able to recover it again.
Make your likes visible on Facebook?
You can change this under Settings & Account at any time.
Transcript of Poetry Analysis
The title is the best place to start investigating - sometimes it adds meaning; other times, it is merely descriptive. The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
— Ezra Pound All poems have a theme; some are easier to identify than others. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Mood is the atmosphere in the poem; tone is the author's feeling about the subject. And the raven, never flitting,
still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas
just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore! Mood and Tone The first line needs to grab the reader the same way the first line of a novel, article, or paper does: but it has to do it even faster, because most poems are shorter than all of those things. Michael Mlekoday says "Hook me, flatten me, fuck me out of my senses with your first line. It should be one of the best lines of the poem." Important Parts of Poems Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary... Famous Hooks Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright! Two roads diverged in a yellow wood... Part of the strength of poetry is the way words create paths of association in our mind. A good poem will resonate with the reader; a bad one will make them feel lost in a sea of meaningless words. Association This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper. Candy is dandy
but liquor is quicker Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose I wandered lonely as a cloud... These are all things that can and often do kill poems. The over-use of these is seen especially in inexperienced writers - they depend on words someone else has used. Abstractions, clichés, stale language Because I could not stop for death
He kindly stopped for me I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul. The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough. When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee? Transcendence Good poetry is more than just pretty words put in a well conceived order. It brings something to life, makes you think, feel, and wonder. The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n And I looked up death with sorrow and dread
And I hated and hate the spoils of the dead. The wind flapp'd loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walk'd on at the wind's will,--
I sat now, for the wind was still.
Between my knees my forehead was,--
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the sun,
The woodspurge flower'd, three cups in one.
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing then learnt remains to me,--
The woodspurge has a cup of three. Homework: Do the reading on Canvas
Pick a poem
Write a brief analysis
Post it on Canvas