Loading presentation...

Present Remotely

Send the link below via email or IM


Present to your audience

Start 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.


Digital Poetry Portfolio

school project

caroline borgel

on 12 May 2010

Comments (0)

Please log in to add your comment.

Report abuse

Transcript of Digital Poetry Portfolio

Double click anywhere & add an idea John Milton How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. How Soon Hath Time Dylan Thomas Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Pink Floyd Time Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
And you are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say Video by Den2d on Youtube Repetition Assonance End rhyme Personification Personification Symbol English Renaissance Modernism 21st Century It is at the edges that time thins.
Time which had been dense and viscous
as amber suspending
intentions like bees unseizes them.
A humming begins,
apparently coming from stacks of
put-off things or just in back.
A racket of claims now,
as time flattens.
A glittering fan of things competing to happen,
brilliant and urgent as fish when seas retreat. Kay Ryan The Edges of Time They say age is a state of mind,
Echoes of years we've left behind,
Of footprints on some sunny beach,
Of things our teachers tried to teach,
Of happy times to reminisce,
Of memories of love's first kiss.

It's strange that trivial things we knew
Come back more often than a few
Of those, more meaningful by far,
Responsible for what we are,
Contibuting in great degree
To what we are or hoped to be. Time

Caroline Borgel

1B Santi's Brit Lit Original Poems The apple trees line themselves against the edge of the forest
They slightly grow weakened with each passing day
The bark begins to peel itself off; on the roots, leaves rest
Red fruits are pulled by God’s hand to the ground, rolling away.

Bright rays reach surfaces turned to them, chasing off shadows
Clouds crawling against the sky, together with the wailing wind
Which deafens me; sighing, humming, and breathing low
Occupied with the inconsequent clutter of my mind.

Time is almost over, with very little reaction to give and receive
Should I already have known this? Feelings of moments wasted
I attempt to break the Monotone cycle; instead I was naïve
It’s not possible to take control; all I wanted has been erased.

The apples that once hung with pride now lay destroyed
Only the face of the shining sun I avoid.
Time, our worst enemy
The pendulum moves back and forth,
Slowing with each swing,
The sanity we have left, time steals,
The words we need to speak, time steals
“Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.”

The chime of the clock awakens me,
Purity leaves me, darkness taking over
It has me close to the edge of breaking,
He stands before me, a hood covering his face,
Twisted his lips to a smirk, stung at my heart
Closing off my will for escaping. I sit in the cold and dark room, waiting for anything
Quietly, with so many problems and solutions in my conscience.
Next to my body, lies a dusty mirror, facing to the ceiling
I blankly continue to stare into the object, derived of patience.

I am unable to let myself be locked shut for any longer. “Where is
the key that unlocks the door?” I want to leave this void, but I can’t
do it alone. My mind pacing itself slow, seems like it’s not possible
to break free of this situation. No hope in this place is extant.

Several minutes crawl on and on, still no action has been done.
Should I smash the cracks, or should I mend them? It won’t matter,
Because I keep stepping back into the shade, no trust in myself.
That is what the shadows say, do I sit and wait for them take over?
Full transcript