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The Art of Poetry

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christian ruiz

on 13 March 2014

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Transcript of The Art of Poetry

Shel Silverstein
Type of Poems?
Definition of a Limerick Poem
Five lines
1st 2nd and 5th line rhyme together
3rd and 4th rhyme together and are shorter
Imagery Poetry

Imagery is the formation of mental images, figures, or likenesses of things, or of such images collectively.
Dark Poems
Metaphor Poetry
The use of objects and actions that are not directly related to the message you want to convey.
Langston Hughes
Born February 1, 1902
Died May 22, 1967
Poet, playwright, novelist, columnist
His first book of poetry was published in 1924
Wrote Dark Poetry
"Langston Hughes." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 29 May 2013. <http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/83>.
Dear Lovely Death by Langston Hughes
Dear lovely death
That taketh all things under wing-
Never to kill-
Only to change
Into some other thing
This suffering flesh,
To make it either more or less,
Yet not again the same-
Dear lovely death, Change is thy other name.
Limerick Poems
“My beard grows down to my toes,
I never wears no clothes,
I wraps my hair
Around my bare,
And down the road I goes.”

By:Shel Silverstein
-XVIII By A.E Housman
Angel of Death by Udiah
In darkness of the night
I spied him in a tree
Sat I froze by the sight
He was looking at me
The summer's heat became a chill
The angel of death at his kill

My heart skipped with the fright
Blinked my eyes to bet'r see
Glanced back with all my might
Parted he my comp'ny
My chest was quickly pounding still
The angel of death at his kill

I did rise and take flight
The fear made me to flee
From darkness into light
To free captivity
Unbinding my soul from his will
The angel of death at his kill

Many years since that night
Gazed I on that braz'n be
Mem'ries of still incite
Fears of my slavery
Existence of him makes me ill
The angel of death at his kill
Walking Across The Atlantic by Billy Collins
Dark Poetry
What is dark poetry?
When was dark poetry written?
"Dark Poems." Deep Underground. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 May 2013. <http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/dark-poems/>.
William Wordsworth
lived from 1750-1850.
The magnificent landscape deeply affected his imagination and gave him a love of nature.
William Wordsworth went to Hawkshead Grammar School
"Shel Silverstein Biography." Bio.com. A&E Networks Television, n.d. Web. 29 May 2013.
Hughes, Langston. "Deat Lovely Death." Wordpress. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 May 2013. <http://melaniebaybiee.wordpress.com/2012/03/23/dear-lovely-death-by-langston-hughes/>.
Udiah. "Angel of Death." Poem Hunter. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 May 2013. <http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/angel-of-death-26/>.
The Art of Poetry
By: Eric Correia, Maddy Labua, David Rosania, Christian Ruiz, and Alex Rudder

The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the roads, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought.--He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.

William Wordsworth

- Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936)
-Epigram: A piece of poetry that is very little or large in length, with a satirical or witty with a normally darker theme
Billy Collins
This is one of Billy's most famous peoms. "Walking Across the Atlantic"

I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.

Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.

But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.
LXII by A.E Housman
Thank you for watching
Now we'll be launching
You out of your chair
And into the air
So you can start applauding!

-British Scholar
-Appointed Latin professor at Cambridge
-Had written a large amount of Epigrammatic poetry before and after the first world war
You are the bread and the knife
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley,
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I am not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and – somehow
the wine.
-Mainly influenced by war and prejudice at the time he began writing poetry
You are the bread and the knife
Epigram Poetry
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.
`Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There's nothing much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour
The better for the embittered hour;
It will do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that sprang to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
-- I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal: Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain; Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again. William Wordsworth
Ronaldo is trash!
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