Poetry

What is poetry?

Look at the following slide

My Cat

Which is the poem?

• Neat circle of cat.• Pink paws• Self-satisfied smile• Dappled sunlight on

tabby fur.• A soft cushion• Of coiled spring• Bathing in laziness.• My cat.

• My cat is lying on the path in the sunshine. He is perfectly still except for the slight movement he makes breathing. He appears to be asleep, but if there is a sound, his ears twitch. My cat is so lazy, he’ll lie there all day.

How can you tell it’s poetry?

• Write down all your ideas

• Have you found at least 5 different reasons?

My Cat

Neat circle of cat.Pink pawsSelf-satisfied smileDappled sunlight on tabby fur.A soft cushionOf coiled springBathing in laziness.My cat.

My cat is lying on the path in the sunshine. He is perfectly still except for the slight movement he makes breathing. He appears to be asleep, but if there is a sound, his ears twitch. My cat is so lazy, he’ll lie there all day.

Poetry is an idea put into words

• Here are some other definitions. Have you found some of them already?

• POETRY is : • A form of creative writing• It sometimes has a shape• It sometimes uses rhymes • It sometimes uses rhythms in the words• It gives a point of view• It sometimes doesn’t follow grammatical rules• It sometimes follows rules of number of lines

Poetry is:

• Lyrical ( some poems can be sung)

• It has verses

• It sometimes doesn’t use punctuation

• It can be remembered and recited easily

• A picture in words

“The best words in the best order”

ColeridgeCopy this definition down and

highlight it!

Poetry or Prose?

• One day, in Winter, I leaned on a gate next to a small wood in the country, and looked at the frost.

• Which of these is a poem?

• How do you know?• Which of them gives a

stronger image?

I leant upon a coppice gateWhen Frost was spectre –grey,And Winter’s dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day.

Imagery

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gateWhen Frost was spectre –grey,And Winter’s dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day.The tangled bine-stems scored the skyLike strings of broken lyres,And all mankind that haunted nighHad sought their household fires.

Thomas Hardy