What is poetry? How do we know?. Poetry by Eleanor Farjeon. What is Poetry? Who knows? Not a rose, but the scent of the rose; Not the sky, but the light in the sky; Not the fly, but the gleam of the fly; Not the sea, but the sound of the sea; Not myself, but what makes me
What is Poetry? Who knows?
Not a rose, but the scent of the rose;
Not the sky, but the light in the sky;
Not the fly, but the gleam of the fly;
Not the sea, but the sound of the sea;
Not myself, but what makes me
See, hear, and feel something that prose
Cannot: and what it is, who knows?
Sensory details touch the five senses. They make the poem vivid to the reader.
Let’s look at the sensory details in the poem “Those Winter Sundays.”
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?
Twinkle, twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.”
He's as hairy asa gorilla.
Peter laughs like a hyena.
Mr. John is as wise as an owl.
Allow me, it's as easy as ABC.
Because I was embarrassed my face was as red as a ripe tomato.
The world is like a stage.
She got a neck like a pipe.
A Red, Red Rose -Robert Burns (1759~1796)O My Luve's like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June;O My Luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly played in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I;And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry, my dearWhile the sands o' life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel, awhile!And I will come again, my luveTho' it ware ten thousand mile!
time is money
time is a thief
you are my sunshine
he has a heart of stone
America is a melting pot
The house is quiet now
The vacuum cleaner sulks in the corner closet,
Its bag limp as a stopped lung, its mouth
Grinning into the floor, maybe at my
Slovenly life, my dog-dead youth.
I’ve lived this way long enough,
But when my old woman died her soul
Went into that vacuum cleaner, and I can’t bear
To see the bag swell like a belly, eating the dust
And the woolen mice, and begin to howl
Because there is old filth everywhere
She used to crawl, in corner and under the stair.
I know now how life is cheap as dirt,
And still the hungry, angry heart
Hangs on and howls, biting at air.
She drank from a bottle called DRINK ME
And up she grew so ______,
She ate from a plate called TASTE ME
And down she shrank so _______.
And so she changed, while other folks
Never tried nothin’ at ________.
My husband gives me an A
for last night's supper,
an incomplete for my ironing,
a B plus in bed.
My son says I am average,
an average mother, but if
I put my mind to it
I could improve.
My daughter believes
in Pass/Fail and tells me
I pass. Wait 'til they learn
I'm dropping out
L (a leaf falls) oneliness