Looking for CONNOTATION in POETRY Connotation Denotation Looking

Looking for CONNOTATION in POETRY Connotation: Denotation:

Looking for CONNOTATION in POETRY Connotation: the feeling associated with the word Denotation: the dictionary definition of a word

Looking for CONNOTATION in POETRY Connotation: the feeling associated with the word Denotation: the dictionary definition of a word Think: Which is nicer to use? House or home when describing where you live?

The apparition of these faces in a crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.

In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in a crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. - Ezra Pound

With your poem poster: 1. Underline important words that have interesting CONNOTATION 2. Record on the side what the CONNOTATIONS for these words are 3. Decide what the THEME of the poem is – what message is the poem saying? –and write it on your page 4. Come up with a TITLE for your poem 5. Be able to explain how CONNOTATION helped you understand the poem 6. Your group will be presenting your poem, the new title, and some important words to the class; after, we will be looking at the originals

Desert Places Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast In a field I looked into going past, And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it--it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent-spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it be less-A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express. They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars--on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. - Robert Frost

Caged Bird The free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. sings of freedom But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. - Maya Angelou

Evening Star 'Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro' the light Of the brighter, cold moon, 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold- too cold for me. There pass'd, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light. - Edgar Allan Poe

faces turning; O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is Here Captain! dear father! done; This arm beneath your head; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we. It is some dream that on the deck, sought is won; You've fallen cold and dead. The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale grim and daring: and still; But O heart! My father does not feel my arm, he has no O the bleeding drops of red, pulse nor will; Where on the deck my Captain lies, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage Fallen cold and dead. closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20 O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! bells; But I, with mournful tread, Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the Walk the deck my Captain lies, bugle trills; 10 Fallen cold and dead. For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; - Walt Whitman For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager

Spares the next swath and all its twined Ode to Autumn Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, flowers; Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Conspiring with him how to load and bless Steady thy laden head across a brook; With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves. Or by a cider-press, with patient look, run; Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells they? With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, --And still more, later flowers for the bees, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, Until they think warm days will never cease, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn cell. Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find bourn; Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook - John Keats

The Last Wolf The last wolf hurried toward me through the ruined city and I heard his baying echoes down the steep smashed warrens of Montgomery Street and past the ruby-crowned highrises left standing their lighted elevators useless Passing the flicking red and green of traffic signals baying his way eastward in the mystery of his wild loping gait closer the sounds in the deadly night through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks I hear his voice ascending the hill and at last his low whine as he came floor by empty floor to the room where I sat in my narrow bed looking west, waiting I heard him snuffle at the door and I watched He trotted across the floor he laid his long gray muzzle on the spare white spread and his eyes burned yellow his small dotted eyebrows quivered Yes, I said. I know what they have done. - Mary Tall. Mountain