2. Types of Figurative Language  Metaphor – A way of describing something by comparing it to something else  Simile – A way of describing something by comparing it to something else using words such as, “like” or “as.” “She’s so happy she’s glowing like the sun.”  Personification – A way of describing something that is not human as if it had human qualities or characteristics. “The leaves ran down the street and danced in the wind.”

3.  Alliteration – Repetition of the first consonant in a series of words. Rabbits running over roses…  Assonance – Repetition of a vowel sound in a series of words. The pain may drain Drake, but maybe the weight is fake.  Consonance – Repetition of a consonant in a word; not at the beginning of each word. Some mammals are clammy.  An example containing all three: “And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain…”

4.  Onomatopoeia -- The use of a word to describe or imitate a natural sound or the sound made by an object or an action. “snap crackle pop”  Hyperbole -- An exaggeration that is so dramatic that no one would believe the statement is true. Tall tales are hyperboles. “He was so hungry, he ate that whole cornfield for lunch, stalks and all.”  Idioms -- phrases which people use in everyday language which do not make sense literally but we understand what they mean. “I’m really sticking my neck out for you...”

5. What to do!  Read the following poem.  Identify areas using figurative language.

6. Digging by Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. My grandfather could cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.