1. Poetry What is poetry? Look at the following slide

2. My Cat

3. 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.

4. How can you tell it’s poetry? Write down all your ideas Have you found at least 5 different reasons?

5. My Cat 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.

6. 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

7. 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

8. “The best words in the best order” Coleridge Copy this definition down and highlight it!

9. 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 gate When Frost was spectre –grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day.

10. Imagery The Darkling Thrush I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre –grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. Thomas Hardy