Presentation on theme: "Invictus BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable."— Presentation transcript:
1Invictus BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
2Independent Reading Poem List Poem – create a list of things that help define your main character in his or her complexity. These can be real things (a broken pen) your character might carry but also abstract concepts (the whisper of his mother the day he skinned his knee). Try to get specific with these details and to describe them in compelling ways.Lyrical poem from the perspective of one of the characters. What one of the characters wants to say to another or to us.The story told in a condensed powerful way.Question Poem
3Woman Found In Wooded Area She ran through the woodsto escape him.He followed the pathknowing he would reachthe same place.She wore stockings.The thorns tore at themand she bled.When she came out,her breath was visibleand he could smell her.Like a deer, she stilled,hoping he could not see her.But he could.SOLDIER MISSING ON DESERT MANEUVERS Sun blinding down behind a lava cone. Dark comes, but not cooling. How long till dawn, till he sees a distant scroll of dust - dancing-devil moving closer, becoming truck to take him back to camp. Another day of seeking shadow at his post, scanning all directions for that dust-devil that doesn't come. No truck to the lost horizon. How far can a soldier walk or crawl on two canteens of water? Which blind star might guide him on the death-march home?Taylor Graham
4The grocer had his union; the butcher couldn’t L.A. Police Chief Daryl Gates Dead at 83outrun his quarter of spoiled blood. And the girls wore extra rings and caked their skin with Vaseline. And the men slept the afternoon, —We were the finest.So the parents blamed the children,and the children marched barefootgrowing childishly morose as they dreamed.through the alleys, spray-paintingAnd I think I thought we’d burn then, when thetheir age. And the preacher introducedrefinery blew, and rust beganthe word lascivious and accusedto bleed through the whitewashed fence,the congregation of not tiding when the daughter died. And the deacon board smoked. And the economists saluted Reagan. And the police called it an economy of dust.when the lawns were done, and the schoolyard darkened,and the side streets began to split.Amaud Jamaul JohnsonOur meteorologist predicteda low-pressure system in the abdomen. And the junkies swore perfume rung the air.
5Newspaper Titles, Taken Literally or Not The Trials of Jacob MachA Grandchild’s Love Quells the Demons of AddictionClimbing a Ladder SafelyCouple transforms tour bus into a cozy home on wheelsDisappearing ink: Tattoo removal booming with new laserBaby Angel: Spring Valley cops hoping DNA will ID motherNYC man dies in paragliding crash
6Create a poem that uses at least three tenses. Tyger Tyger, burning bright,In the forests of the night;What immortal hand or eye,Could frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skies.Burnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand, dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, & what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? & what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread grasp,Dare its deadly terrors clasp!When the stars threw down their spearsAnd water'd heaven with their tears:Did he smile his work to see?Did he who made the Lamb make thee?Tyger Tyger burning bright,In the forests of the night:Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?-William BlakeCreate a poem that uses at least three tenses.Present I run (simple) - I am running (progressive)Past I ran - I was runningFuture I will run - I will be runningPresent Perfect I have run - I have been runningPast Perfect I had run - I had been runningFuture Perfect I will have run - I will have been running
7Rewinding the Universe Bad PeopleBY MARK HALLIDAYJack and Kenny. (Or two other guys dark to me with woundsThe guys who drank quarts of Busch last nightoozing in Philadelphia ways less ready to narrate.)here by the backstop of this baseball diamondLast night at midnight they got cheesesteaks at Casseloni’shad names given them by their mothers and fathers—and bought four quarts at the Fireside Tavern“Jack” and “Kenny” let us say.and wandered into this park. After one quart of BuschJack said he was Lenny DykstraJack might beand found a stick for his bat. “Pitch to me asshole” he saida skinny guy in a black fake-leather jacket,so Kenny went to the mound and pitched his bottlehe’s twenty-five, his gray pants are too loose on his hips,for want of anything better and Jack swung in the dark and missed;his jaws always have these little black extra hairs,Kenny’s bottle smashed on home plate and Jack heard in the soundhis mother won’t talk to him on the phone,the absurdity of all his desiring since seventh grade,she lives on french fries and ketchup,absurdity of a skinny guy who blew everything since seventhhe hasn’t been able to send her any cashwhen he hit home runs and chased Joan Rundle around the gymin the last two years, ever since he lostso Jack took his own empty bottle and smashed it downhis job unloading produce trucks at Pathmark;amid the brown shards of Kenny’s bottle.Jack’s father disappeared when he was ten.Then they leaned on the backstop to drink the other two quarts“No big deal,” Jack says, “he was a bastard anyway,and they both grew glum and silenthe used to flatten beer cans on the top of my head.”and when they smashed these bottles it was likeKenny offers a laugh-noise. He’s heard all that before.what else would they do? Next morningKenny is forty-eight, a flabby man with reddened skin,he is employed at the Italian Market selling fishNick and I come to the park with a rubber balljust four hours a day but his shirts hold the smell;and a miniature bat. Nick is not quite threehis female companion Deena left him a note last month:but he knows the names of all the Phillies starters“You owe me $12 chocolate $31 wine $55 cable TV plusand he knows the area around home plate is not supposed to bedonuts—I have had it—taking lamp and mirrorcovered with jagged pieces of brown glass. Like a good dadthey are mine.” Kenny hasn’t seen her since.I warn him not to touch it and we decide to establishHe hangs with Jack because Jack talks louda new home plate closer to the mound (there’s no trash canas if the world of cops and people with full-time jobshandy). “Who put that glass there?” Nick wants to knowcould be kept at bay by talking, talking loud . . .and to make a long story short I say “Bad People.”Nick says “Bad? How come?”(I’m talking gently and imaginatively hereas if the world of bums and jerks could be kept far off—)