诗歌欣赏教案.doc

Part one
What is Poetry

POETRY might be defined as a kind of language that says more and says it more intensively than does ordinary language.
POETRY is a kind of saying. A in addition to B a and b
POETRY is an art form in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content. It consists of oral or literary works in which language is used in a manner that is felt by its user and audience to differ from ordinary prose. It may use condensed or compressed form to convey emotion or ideas to the reader’s or listener’s mind or ear; it may also use devices such as assonance and repetition to achieve musical or incantatory effects. Poems frequently rely for their effect on imagery, word association and the musical qualities of the language used. Because of its nature of emphasizing linguistic form rather than using language purely for its content, poetry is notoriously difficulty to translate from one language into another.
The Eagle
He claps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809--1892)

Red wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
William Carlos Williams (1883---1963)

Dust of Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Robert Frost (1874--1963)

The Careful Angler

The careful angler chose his nook
At morning by the lilied brook,
And all the noon his rod he plied
By that romantic riverside.
Soon as the evening hours decline
Tranquilly he’ll return to dine,
And, breathing forth a pious wish,
Will cram his belly with full of fish.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850--1849)

There is no Frigate like a Book

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any courser like a page
Of prancing poetry:
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears the human soul!
Emily Dickinson (1830--1886)
Part two
Characteristics of poetry
Poetry as whole is concerned with all kinds of experience—beautiful or ugly, strange or common, noble or ignoble, actual or imaginary.
1. Poetry is the most condensed and concentrated form of literature, saying most in the fewest number of words.
2. Poetry is a kind of multidimensional language.---intellectual, sensuous, emotional and imaginative.
A Man He Killed

Thomas Hardy (1840--1928)

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough；although

He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
Off-hand-like-just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.

Yes, quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.

The Sick Rose
William Blake (1757--1827)
O Rose, that art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down as one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then take the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Has worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Meeting at night
Robert Browning (1812--1889)
The gray sea and the long black land:
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with the pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields of cross till a farm appears;
Tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro’s its joys and fears
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Parting at morning

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain’s rim
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And (straight was) the need of world of men for me.
Part Three
How to experience poems

How to experience poems?
1. Read a poem more than once. (It’s to be hung on the wall of one’s mind )
2. Keep a dictionary by you and use it.
3. Read so as to hear the sounds of the words in your mind. (Poetry is written to be heard: its meanings are conveyed through sound as well as through print. One should read a poem as slowly as possible. And you should lip-read it at least.)
4. Always pay careful attention to what the poem is saying.(One should make the utmost effort to follow the thought continuously and to grasp the full implications and suggestions. And on the very first reading you should determine the SUBJECTs of the VERBs and the ANTECEDENTs of the PRONOUNS.)
5. Practice reading poems aloud. (a. Read it affectionately, but not affectedly. B. Reading too fast offers greater danger than reading slowly. Read it slowly enough so that each word is clear and distinct and so that the meaning has time to sink in. YOUR ORDINARY RATE OF READING WILL PROBABLY BE TOO FAST. C. Read a poem so that the rhythmical pattern is felt but not exaggerated.)
6. Ask ourselves the following questions so as to aid us in the understanding of a poem.
a. Who is the speaker and what is the occasion?
b. What is the central purpose of the poem?
c. By what means is that purpose achieved?
d. What provokes the saying?
7. While reading a poem, always maintain the utmost mental alertness.
8. Try your utmost to accumulate your experience of life and the world, directly or indirectly, such as by reading, watching TV and seeing film.

William Shakespeare. 1564–1616

Sonnet XVIII.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

SHALL I |compare| thee to| a su |mmer’s day?a

Thou art| more love|ly and |more tem|perate:b

Rough winds| do shake| the dar|ling buds| of May,a

And su|mmer’s lease| hath all| too short| a date:b

Sometime| too hot| the eye| of hea|ven shines,c
   5
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;d

And every fair from fair sometime declines,c

By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;d

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,e

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,f
  10
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,e

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;f

  So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,g

  So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.g

THOMAS GRAY
1716-1771
465                           
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
   The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
   And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
   And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
   And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
   The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
   Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
   Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
   The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
   The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
   No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
   Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
   Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
   Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
   How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
   Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
   The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
   And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:
   The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
   If Memory o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
   The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
   Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
   Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
   Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
   Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
   Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
   And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
   The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
   And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
   The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest,
   Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
   The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
   And read their history in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
   Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
   And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
   To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
   With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife
   Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
   They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
   Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
   Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,
   The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
   That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
   This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
   Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
   Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
   E’en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
   Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
   Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
   ‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
   To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
   That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
   And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
   Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
   Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.
‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
   Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
   Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
‘The next with dirges due in sad array
   Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
   Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

Part Four
Dramatic Situation

ballad

in literature, short, narrative poem usually relating a single, dramatic event. Two forms of the ballad are often distinguished—the folk ballad, dating from about the 12th cent., and the literary ballad, dating from the late 18th cent.
   1
The Folk Ballad

The anonymous folk ballad (or popular ballad), was composed to be sung. It was passed along orally from singer to singer, from generation to generation, and from one region to another. During this progression a particular ballad would undergo many changes in both words and tune. The medieval or Elizabethan ballad that appears in print today is probably only one version of many variant forms.
   2
Primarily based on an older legend or romance, this type of ballad is usually a short, simple song that tells a dramatic story through dialogue and action, briefly alluding to what has gone before and devoting little attention to depth of character, setting, or moral commentary. It uses simple language, an economy of words, dramatic contrasts, epithets, set phrases, and frequently a stock refrain. The familiar stanza form is four lines, with four or three stresses alternating and with the second and fourth lines rhyming.
   3
More than 300 English and Scottish folk ballads, dating from the 12th to the 16th cent., are extant. Five major classes of the ballad can be distinguished—the historical, such as “Otterburn” and “The Bonny Earl o’ Moray”; the romantic, such as “Barbara Allan” and “The Douglas Tragedy”; the supernatural, such as “The Wife of Usher’s Well”; the nautical, such as “Henry Martin”; and the deeds of folk heroes, such as the Robin Hood cycle.
   5
The Literary Ballad The literary ballad is a narrative poem created by a poet in imitation of the old anonymous folk ballad. Usually the literary ballad is more elaborate and complex; the poet may retain only some of the devices and conventions of the older verse narrative. Literary ballads were quite popular in Eng