Pam Webb

a writer's journey as a reader

Archive for the tag “Poetry”

Verse for Wear


1st edition

1st edition (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

First word purging and now onto verse wearing.

Throughout the year I also collected poems from my daily feeding from www.poets.org. Daily offerings are contemporary, while weekends focus on past classics. I began subscribing for a couple of reasons:

1. Poetry appreciation came into my life later than sooner and I’m making up for lost time.
2. Since becoming an AP teacher I figure it’s best practice to move beyond my basic knowledge of Frost–doctors must keep up on new practices, so as a practicing English literature teacher I should as well.

After a year of daily dosing of poems I have found I’m still drawn more to the classic poets, yet still appreciate the “now” of poetry today and listen, for the most part, what is being said.
So, here are the poems that I keep in my “save” file. I plan to wear these verse offerings by pulling them out for discussion in class. And here, as well. Any comments? Are you more contemporary or classic in your poetry choices?

All poems and bio information are from poets.org

Edgar Guest:
Guest has been called “the poet of the people.” Most often his poems were fourteen lines long and presented a deeply sentimental view of everyday life. When his father died, Guest was forced to drop out of high school and work full time at the Detroit Free Press, eventually considering himself “a newspaper man who wrote verses.” Of his poetry he said, “I take simple everyday things that happen to me and I figure it happens to a lot of other people and I make simple rhymes out of them.” 

Only A Dad
Edgar Guest 

Only a dad with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame
To show how well he has played the game;
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come and to hear his voice.

Only a dad with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd,
Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad but he gives his all,
To smooth the way for his children small,
Doing with courage stern and grim
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen:
Only a dad, but the best of men.

From the book "A Heap o' Livin'" ©1916



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I appreciate this poem because it gets a shout out to dads. There are so many poems that exult moms (which I don’t mind) and I think fathers get shorted on all they do and how we feel about them.
Radar Data #12
by Lytton Smith
 
It was in the absence of light
as when near new moon and 
no moonlight; as when a part 
of a picture is in shadow (as 
opposed to a light); as when 
in the condition of being 
hidden from view, obscure, 
or unknown–in concealment, 
or else without knowledge 
as regards to some particular; 
and of the weather, season, 
air, sky, sea, etc., characterized 
by tempest; in times, events, 
circumstances etc. subject to 
tempers; inflamed, indicative, predictive, or symbolical of 
strife (harbinger of coming 
trouble)-a period of darkness 

occurring between one day & 
the next during which a place 
receives no light from the sun, 

and what if it is all behind us? 
I no longer fear the rain will 
never end, but doubt our ability 

to return to what lies passed. 
On the radar, a photopresent 
scraggle of interference, as if 

the data is trying to pretend 
something’s out there where 
everything is lost.

About This Poem   
“People are always curious where a name like ‘Lytton’ comes from–and it’s not from modernist biographer Lytton Strachey, but gothic novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton. He famously came up with the opening phrase (in Paul Clifford) ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ But I’ve begun to feel guilty mentioning that; his opening sentence is actually pretty good, so I’ve begun writing a whole series of poems that try to translate, rework, recuperate it.”  Lytton Smith

This is My Life
by William Stanley Braithwaite
 To feed my soul with beauty till I die;
To give my hands a pleasant task to do;
To keep my heart forever filled anew
With dreams and wonders which the days supply;
To love all conscious living, and thereby
Respect the brute who renders up its due,
And know the world as planned is good and true-
And thus -because there chanced to be an I!

This is my life since things are as they are:
One half akin to flowers and the grass:
The rest a law unto the changeless star.
And I believe when I shall come to pass
Within the Door His hand shall hold ajar
I’ll leave no echoing whisper of Alas!

Over the course of his career, Braithwaite founded a publishing company and taught creative writing at Atlanta University. His poetic style was influenced by English Romantic poets John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and William Wordsworth.
This poem smacks of resolution for the New Year. It stirs a resolve to become better than I am and to leave no regrets at the passing of the day. Yup, that’s what a poem should do–get some soul stirring going.
My hopes are that your New Year will be filled with verse, be it created or found, and that the words will resonate in your life into others!

A Bit of Bard for the Kidlits


List of titles of works based on Shakespearean...

How well do your kids know this guy? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Shakespeare. He probably isn’t on most parental to-do lists when it comes to childhood enrichment items. Then again–why not? We trot our kiddos to soccer practice, piano lessons, and the library to enrich their lives, why not foster the love of the Bard at an early age?
Acclaimed playwright Ken Ludwig believes infusing the Bard into our children’s lives is an essential, endearing adventure to undertake. His How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare is both inspirational and inventive in its approach. Although I no longer have kidlits at home since my progeny are now building their own nests, I can still adapt Ludwig’s methods by amending them to classroom instruction, especially since the ninth grade Common Core curriculum has a Romeo and Juliet section.

Teaching Shakespeare to our children is a notable endeavour. Ludwig states a few of his goals as to why he taught Shakespeare to his children on page 11:

  • giving them tools to read Shakespeare’s works with intelligence for the rest of their lives
  • enriching their lives
  • exposing them to literature to inspire them toward achieving great lives as they grow
  • providing meaningful shared experiences

Cool. Those are pretty much my intentions when I teach Shakespeare to my classroom kiddos.
Ludwig hits all the essential values of the “why” of Shakespeare:
1. The richness of imagery
2. The lilt of rhythm
3. The nuances and playfulness of language
4. The importance of memorizing and tucking away forever a few exceptional passages to pull out and nibble on throughout life
5. The joy of exploring character

Shakespeare’s plays showcase poetry at its best. Why wait until the kinder are all grownup before relishing the richness of English language? I am always amazed when I get a ninth grader who states, “Shakespeare? Who’s Shakespeare?” Admittedly that confession is rare. Unfortunately, the only Shakespeare most students know is Romeo and Juliet. On the other hand, by the time they leave high school they will become acquainted with at least three plays and a a handful of sonnets.  Sadly, I didn’t have any Shakesperience until I began teaching it.  That’s nearly thirty years of being Bardless.  Shocking, I know.  Now I’m a professed Bardinator and hope to put my acquired knowledge to page, one of these days.  We’ll see.  I have too many books in want of writing as it is.

For now, I am thrilled to introduce Shakespeare to my freshmen and strive to induce appreciation for his words and wit.

Mass-produced colour photolithography on paper...

Anyone out there have the Bard on their parent list? Is it squeezed in with ballet and soccer?

Committed to Poetry or Was that Commentary of Poetry?


English: Former United States Poet<br /><br /> Laureate (2... Admit it–we like poetry
because for the most part it’s a quick commitment. Two to five
minutes we get our emotions stirred, we open up our imagery files,
and we tuck away a line to ruminate on.  This is not cynicism,
merely observation. We love, love, love poetry more than we love,
love, love short stories. At least, this is what I am beginning to
surmise as I dole out literary experiences to high school students.
Since I’ve been English literature teachering for the past
decade, I have discovered poetry is amazingly versatile in its
ability to stir up passion in students.  Students  run
the Richter scale of response of “Just hand me a dull spoon so I
can dig out my eyeball” (LOL–actual quote from a senior) to
“Poetry! I love poetry! Can we write our own poems!” (yet, another
true quote). There doesn’t seem to be much of the middle roading
when it comes to reading or writing poetry. Why is that, I wonder?
My students aren’t sure either.  Somewhere between Shel Silverstein and Shakespeare
sonnets the love of verse becomes irrevocably squashed.
I think Billy Collins presented oh so well:

Introduction To Poetry

I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its
hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s
room

and feel the walls for a light
switch.

I want them to
waterski

across the surface of a

poem

waving at the author’s name on the

shore.

But all they
want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with
rope

and torture a confession out of
it.

They begin beating it with a
hose

to find out what it really
means.

Thank you,
Billy. I am trying to convert my rubber hose approach into one of
ski rope handles.
One of my goals as a teacher is to inject the love of
words into my students.  I want them to turn to poems like
they do to their tunes.  After all, song lyrics are mostly
poetry with infused music.  Once students realize that if they
actually unplugged their buds long enough to actually read
their play list lyrics out loud they will see all those
literary terms of assonance, imagery, rhythm, rhyme, simile,
allusion floating around.
I try not to have them beat the stuffing out of
poems.  I much prefer them waterski and wave in
acknowledgement as we launch out on poetry’s
waters.  Grooving on poetry is, I hope contagious. My
excitement at reading a really marvelous poem out loud causes me to
have physical reactions.  The other day I read Seamus Heaney‘s “Digging.”

English: Picture of the Irish poet and Nobel P...

English: Picture of the Irish poet and Nobel Prize winner Seamus Heaney at the University College Dublin, February 11, 2009. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; 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 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, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, 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.

 

When I finished reading the poem
out loud I sucked in my breath and danced a bit in
place, so moved was I with Heaney’s wordsmithing.  My AP
students benignly tolerate my antics. I’m hoping my
unfettered appreciation will one day stir them  into
showing me their unabashed admiration.
Considering I had minimal
exposure to poetry during my own K-12 school days, and didn’t
really discover its merits until college, I am continually amazed
at its power to stir my emotions.  I valiantly want to pass on
this joy to my students and even before the Common Core required a
unit on poetry, I taught it anyway.
My commitment to poetry is my
commentary on how words artfully placed meaningfully lend a
dimension to our lives that makes us linger to inhale the
fragrance of as Coleridges states, “the best words in the best
order.”
Do you have
any poems that cause you to dance a bit in place when you read
them? Oh, do share.

Poe Is the O in October


Word association time.  Let’s go with Poe:

  • creepy
  • scary
  • gruesome
  • mesmerizing
  • madness
  • death
  • Pits
  • Pendulum
  • Hearts
  • Ravens
Edgar Allan Poe Museum (Richmond, Virginia)

Edgar Allan Poe Museum (Richmond, Virginia) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, ravens. Who doesn’t know The Raven? Don’t tell my freshmen, but after we get their poetry notebooks all turned in we are pretty much done with the curriculum poems and now it’s verse revelry. This is where I bring out poems that I’m hoping will be memorable.  I like to bring out The Raven because, of course, it’s well-done, it’s a classic, it’s a trademark, and plus it’s creepy.Come on, you know what I’m talking about. A guy passing a quiet evening in his library and a crazy overgrown crow bops in and redundantly cries “Nevermore!” That’s nutsy stuff.

There are scads of versions to pursue–everything from the smaltzy Vincent Price movie to Christopher Walken’s chilling audio clip to The Simpson’s animation silliness. While all these have their own value, I have discovered my new favorite.

I’d love to know what you think.

Christopher Lee is riveting, and the illustrations–I never knew they existed!

So–Poe is the O in October not only because he left this world in such an ambiguous way on October 7th, but also because he is Oh So Creepy and for me October is the creepy month. I’m not going there about the bizarre event of parading kids around at night in costumes to hit up strangers for candy (don’t get me going on that one)–no, no, it’s not really that. It’s more due to the fact that October signifies the diminishing of daylight and I sorely miss my daylight. It’s darn right creepy to wake up at 5 am in pitch black and then have it just as light deprived at 5 pm. October must have inspired Poe to dwell so much in darkness.  He definitely rates the King of Oh-My-Goodness-That-Freaks-Me-Out writing.

English: Cover of the pulp magazine Weird Tale...

English: Cover of the pulp magazine Weird Tales (September 1939, vol. 34, no. 3) featuring The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Cover art by Virgil Finlay. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There is no rhyme nor reason to poetry…


at least according to some of my freshmen.  I can understand their point. Who wants to study grammatically incorrect phrasings and try to make sense of what they are talking about when you are doing all you can at trying to get a handle on whether it’s “A” day or “B” day and what lunch you have (“ummm, first lunch on “A” day or was that “B” day?). But we’ve made a commitment to Common Core and it’s full speed ahead.

Cover of "Dead Poets Society"

Cover of Dead Poets Society

Actually, I’ve always been a proponent of poetry.  I’ve brought cowboy poets into the classroom, Beatle songs, clips of Robin Williams doing his crazy wonderful teacher in Dead Poets Society, and provided recipes for poems.  I had football players writing love poems and entering contests, mud boggers writing sonnets about their trucks. We’ve explored performance poetry through Taylor Mali’s incredible YouTube videos and we’ve participated in a packed-out community program of youth performing their own poetry.

Common Core though, I’ve noticed, has dented my zing. I’ve been having students prepare for their SBAC (I should know what that means) by writing up reaction paragraphs to each poem as a means of them practicing their critical thinking skills. There is nothing wrong with understanding and recognizing how, or what, or why the poem works, yet poetry is so different from prose. It should encourage the soul to sing. I’m afraid in my zeal for my students to do well on their tests by getting their writing skills up to stuff I’ve lost my way towards my original goal of greeting me with “What’s the poem today?” with that anticipation of a new flavor to relish.

Hmm, some Walt  Whitman and Song of Myself might do it…

Cover of "Song of Myself (Shambhala Centa...

Cover via Amazon

The Morphing of the Omni Narrator


Right now we are toughing out poetry with my freshmen. *sigh* “We study poetry because oral storytelling came before the written language came into existence, plus many of the elements we study in poetry exist in fiction–you know, like imagery, diction, syntax, metaphors, analogies–so get to know poetry and you’ll understand and enjoy fiction that much more.”  And the question? (Jeopardy music, please)

Why do we study poetry?

Returning to the anticipated second quarter…(quick, quick, I’m losing them)

Once I get to short stories in the curriculum it’s pretty easy sailing, since my students are versed in plot, characters, setting, and such. Theme sometimes throws them; however, point-of-view gets them pondering. For instance, trying to explain the omniscient narrator is tricky these days. Back when, I used to say, “The Omniscient narrator is a lot like God–you know, everywhere and knowing everything about everybody.” I’m getting less comfortable about using that analogy in such a forthright manner.  I still believe it’s a valid analogy, yet don’t want to offend any of my students.  Let alone get the ACLU or other NSA types coming after me.

Cover of "The Long Winter"

Cover of The Long Winter

Another problem with trying to explain the omniscient narrator is that the old-fashioned version of the narrator filling into the details has changed into something quite different. For instance, I recently reread The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder (don’t snicker, it’s a great read, besides it’s for research–really) and Wilder includes in the story what’s happening to the town’s people and to Almanzo and Cap who are all caught up in a grueling blizzard, in an inclusive fluid manner.  I rarely come across this type of narrative style today. As Bob Dylan once said, “Times they are achanging.”

In the last few years I have noticed a trend where the omni narrative is now designated as separate chapters.  This at first proved quite annoying because the point-of-view kept changing. One chapter would be one character, the next a completely different one.  I felt like I was juggling characters to the point of wanting to run an Excel sheet to keep it all straight.

The last few novels I’ve read have run this narrative style, and every new book I’m pulling from my suggestion list and review newspapers seem to be pandering this new style. I keep checking them out though.  I’m either getting used to this new kaleidoscopic style of story-telling or I’m so starved to read I’m willing to put up with it.

Here are some examples of recent titles with the switch-hit character changing technique. Enjoyable reads all, but fret and nuisance, doesn’t anyone write in the old-time omni narrative style anymore?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Any thoughts, Book Boosters?

Summer Rain


At this point it’s wishful thinking…is it me, or is this an especially warm summer?

SUMMER RAIN

 fat drops
sizzle steam
on sidewalk, parking lot–
glistening watered beads
cascading down windshields and windows
overflowing
gutters
generating puddles
drenching surprised picnickers,
dog walkers,
park bench people-watchers,
distracted paperback readers–
children frolic, gleefully pirouetting
on the grassy lawn.
I too frolic with them, safely at my distance
under a friendly tree

©C.Muse 2012

Related articles

Summer Read n Eat Poetry


Food and summer.  Yup.

Besides barbecue, picnics, reunions, vacation binges, craft fair nibbling, beach concession splurges and the like, there is also food found in our reading.  Take poems, for example.

This is just to say by William Carlos Williams

Watermelons by Charles Simic

Peach Blossoms by Carl Sandburg

A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme by Robert Graves

Orchard by Hilda Doolittle

Plums, watermelons, berries, peaches, oh my. Time to browse the Farmer’s Market!

For more summer foodie poems try this delightful site: TasteArt

Summer Sensory


Summer from my backyard…

comforting drone of the neighbor’s lawnmower

thrum of rising heat

tantalizing waffs of barbeque

smiling inducing laughter and squeals of the VBS children at play

drone of ovehead planes taking in the view

piercing horn blasts of the A-line trains traveling north and south

conversation snatches of runners and bikers passing by

bass thrum of teens cruising around

crescendo of motorcycles out for a spin

the dip and dives of swallows catching supper bugs

robin chirrup, chickadee beckon, crow squawk, dove wing chrill, chipmunk scold

sprinkler tick, tick, ticky, tock

aspen leaf lift and swish and sway in the cooling gift of breeze

Ahhhhhh, mmmmm, summmer…..

Umbrellas and Choice


One of the benefits of taking on April’s National Poetry Month was discovering cool stuff like Poem-a-Day.  Everyday, free of charge, straight to my mailbox, I get to savor a new verse flavor.  I like it.  This one especially feathered my appreciative factor:

L’Avenir est Quelque Chose
by Dobby Gibson

All day for too long
everything I’ve thought to say
has been about umbrellas,
how I can’t remember how
I came to possess whatever weird one
I find in my hand, like now,
how they hang there on brass hooks
in the closet like failed actors,
each one tiny or too huge,
like ideas, always needing
to be shaken off and folded up
before we can properly forget them on the train.
Most of my predictions are honestly
just hopes: a sudden sundress in March,
regime change in the North, the one where Amanda
wins the big book award from the baby boomers.
There’s that green and white umbrella
the cereal company interns handed us
outside the doomed ball game,
the one just for sun,
the one with the wooden handle
as crooked as the future
that terrifies me whenever one of us uses it
as a stand-in for a dance partner.
You once opened it in the living room
so Scarlett could have a picnic
beneath something that felt to her like a tent
as it felt to me like my prediction
When I want to try to understand now
I tend to look up and how
truth be untold, I might see nothing
more than a few thousand pinholes in black nylon,
it’s enough to get you to Greece and back,
or something to kiss beneath,
who knows how this is going to play out?
I know you won’t ever be able to say
exactly what you’re feeling either,
the way worry might pop open overhead
like fireworks oozing pure midnight —
will we ever see the sun? —
the way we’re sure to pull closer
to whatever’s between us, the rain playing
the drum that’s suddenly us.e would live forever was already true.

About This Poem: from the author
“‘Rather than approaching a new poem as if it might be your last, try approaching it as if it’s simply your next.’ I had scribbled this advice to myself in my notebook just before I wrote this poem. It was a cold and rainy day in Minneapolis. The future seemed impossible. I grabbed the first thing I could find nearest the door.”

Roughly translated I believe the title means: “The future is a thing that overcomes. It is undergoing not the future, it is fact.”  Does anyone have a truer translation (I *cough* never took French in school, and um, sailed in the low passing in German).

Why Pick This Poem:
Umbrellas are a fave of mine.   That instant bubble zone of being in the weather, yet being protected at the same is both cozy and reassuring. It’s a lot like getting an idea and being immersed in it while coping with paying bills, driving in traffic, grading papers–I’m involved in the everyday, but walking in the bubble of an idea. Just like I carry an umbrella in my car, have one in my classroom, and there’s one hanging in the home hallway. One never knows when walking in a bubble is needed.

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