I think Melissa is spot on in her analysis. Working in auditory readings of poetry is a great way for teachers to introduce poetry to students. I really liked her take on poetry as performative art: "Often, the sound of the words used is just as important to the mechanics of a poem as the actually denotation of those words. In fact, some of my favorite poems are those whose sound mirrors the denotative meaning of the words used." Too add to Melissa's example, I'd like to mention Robert Burns. Many of his poems are written in a Scottish dialect which can be difficult to read. The stylistic use of Scottish words forces the poem to be read in a particular way. By using sound to illustrate the native tongue of his country, Burns adds depth to his poetry and changes the denotative and connotative experiences of the reader. For example, it would be one thing if Burns wrote:
Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast
Oh, what a panic is in your breast!
You need not start away so hasty,
With bickering brattle
I would be loath to run and chase thee,
With murdering paddle.
It is another experience entirely when the poem is seen/heard as Burns originally wrote it:
The process of revision is a little daunting. To be purposeful in the revision takes discipline. A discipline I have never really had. In the past, I've just written a poem and left it alone. Since no one was going to be reading it, I figured it was good just the way it was. After revisiting some of my older poems; however, I realize the revision process is an absolute necessity. Using the exercises discussed in class and in the texts, I began rewriting one particular poem by incorporating it into my improv entry this week. Even though time has given me a different perspective on it and I almost feel like a stranger wrote the original, I am struggling to rework this darn thing. For now, the revision has made my brain hurt and I'm going to go do something that does not require so much concentration. Don't worry, I'll get back to it. Eventually.
As I can't sleep and don't have to work tomorrow, I stayed up watching a re-run of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. He's probably my all-time favorite talk show host. (Well, except for when Conan was around. Then they ran neck and neck.) Still he's always good for a laugh and, as I discovered in the wee hours of this morning, wonderful junkyard quotes.
Part of what I like about him is his interaction with the cameras. He gets right up in front of them and moves them around with his hands. Sitting on your couch at home, you get the distinct feeling he's having a conversation with you and not the audience in the studio seating. Other talk show hosts don't have that appeal. They stand or sit very formally in front of the cameras looking very stiff even when they are joking around. I think that is why I've never cared for David Letterman or Jay Leno. There's just something about them that makes them look uncomfortable.
And now...the quotes:
A) "Tomorrow's just your future yesterday." - a line in the opening song he sings
B) "NO APPLAUSE" - During the show he tried to keep the audience from clapping in between sets and when going to commercial break. Before pauses and breaks he would hold up a hand-written cue card with this quote. He wanted to see what would happen to an American audience if they weren't allowed to transition from one thing to another using some phony construction like clapping.
C) "Oh, come on! They died because it's just a fact of life, people." - This was his response to a collective "Oh!" from the audience as he and Antonio Banderas were discussing the elephants who died at the animal sanctuary Banderas's mother-in-law runs.
D) "No, he didn't look like the secret police. That's why he was secret." - Antonio Banderas responding to a question about his father's job with the Spanish secret police.
E) "I feel like I've been hit over the head with a plate. And I was! But I'll tell you about that later...on cable!" - What Ferguson said after a commercial break because he kept messing up his lines.
The baby starling, fallen
The question to ask again is: Where is the illusion?
"It would be perfect to be endless," the Greek sculptor used to say
in nameless warmth, with sunlight in every corner
Ah, the poetics of space.
At the door of the house, who will come knocking?
Pain without marks is like speech without writing doomed to pass into oblivion.
"Nearly" and "Closely", not "Exactly" and "Perfectly"
I'll tell you some stories of how memory and imagination
modify and transform by initiating an open-minded dialogue with a Turk.
A wind from a distant autumn is trying to rise
The evening comes like an attack
The dark and the silence are -
Curious the persistence of bone.
Its obstinacy in fighting off dust,
its resistance to diminish into ash.
A castle of ashes swept away by the wind
A baby starling, fallen.
Note:
I thoroughly enjoyed this week's writing exercise in class. I like puzzles and I felt like that is what this poem was. A puzzle I was putting together. Surprisingly, it is not too abstract. I found some interesting consistencies with the lines I chose. I think I can relate them back to what Hugo called "triggering words". All of my triggering words have to do with things I perceive as infinite - the stars, the ocean, time, concepts (i.e. hope, love, warmth), etc. I'll write a longer piece on those later but for now the poem intrigues me. I think I will revisit it in a day or two and try a sign inventory exercise with it.
1. The first term used to describe the fish is “tremendous”. This adjective is unquantifiable as it means different things to different people. In contrast the narrator becomes very detailed about the fish’s physical attributes, even its internal organs.
2. The narrator of the poem relates the fish to a number of human objects, all of which are in the process of deteriorating:
a. Skin hangs in strips like ancient wallpaper
b. The irises resemble “tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass”
c. Lower lip is “grim, wet, and weaponlike” with the hooks and fishing line still attached
d. The hooks and fishing line are compared with medals and ribbons of honor - a deocrated veteran?
e. Has a “five-haired beard of wisdom”
f. Seaweed hangs like wet rags from his body
3. It can be assumed from the description of the hooks and fishing lines that are still stuck in the fish that he has been caught five times and has gotten away each time. I wonder why the fish did not get away this time. What is so special about this fisherman/woman that the fish was caught?
4. Two types of flowers, roses and peonies, are mentioned in the poem; however, the narrator uses them to emphasize the grotesqueness of the fish.
5. The fish’s eyes shift as the narrator holds it in the air. It does not return the narrator’s gaze. Where is the fish looking? Back in the water? Is this a sign of submission and fear, or is the fish unconcerned with being caught?
6. The dashes in the poem, the pauses, indicate the speaker is reorganizing his/her thoughts. It is as if they are struggling to make sense of the fish.
7. The narrator mentions “victory filled up the little rented boat” – Whose victory? The fisherman/fisherwoman’s or the fish’s victory?
8. Repetition of the words “stared” and “rainbow” in the last twelve lines of the poem creates the feeling of being hypnotized or entranced.
9. The rainbows could be coming from the oil spill as the light is reflected on the water.
10. There is no pattern to the poem. It appears to be free form, as if the narrator is writing everything just as they think it. The imagery gives the poem a dream-like quality.
A friend of mine, who is a math teacher, looked completely horrified when I told her about my class this semester. She told me a semester of poetry at any level, much less the graduate level, was her version of hell. I replied that a semester of a math class was mine. Though we laughed about it, I got to thinking. What could English teachers do differently with poetry to appeal to students whose first inclination is not towards writing or reading poetry? How can we incorporate other talents in the classroom?
After all, poetry can be mathematical. There are certain counts and beats. There's parallelism and dealing with the unknown (the "imaginary" number). Sentences can be like equations. My curiosity led to some interesting research on the correlations between math and poetry. I was amazed by what I found.
For example, I had no idea that the iambic pentameter in Shakespearean sonnets
* mimics the rhythm of the human heartbeat
*can be converted into the binary digits 01 01 01
* and these binary digits are the basis for computer programming
If these connections exist just within Shakespeare's sonnets, I wonder what other connections exist. If teachers can find these connections, and work with one another to bring them into a cross-curricular classroom, we could teach our students so much more than we ever thought.
This came from one of the sample workshop poems posted on CourseDen.
[Untitled]
not feeling energetic we are on the bed
the sunlight shines on us
the bedposts are like totatlly shining in this sunglight
it is finally spring up here
the blossoms are very big and white
on the trees I have been close to you for a while now
trying to be there for you in this weird sort of spell you seem to be entranced by
I remember you when I met you and I got really drunk
and I ended up not saying anything to you that night
All these years later
you are now facing away from me
You have your pillow to your chest,
and the pain you are going through
is killing me
* * * * * * * *
[Titled]
not feeling conscientious we are resting on the swing
the moon shimmers on us
the waterfall cleaves the moonlight into slivers
it is finally winter up here
the leaves are dried and crisp
on the ground I have become closer to you through time
attempting to learn the trespasses you seem to be secrectly entangled by
I remember when you met me and I took care of you
I stayed when others left you that night
All those years ago
and now you sit in front of me
You have your drink close to your smile,
and the pain of our shared regret
is suffocating me
"I am really disturbed by the fact that they attach themselves to every living organism on their planet. Aren't they worried about cross contamination and/or catching some freaky disease? Or is that just a human thing?" - a friend discussing the movie, Avatar
"When we go to Morocco, I think we should have completely different names and be completely different people" - Penny Lane, Almost Famous
The student's comment will definitely be a fun line to use in a poem; however, my use of it will be deliberate, while hers was definitely not. She truly did not understand the difference in the usage and thought she was speaking correctly. Her quote was not during any creative portion of the class. I had simply asked them to turn in an assignment. Had we been writing creatively, I would not have done an impromptu grammar lesson.
As for my writing on the whiteboard, it was completely organic. The class soon became involved and wanted to know more. During the lesson, I was happy to have them responding positively to a discussion about language. The brief cringe at the end of the lesson was an involuntary reaction to her final statement. It reflected surprise rather than frustration and the hope that, by the end of the semester, she will be more aware of the langauge she uses.
I'll be honest. The first class was a little unnerving. I have never written a poem and given it to someone I was not familiar with. In fact, I have rarely given my poetry to anyone. I have either read it to them or watched them read it. I have always been very protective of my writing. I am not an "open book". My poetry was for me, and me alone. There has only been one exception, and I was letting go of someone very important. It was the last step in moving forward, the last step towards freedom. Maybe giving my writing to someone else is a good thing. I need to learn to open up more. I need not to hoard my thoughts and feelings. I need to find that sense of freedom again.
I found this while clearing space on my jump drive. I had completely forgotten about it. After rereading, I wonder if I should turn it into a poem. Any thoughts?
I am a wanderer. I have always known this. It has only been in recent years; however, that I have begun to wonder why I have such a strong desire to see the world. Is it because I spent the first half of my childhood moving with my military family? Or does it go back farther than that? Has this longing to see the world reached through time and space from some long forgotten ancestor? Or is it merely coded in the DNA of humanity? This intangible longing for something over the hill, past the mountains, and hidden in the depths of the sea.
Every couple of years the wanderer in me starts to feel nervous, anxious, and overwhelmed. I find myself unable to sit still or sleep peacefully. That is when I pick through old photo albums, reread old journals, and trace the worn pages of my travel books. Sometimes memories flood back so quickly that I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. I am caught off guard; tumbling like the waves of the Mediterranean on a clear June day.
It begins with walks in the green Tuscan fields forging a path to unearthed cities; then meanders through winding back streets emptying into beautiful Venetian piazzas alive with people and language; finally swirling through the metropolitan traffic of Rome to find the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, and the Pantheon. My mind then tumbles gracefully over the Aegean Sea towards Greece; climbing the mountains of gods and oracles; hopping and skipping through the Greek Isles over to the land of Trojan horses and Constantine.
And then the heat fades. Swirling snow sticks to my hair as I board a boat in Nijmegen. I watch the boat as it slicks through the locks of the Rhine River crisscrossing between the lands of Napoleon and Luther. I am in the middle and, for once, it is a place I am comfortable with.
Then there are the places I have yet to discover: Scotland, Ireland, India, Russia, Peru, and Chile. The list is much longer. It grows with each passing year. The dreamer in me has not considered the practicalities of future trips. Do not ask me how, as a teacher, I will pay for them or when I will find the time. I refuse to cross a bridge I have not come to yet. For now, I let the wanderer in me dream peacefully of future travels and new adventures.
A female student in my literature class did not understand she was using "mines" incorrectly. As I began explaining why "mines" was inappropriately used in her sentence, it quickly became a class discussion. I wrote the word with its varied forms for them on the white board:
Term she was using:
mine = possessive pronoun used as an adjective in the predicate. (Example: That book is mine.) No "s" is added to the ending.
As a noun:
mine = a man-made shaft or open excavation site where raw materials are unearthed and removed.
mines = (plural form of mine) more than one man-made shaft or open excavation site where raw materials are unearthed and removed.
As a verb: to mine = to unearth raw materials
And just to make sure there was no confusion, I wrote out the words "mind" and "minds". Many of my students have specific learning disabilities in written expression and reading comprehension, and could easily mistake the words.
By the end of the class, the student who initiated the discussion said, "That's cool, Ms. L______ but I keep saying 'mines' cuz it sounds right to me and mines."[Note: The grammar and spelling errors are intentional. They are my attempt to accurately depict her speech in class.]
All I could do was cringe inwardly and start reviewing the Latin and Greek root words we are studying for this week. Maybe by the end of the semester she'll think differently. Maybe.
