Okay, this should be the last post of this type, but this time let’s look at poetry. Since poetry is a tough one to teach, I want to go with poems that are fun, musical and meant to be read/performed. For instance, the classic, “Casey at the bat,” is really a concise short story. Others I’ve already chosen are ee cummings, some Seuss and Brooks’ understated, “We Real Cool.” Throw at me some poetry that you recall, stuff that is your favorite, fun and that students are likely to dig. And thanks 😉 daddio.
Overheard on a salt marsh, by Harold Monro.
That’s the first one that comes to mind, but I know there are more.
i vote for a.a. milne’s “King John’s Christmas.” I performed that one for my acting class in high school.
King John was not a good man
He had his little ways.
and sometimes no one spoke to him
for days and days and days….
Jabberwocky! That’s another good one.
“We Real Cool” is a good choice. I forgot to mention that before.
I am a huge fan of WE REAL COOl. It is possibly one of the most underrated poems I have read.
When I was in 9th grade I had to recite a poem. Most people picked stuff like “Two roads diverged…” or “How do I love thee” or “Because I could not stop for Death”. These are of course all well known poems and one that the teacher approved. As he listened to the students speak he nodded at their choice and murmered a “uh huh” when he liked the choice and an emphatic “mmm huh” when he really liked our choice.
So of course everyone got an “uh huh” or an emphatic mmm huh” except good ol Big Tex. Why? Becuase unlike my classmates I chose a poem that he did not like and I delivered the last line with such passion that the class thunderously applauded me afterwards. The teacher though was not pleased with me and it reflected on my grade.
The name of my poem was “A study of Reading Habits” by Philip Larkin. In case you havent read it, I have placed a copy. All i ask is that when you read this, read it aloud and deliver the last line as passionalty as you possibly can:
When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.
Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my coat and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.
Don’t read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who’s yellow and keeps the store
Seem far too familiar.
Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.
Thanks all, esp. BT, as always, enlightening…
A Fun American Classic:
Casey at the Bat:
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.