Hey class,
so, we missed a week of class, unfortunately. I hope you all wintered safely and weren't caught in horrendous traffic. There are two options for us catching up: we can either push the class readings further and take away a week workshop, which I'm not particularly a fan of, or we can excise some readings from our schedule, mostly from the anthology, Singing School, and try to finish all our lecturing/exercises by Feb 24th. We can talk about this in class, but feel free to leave your vote as a comment as well.
Either way, though, the Collaborative Presentations will have to be pushed back a week. So, if you look on the syllabus, Group A was supposed to present/bring in a prompt to get us writing on Wednesday. Group A will now present (I use that verb purely out of convenience) this Wednesday, 2/5, group B will present that next Wednesday, so on and so forth. You should have gotten a paper with your group assignment on it--if you need another copy, email me and I'll send it to you. I would like some paperwork when it's your day to present--I'll bring in an assignment sheet detailing what I would like to be turned in Monday.
As for reading, lets try to tackle the sestina and the pantoum from The Making of a Poem on Monday, Feb 3, and then your pick two out of three will be due Feb 10.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Saturday, January 25, 2014
The Sestina, en grade
Greetings and salutations, class! You should have received an email from a website called "en grade"--this is the online gradebook I'll be using to keep track of your grades this semester, so if you'd like to know what your grade at any point during the semester, you should consider creating an en grade account. It's a very user-friendly and intuitive system, and some of you may already have accounts if any of your previous teachers have used en grade. If you don't want to make an account, you can conference with me at any point during the semester and we can go over your grade together.
Ok, the sestina. I hope you all have your books by now and are enjoying this difficult, complex form. I think it's downright criminal that our book does not include one of the best sestinas to have ever been written, "Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop--you may remember her "One Art" from last week's discussion of the villanelle. She used received forms masterfully, and her free verse is also among the best the 20th century has to offer.
Anyway, enjoy Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" and we'll talk more about this form on Monday. Pay close attention to her six end words and how she uses them--consider if you would use similar end words, or use them in a similar way...see you then!
Also, I want to strongly encourage you to post comments on the blog. It's not a requirement, but it would make me feel like I'm not talking to an online vacuum...what do you think of the poems and the forms we've discussed so far?
Sestina, by Elizabeth Bishop
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
Ok, the sestina. I hope you all have your books by now and are enjoying this difficult, complex form. I think it's downright criminal that our book does not include one of the best sestinas to have ever been written, "Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop--you may remember her "One Art" from last week's discussion of the villanelle. She used received forms masterfully, and her free verse is also among the best the 20th century has to offer.
Anyway, enjoy Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" and we'll talk more about this form on Monday. Pay close attention to her six end words and how she uses them--consider if you would use similar end words, or use them in a similar way...see you then!
Also, I want to strongly encourage you to post comments on the blog. It's not a requirement, but it would make me feel like I'm not talking to an online vacuum...what do you think of the poems and the forms we've discussed so far?
Sestina, by Elizabeth Bishop
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Welcome! And the villanelle.
Hello 3150A,
I thought I'd make a blog where I could post poems that fit our class discussion, but weren't included in our texts, or media that you could enjoy outside of our technology-deprived classroom. Since we're talking about villanelles on Wednesday, here are two villanelles, the first of which is in our text, and I post simply because there's a recording of Dylan Thomas actually reading his "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night," and he has quite a memorable reading voice.
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
This next poem is one of my favorite villanelles, and I'll try to bring a copy to class. It's by Richard Hugo, and there's also a recording of Hugo reading the poem on the poetry foundation website.
The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The polite word, handicapped, is muttered in the stands.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
One whole day I sit, contrite, dirt, L.A.
Union Station, ’46, sweating through last night.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
Score, 5 to 3. Pitcher fading badly in the heat.
Isn’t it wrong to be or not be spastic?
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
I’m laughing at a neighbor girl beaten to scream
by a savage father and I’m ashamed to look.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The score is always close, the rally always short.
I’ve left more wreckage than a quake.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
The afflicted never cheer in unison.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back
to stammering pastures where the picnic should have worked.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/audioitem/4110
I'll reiterate this in class, but please make a habit of checking this blog at least once or twice a week. I may post assignments here, or ask you in class to post your own work here.
I thought I'd make a blog where I could post poems that fit our class discussion, but weren't included in our texts, or media that you could enjoy outside of our technology-deprived classroom. Since we're talking about villanelles on Wednesday, here are two villanelles, the first of which is in our text, and I post simply because there's a recording of Dylan Thomas actually reading his "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night," and he has quite a memorable reading voice.
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
This next poem is one of my favorite villanelles, and I'll try to bring a copy to class. It's by Richard Hugo, and there's also a recording of Hugo reading the poem on the poetry foundation website.
The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The polite word, handicapped, is muttered in the stands.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
One whole day I sit, contrite, dirt, L.A.
Union Station, ’46, sweating through last night.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
Score, 5 to 3. Pitcher fading badly in the heat.
Isn’t it wrong to be or not be spastic?
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
I’m laughing at a neighbor girl beaten to scream
by a savage father and I’m ashamed to look.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The score is always close, the rally always short.
I’ve left more wreckage than a quake.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back.
The afflicted never cheer in unison.
Isn’t it wrong, the way the mind moves back
to stammering pastures where the picnic should have worked.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/audioitem/4110
I'll reiterate this in class, but please make a habit of checking this blog at least once or twice a week. I may post assignments here, or ask you in class to post your own work here.
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