I stood in a long line waiting with Pipo for his first ever ride on a roller coaster. Things that move in strange ways are a big deal to him. When he first came to live with us, he was eight years old and had never even been in a two story house. On his second day here, we took him to Floating Hospital in Boston and strode into the elevator with an insouciance, which, in retrospect, reflected an utter lack of cultural awareness for a young boy in a strange land. The door shut, the elevator moved, and Pipo screamed and clutched me in his fear. Now, eighteeen months later, he stood wringing his hands, intermittently laughing and grimacing at the thought of the “The Yankee Cannonball.”
“Will it be scary?”
“Yes”
“Will I scream?”
“Probably.”
“Will I throw up?”
“I don’t know. I might.”
“You better not!”
“We really don’t have to go.”
“Yeah, we do.”
I could see his head racing a hundred miles an hour. I distracted him by yelling at some high school kids who were swearing at each other. “Don’t do that.”
“Why? They shouldn’t be swearing.”
“What if they beat you up?”
“I’ll hide behind you.”
“Mama will beat them up if they beat you up.”
“She better. Comb your hair up so you’re forty eight inches tall.”
“Oh, man!”
Leaning on his toes he was just the right height. Squeezing into the car the single safety bar held me in a crushing gut squeeze while leaving Pipo astonishingly free to squiggle and squirm. “Do people ever fall out?”
“Rarely.”
“What does ‘rarely’ mean?”
“It means that only kids who ask a million questions fall out.”
“Whoo hooo.”
The cars slid toward the first hill and were grabbed by the chain. He held the hand grip, smiled, and raised his eyebrows in mock fear. “There’s the bus! I wish I was on the bus. I like the bus.”
“I like the bus, too.”
“I know.”
The first hill caught us both by surprise. “Oh, man.”
“Oh, man”
I couldn’t stop laughing. Pipo squinted his eyes and held the bar in front of him. I think he held his breath for ninety seconds. The girl behind us used every form of the F-word ever created. “Was it fun?”
“No.”
“Want to go again?”
“No. Never again.”
We found the rest of the family in the water park. Dripping and shivering, they all ran up to Pipo and asked if he really went on the Yankee Cannonball. “Yup, but never again. No way, Jose’. Who wants to go on the bumper cars?” Denise looked at me like I was a bad father forcing his son to be a man. “He wanted to go.”
“Yeah, right. Was he even tall enough?”
“With a micron to spare. It was another one of those things he just had to do.”
Denise and I both understand that part of Pipo. When he decides to do something, he’ll do it, no matter how much angst it causes him—or us. He is not so much interested in overcoming fear as he is in facing his fears. He embraces fear as an experience and not merely as an emotion. It is a lesson in courage from which we can all draw inspiration.
The Yankee Cannonball is also a perfect metaphor for the written word. The empty page looms in front of us like the rickety roller coaster. We can’t call ourselves writers if we refuse to get in the car and go. We can’t call ourselves writers if we don’t tell the whole story, replete with every dip and turn of our inner and outer experience. We can’t give in to the temptation to leap from the car at the first sign of fear, and we can’t tell the story from a distance. But, that is exactly what so many writers do. They mistakenly believe that the cold reality of fact is more important than the multi-dimensional dynamic of experience. It is much safer to have opinions than to question assumptions. We want facts, and we want a sense of assuredness that we are making wise decisions in our lives, but are we always willing to take that ride with Pipo through the hairpin turns of experience? Are we willing to distill our facts through the directness of experience? Without the parable there can be no sermon.
Our lives our full of the parables upon which we can contribute an enduring legacy to the world. Those legacies are the journal entries, poems, songs, stories, novels, and essays that capture people’s imaginations and fires their passion, or simply stirs the embers of a world that needs pondering. I have no problem with the well-wrought essay that presents an impeccable line of reasoning and logical argument, but if I sense a fallacy, a hypocrisy, or a lack of magnanimity, I quickly create a distance between myself and the writer who is simply out to set me straight. Seek out the writers who know of what they speak, and you will be rewarded with a truth you can cherish and turn in your mind for years to come. To become that writer you need to return to the source of your own wisdom and chip away at the stone of memory until it takes a shape—the infinite and varied shapes of literature and writing—that can be held in our eyes and opened in our hearts, and our minds.
For years I have had an idea for a novel, but I never actually sat down to begin writing it. The idea was too complicated, the characters to diffuse, the length too daunting in the face of a busy lifestyle, but I thought of Pipo getting on the Yankee Cannonball in spite of every rational fear he had of roller coasters. So I began to take an hour or so out of every day and began writing my book. My car caught the clicking chain and took me to the point where gravity took over. I am barely down the first hill, but the ride is exhilarating and real. I see the track laid out before me, and, like Pipo, I’m not sure what every turn and twist will bring, but I do know there is an end to the ride, and that is where I draw my strength. Maybe I will walk away woozy and say “never again.” But at least I will know.
The modern cheap and fertile press, with all its translations, has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers of antiquity. They seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are printed as rare and curious, as ever. It is worth the expense of youthful days and costly hours if you learn only some words of an ancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to be perpetual suggestions and provocations. It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has heard. Men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modern and practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be. For what are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man?
~Henry David Thoreau, “Reading,” Walden
Think hard, reach down deep in your heart and soul for a way to kill these suitors in your house, either by stealth or open combat. You must not cling to your boyhood any longer— It’s time you were a man. Book 1, Lines 338—342, The Odyssey
Read well; read deeply, and read often. Three short phrases sum up the greater part of what is basic to an understanding of a complex and evolving world. To read well you need to read closely, to think imaginatively and to allow yourself to be challenged intellectually, emotionally, culturally, and politically. To read deeply is to search for meanings, morals and messages within the images and actions within a text . It forces you to decipher the metaphors that cling to the twists and turns of plots, or it prods you to understand the spartan logic of a philosopher’s mind as he or she lays out a reasoned reflection on the conundrums and constants of life. To read often and well is to place reading before the lesser pursuits of the day. Second only to the feeding and sheltering of the body is the feeding and nurturing of the mind—and there is no greater food than a piece of great literature!
Not all of you have the courage to read a good book, and that is a travesty only to yourself. Some of you have already blocked the gates to the greater reservoirs of your mind. How can I teach you anything? How can I expect you to be moved when you are anchored in your safe and shallow harbor? If you are not touched by a book, then don’t touch it—don’t wound eternity with an idle mind. “But,” you say, with exasperation; “you give us these books; you force us to read them. How can we be touched when we are force-fed what to read? How can there be romance when there is no passion? What teenager does not want to rebel against the directives and edicts of a misguided teacher?”
Therein lies the rub: “Misguided!” What if the teacher is not misguided? What if, on the contrary, he or she is very well guided by life, instinct, and vocation? How could you then, not listen? Why wouldn’t you listen if there was some measure of hope that this teacher could guide you to a greater understanding of life than you ever dreamed possible. I know that at a certain point in my life I let Henry David Thoreau be my teacher, and only then did I realize that it was cynicism and laziness that kept me from accessing the opportunities created by reading the great works of literature, and so I began a thirty-two year adventure of reading—a journey where I still feel that I am barely out of the harbor! The first book was The Odyssey and I’m damn sure it will be the last—if I have any control over it. Life is too precious to chatter and blather with fools and strangers. If you are unwilling to face the challenges of The Odyssey, go back to your face book page and gossip with the idle minds of your generation—and mine, for that matter.
If you are afraid to become a man, then don’t become one.
Virgil Caine is the name, and I served on the Danville train ‘Till Stoneman’s cavalry came and tore up the tracks again In the winter of ’65, we were hungry, just barely alive By May the tenth, Richmond had fell, it’s a time I remember, oh so well
The night they drove old Dixie down, and the bells were ringing The night they drove old Dixie down, and the people were singin’ they went La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Back with my wife in Tennessee, when one day she called to me “Virgil, quick, come see, there goes Robert E Lee” Now I don’t mind choppin’ wood, and I don’t care if the money’s no good Ya take what ya need and ya leave the rest, But they should never have taken the very best
The night they drove old Dixie down, and the bells were ringing The night they drove old Dixie down, and the people were singin’ they went La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,
Like my father before me, I will work the land Like my brother above me, who took a rebel stand He was just eighteen, proud and brave, but a Yankee laid him in his grave I swear by the mud below my feet, You can’t raise a Caine back up when he’s in defeat
The night they drove old Dixie down, and the bells were ringing, The night they drove old Dixie down, and all the people were singin’, they went Na, la, na, la, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na,
The night they drove old Dixie down, and all the bells were ringing, The night they drove old Dixie down, and the people were singin’, they went Na, la, na, la, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na
Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build all the bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks.
You that never done nothin’ But build to destroy You play with my world Like it’s your little toy You put a gun in my hand And you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther When the fast bullets fly.
Like Judas of old You lie and deceive A world war can be won You want me to believe But I see through your eyes And I see through your brain Like I see through the water That runs down my drain.
You fasten all the triggers For the others to fire Then you set back and watch When the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion’ As young people’s blood Flows out of their bodies And is buried in the mud.
You’ve thrown the worst fear That can ever be hurled Fear to bring children Into the world For threatening my baby Unborn and unnamed You ain’t worth the blood That runs in your veins.
How much do I know To talk out of turn You might say that I’m young You might say I’m unlearned But there’s one thing I know Though I’m younger than you That even Jesus would never Forgive what you do.
Let me ask you one question Is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness Do you think that it could I think you will find When your death takes its toll All the money you made Will never buy back your soul.
And I hope that you die And your death’ll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I’ll watch while you’re lowered Down to your deathbed And I’ll stand over your grave ‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead.
It is hard to imagine a more perfect weekend for memorizing your WW Fenn piece!
The class presentations will start on Thursday, [Monday for ninth grade] so please be ready. Those with shorter pieces will be asked to go first.
By now you should have posted your WW Fenn piece text and reflection on your blog. Add your Adobe Voice video to the post before tomorrow, if you can.
It is very easy to share your Adobe video. Share it first to Adobe. After it uploads to your site, you can view the video and get the embed code to enable you to post the video on your blog. Spend the time to recite the video as you hope you will in live performance.
There is nothing now that you are doign that I haven’t already done hundreds of times in my life. I’m not bragging; I’m just saying that I get what you are going through.
…and like the straits of Skylla: the only way out is through!
When you combine two iambic feet, (ba-booms) you can create poetry in iambic dimeter. These poems are relatively rare, but are extremely effective for a short observational poem.
NOTE: sometimes the rhythm is more ba-ba-boom [unstressed-unstressed stressed]This is called an anapaestic foot and can be used in place of a strict iambic beat. I have highlighted the anapaests in red.
For Example:
Dust of Snow
The way a crow (A) Shook down on me (B) The dust of snow (A) From a hemlock tree (B)
Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. ~Robert Frost
Assignment:
Create your own two stanza iambic dimeter poem. Be sure to follow the abab rhyme scheme as in Frost’s poem
I want you to choose your WW Fenn performance piece this week. We will begin the memorization and performance process immediately–and it is a multi-step process! Performance implies mastery, not simply memorization.
This contest originally started out as a poetry recitation contest. Over the years, the original rules have been bent and distorted to the point where it is sometimes hard to tell that it is supposed to be a celebration of “greatness” in literature, not a mimicking of a speech seen on TV or in a movie; not a silly comic piece or sing-songing children’s story, and not a shallow barrage of clever words set into a story.
I want you to have an experience that will live on in you and for you through as many years as you walk this earth; I want you to remember your words for the power that gives those words timelessness. I want to get back to the purity of the original source and lifeblood of the WW Fenn contest.
Guidelines:
You may choose a poem, ballad, or a passage from a longer piece of classic or singularly great literature, which includes: novels, short stories, or essays; moreover, you may choose to recite a traditional myth or cultural story.
The piece must be at least two minutes long and not more than four minutes.
Expectations:
Find a piece and post the words on your blog with a Poetry Response Reflection about “why” you choose your piece.
Learn a portion of your piece each night, so that you can practice more in class and receive the feedback you need to do the best you can.
Grading: 25 Points
Your grade will be based on the quality of the piece you choose. 2 Points Due Thursday
A WW Fenn Response Reflection: 5 Points Due Friday
Daily Metacognitions of your progress. 3 points Post in the discussion thread. 100 words per post.
Your performance in front of the class. This will be filmed. 5 Points Beginning Next week
An Adobe Voice video of your piece posted on your blog. 5 Points Due Tuesday
A personal narrative essay (video or written) you will write after your performance is completed. 5 Points TBA
“Good writers don’t always make great poets, but great poets always make great writers” ~fitz
Don’t let anyone tell you what makes a poem. Like a good meal, you know it when you taste it. If I were talking to a farmer friend of mine and he said, “Ya know Fitz, so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens,” I might simply respond, “Yep, good thing you have a red wheelbarrow!” But, if I saw these same words framed in a poetic structure, I would be astonished at the power of the words:
So much depends upon
a red wheel barrow
glazed with rain water
beside the white chickens.
I read this poem by William Carlos Williams, and I don’t think of it as a tribute to wheelbarrows as much as it makes me wonder about the importance of importance and the dependence and interdependence of our lives, and so my mind drifts into the world of poetry that somehow transcends and reinvigorates common thought. I now wonder why three simple images–none of which are all that interesting–prefaced by the simple statement, somehow become transformed into something powerful when written as a poem.
Sometimes a poem transforms a simple story into a powerful emotional and intellectual experience. Here is a poem that should be very familiar to you: The poem “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost, is one such poem. The story of the poem is not interesting in the slightest: A guy is driving his horse drawn wagon or sleigh through the woods on a snowy night, and he stops for a bit but then realizes he has promises to keep–and many miles left on his journey, and so he needs to get going again; however, Frost tells this story as a highly structured and metaphorical poem, and it becomes vivid, evocative, and haunting enough to become one of the most admired poems in the English language–and certainly one of my favorite poems:
Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
~Robert Frost
I don’t need anyone to analyze or tell me why I love this poem: I simply do! All I really know is that the older I get, the more this poem speaks to me, and so I keep returning to this poem as if it is an actual physical place that I need and want to revisit time and time again. I don’t think about the poem; I just let it make me think, and in thinking, it takes me to some scary and haunting places in my psyche
For all the poems I love, there are hundreds that I have read and discarded because they did not speak to me in a powerful way, or move me, or make me want to return to their words. This does not mean they are bad poems. It probably means I was not ready for them, or I was lazy when I read them because reading poetry is an exercise, not an amusement.
By being attentive when you read a poem, you become a better reader, a deeper thinker, and a better writer. You should read poetry like you are flying a plane for the first time, or climbing a precarious tree on a windy day; if you lose your concentration, you lose—and you lose the poem!
Assignment: Due Friday.
Share a poem on your blog that you like and think is a “really good poem.” Copy the poem (or poems if you wish) and write a narrative paragraph about your experience with this poem.
Use the narrative paragraph rubric in this way. It is a bit like the Ewing-Style Video Rubric
Broad theme, narrow theme, one two punch: introduce the poem and the main themes of your ” Poem Experience.”
Smoking Gun: Post the complete poem
Head and Heart: write about how and why you like the poem–what it makes you think, what it makes you feel
Get out: Finish it clean with a memorable, interesting and insightful sentence.
If you can’t think of any poems, ask your friends, parents or grandparents what their favorite poems are and see if those poems “speak” to you, too. I also have a pretty cool website called “Poem Miner” that has a bunch of my favorite poems. You should be able to find a poem you like there
Book XV is no the most exciting book in The Odyssey, but it “sets up” the next six books in an important way. I was thinking of this as I left Star Wars tonight (which, by the way) is a masterful retelling of The Odyssey). I liked the movie, but I did feel like I was missing something–more than likely the first six movies that would have filled the gaps of my ignorance:). The old lady with a huge mink coat sitting next to me couldn’t help. She came into the wrong theater. My sons were too busy slurping orange soda and popcorn to care about their poor, stumped father. The little kid behind me (who had obviously seen the movie several times already) helped as he whispered “head and hearts” to his cousin throughout the movie.
Few of us are playwrights or movie makers (yet) so setting up what w say or write is pretty damn important. Too much detail is always better than too little. Getting it just right is the sign of a great writer. Playwrights and movie makers have a distinct advantage in that they can simply “show the scene;” whereas a writer has to “set the scene” with a montage of images and actions–even in a simple journal entry (if you want your entry to rise above the stench of bad writing, and, I guess, even this simple note to my 8th grade class which aims to beg and plead with you to think not only about what you are writing, but also about “how” you are writing.
There is almost always a better way to write than the first thoughts that come to your head, so take these thoughts and do some polishing, refining–and sometimes demolition–to be sure you have done what you can in the time you have to make what you write look and feel real. Your writing should not be a puzzle, though it can be a mosaic of images and actions, similies, metaphors and cleverly reworked thoughts captured in cool phrases, interesting dialogue.
Remember that I grade as much on what you try to do as on what you do. The blogs are not the big game. The blogs are our practice field to work out and get better for the big game. And trust me: the big games will come throughout your life, and the irony is that if you have left enough blood and sweat on the field, you will have even more on the game days of life.
Your writing this past week is to write two entries based on Books XIII and XIV. (And yes, I know that these roman numerals are starting to get too bulky to write. Damn Romans. And you also need to write two entries of your own.
Anything. On your own. The miracles of your own creations. Anything.
Make them look good. Be proud of what you try to do, and more than likely you will be proud of what you do.
1. Walden Essay: Post and to your blog and to iTunes:15 Points
2. Literary Analysis Paragraph: Read “Ulysses” and during the exam time write a paragraph using the rubric that explains theme in that poem. You may use the rubric in class, and you may use any notes and annotations on your iBook copy of the poem. Upload to your blog and to iTunes: Ten Points
3. Blog and Portfolio: Your blog and portfolio will be graded for content, appearance and usability. Post a brief reflection (100 words or less) that tells me what grade you should receive and the reasons for that grade. Ten Points
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