The tutors at my school are going to curse me to hell. I’m requiring my 8th grade English class to memorize eleven poems this term: three Shakespearean Sonnets, a sonnet by John Milton (When I consider how my light is spent), John Keats (first looking into Chapman’s Homer), William Blake (London), Wordsworth (Westminster Bridge), Shelley (Ozymandias), Kipling (Arithmetic on the frontier), Wilfred Owen (Sonnet on heavy artillery, and Yeats (Innisfree). My department chair feels that it’s not within my mandate as a writing teacher; I feel that if a student has some poetry memorized, that there is some basis for writing poetry, and for building a framework for other writing, as well. A lot of kids are having difficulty with the memorizing, though. Many of you are poets who memorize your work for performance. Do you have any tips to share about memorizing work, and building up the palace of memory that allows you to insert new poems in amongst the ones you already know? How do you make sure you do not forget the poems you already memorized?
[…] A 2006 post about me wrestling with the problems of the palace of memory. […]
Re: Crossing the streams
So till the judgment that yourself arise,
you live in this and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
Whan that Aprille wit’ his showres soocthe
the drought of Marcs hath perced to the rooht
and bathéd every veine in sooch liquore
of wich vertue engenred is the flowre;
whan Zephyris with his sweet breeth
inspiréd hath in every holt and heeth,
thetendre croppes and the yonge sonne,
hath in the Ram ys haf-course yronne,
and smalle fowles maken melondy,
that slepen all the nicht wit open ey,
Crossing the streams
So rested he
by the Tum Tum tree
and stood in uffish thought
IN XANADU DID KUBLA KHAN A STATELY PLEASURE DOME DECREE…
I don’t remember the rest, and I don’t know how how I remembered this 🙂
Name one stately pleasure…..
IN XANADU DID KUBLA KHAN A STATELY PLEASURE DOME DECREE…
I don’t remember the rest, and I don’t know how how I remembered this 🙂
Name one stately pleasure…..
Crossing the streams
So rested he
by the Tum Tum tree
and stood in uffish thought
Re: Crossing the streams
So till the judgment that yourself arise,
you live in this and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
Whan that Aprille wit’ his showres soocthe
the drought of Marcs hath perced to the rooht
and bathéd every veine in sooch liquore
of wich vertue engenred is the flowre;
whan Zephyris with his sweet breeth
inspiréd hath in every holt and heeth,
thetendre croppes and the yonge sonne,
hath in the Ram ys haf-course yronne,
and smalle fowles maken melondy,
that slepen all the nicht wit open ey,
Did you ever see the movie Rennaissance Man with Danny Devito? There was a cool scene where his remedial students pulled together a “Hamlet Rap.” The posts here reminded me of that as an interesting example of a collaborative reinterpretation. There was a ‘part’ for everyone in the class without everyone having to know the whole thing for presentation. But, they all learned it.
Good luck, sounds like a challenge 🙂
Did you ever see the movie Rennaissance Man with Danny Devito? There was a cool scene where his remedial students pulled together a “Hamlet Rap.” The posts here reminded me of that as an interesting example of a collaborative reinterpretation. There was a ‘part’ for everyone in the class without everyone having to know the whole thing for presentation. But, they all learned it.
Good luck, sounds like a challenge 🙂
Re: Suggestion?
Here’s six…
Dorothy Parker – “One Perfect Rose”
Edith Warton –
“Wants”
We women want to many things;
And first we call for happiness, —
The careless boon the hour brings,
The smile, the song, and the caress.
And when the fancy fades, we cry,
Nay, give us one on whom to spend
Our heart’s desire! When Love goes by
With folded wings, we seek a friend.
And then our children come, to prove
Our hearts but slumbered, and can wake;
And when they go, we’re fain to love
Some other woman’s for their sake.
But when both love and friendship fail,
We cry for duty, work to do;
Some end to gain beyond the pale
Of self, some height to journey to.
And then, before our task is done,
With sudden weariness oppressed,
We leave the shining goal unwon
And only ask for rest.
Emily Dickinson – “The Snake”
Anne Sexton – “Old”
Sylvia Plath –
“The Moon and the Yew Tree”
“This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I
were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is
quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness –
blackness and silence.
Edna St. Vincent Millay –
“The Little Ghost”
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high — higher than most —
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone —
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown’s white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do — and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled — there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused — then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.
“Witch-Wife”
She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.
Thanks for the reminder. Not everyone successfully recited their poem from memory on Friday. Three had serious trouble. One may in fact need not to memorize stuff, since it distracts him from the rest of his work.
Actually, kids are having the opposite reaction. Of the 13 in the class, nine have commented that it makes them feel good to memorize.
Suggestion?
Suggest 11 babes of American poetry, and the poems to memorize, and I’ll make them the poems for Spring term.
I have a mental block when it comes to actors names, especially, for some reason — Gene Hackman.
The only way I can remember his name is by thinking of the Robyn Hitchcock song “Don’t talk to me about Gene Hackman.”
You’ll see me singing it softly to myself whenever someone mentions The French Connection 🙂
In defense of the kiddies (and teachers), I don’t think everyone is capable of memorization. I’m certainly not. If I haven’t performed stand up in a few weeks, I have to remind myself how my jokes go. Sometimes I forget my own phone number. At the age of 32, it’s clear that I just have to live with my mental state.
In defense of the kiddies (and teachers), I don’t think everyone is capable of memorization. I’m certainly not. If I haven’t performed stand up in a few weeks, I have to remind myself how my jokes go. Sometimes I forget my own phone number. At the age of 32, it’s clear that I just have to live with my mental state.
Thanks for the reminder. Not everyone successfully recited their poem from memory on Friday. Three had serious trouble. One may in fact need not to memorize stuff, since it distracts him from the rest of his work.
Holy crap. I would have hated you SOOOO much as a teacher. Wow.