Poetry Exploration 1: Speaker

Poems:

1.  Billy Collins, Introduction to Poetry                  

2.  Sharon Olds, First Hour

3.  Ted Hughes, Hawk Roosting                               

4.  Mark Doty, Golden Retrievals

5.  Andrew Marvell, A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body

6.  Richard Wilbur, Advice to a Prophet                  

7.  Taylor Mali, What Teachers Make

8.  Eric Pellerin, Reading Gatsby

Introduction to Poetry

by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem                                                    

and hold it up to the light

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room

and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose

to find out what it really means.

“First Hour”

by Sharon Olds

That hour, I was most myself. I had shrugged                              

my mother slowly off, I lay there

taking my first breaths, as if

the air of the room was blowing me

like a bubble. All I had to do

was go out along the line of my gaze and back,

feeling gravity, silk, the

pressure of the air a caress, smelling on

myself her creamy blood. The air

was softly touching my skin and mouth,

entering me and drawing forth the little

sighs I did not know as mine.

I was not afraid. I lay in the quiet

and looked, and did the wordless thought,

my mind was getting its oxygen

direct, the rich mix by mouth.

I hated no one. I gazed and gazed,

and everything was interesting, I was

free, not yet in love, I did not

belong to anyone, I had drunk

no milk yet—no one had

my heart. I was not very human. I did not

know there was anyone else. I lay

like a god, for an hour, then they came for me

and took me to my mother.

“Hawk Roosting”

by Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.                                  

Inaction, no falsifying dream

Between my hooked head and hooked feet:

Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!

The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray

Are of advantage to me;

And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.

It took the whole of Creation

To produce my foot, my each feather:

Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -

I kill where I please because it is all mine.

There is no sophistry in my body:

My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.

For the one path of my flight is direct

Through the bones of the living.

No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.

Nothing has changed since I began.

My eye has permitted no change.

I am going to keep things like this.

“Golden Retrievals”

by Mark Doty

Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention                      

seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.

Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh

joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue

of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?

Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,

thinking of what you never can bring back,

or else you’re off in some fog concerning

—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:

to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving,

my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,

a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,

entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.

“A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body”

by Andrew Marvell

O who shall, from this dungeon, raise                                             

A soul enslav’d so many ways? 

With bolts of bones, that fetter’d stands 

In feet, and manacled in hands; 

Here blinded with an eye, and there 

Deaf with the drumming of an ear; 

A soul hung up, as ’twere, in chains 

Of nerves, and arteries, and veins; 

Tortur’d, besides each other part, 

In a vain head, and double heart. 

O who shall me deliver whole 

From bonds of this tyrannic soul? 

Which, stretch’d upright, impales me so 

That mine own precipice I go; 

And warms and moves this needless frame, 

(A fever could but do the same) 

And, wanting where its spite to try, 

Has made me live to let me die. 

A body that could never rest, 

Since this ill spirit it possest. 

What magic could me thus confine 

Within another’s grief to pine? 

Where whatsoever it complain, 

I feel, that cannot feel, the pain; 

And all my care itself employs; 

That to preserve which me destroys; 

Constrain’d not only to endure 

Diseases, but, what’s worse, the cure; 

And ready oft the port to gain, 

Am shipwreck’d into health again. 

But physic yet could never reach 

The maladies thou me dost teach; 

Whom first the cramp of hope does tear, 

And then the palsy shakes of fear; 

The pestilence of love does heat, 

Or hatred’s hidden ulcer eat; 

Joy’s cheerful madness does perplex, 

Or sorrow’s other madness vex; 

Which knowledge forces me to know, 

And memory will not forego. 

What but a soul could have the wit 

To build me up for sin so fit? 

So architects do square and hew 

Green trees that in the forest grew.

“Advice to a Prophet”

by Richard Wilbur

                                                                                                

When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,   

Mad-eyed from stating the obvious, 

Not proclaiming our fall but begging us 

In God’s name to have self-pity, 

Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,   

The long numbers that rocket the mind; 

Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,   

Unable to fear what is too strange. 

Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.   

How should we dream of this place without us?— 

The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,   

A stone look on the stone’s face? 

Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive   

Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost 

How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost,   

How the view alters. We could believe, 

If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip   

Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy, 

The lark avoid the reaches of our eye, 

The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip 

On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn 

As Xanthus once, its gliding trout 

Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without   

The dolphin’s arc, the dove’s return, 

These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?   

Ask us, prophet, how we shall call 

Our natures forth when that live tongue is all 

Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken 

In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean   

Horse of our courage, in which beheld 

The singing locust of the soul unshelled, 

And all we mean or wish to mean. 

Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose   

Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding   

Whether there shall be lofty or long standing   

When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.

“What Teachers Make”
by Taylor Mali

He says the problem with teachers is                                             
What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true
what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.

I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.
Be honest. What do you make?

And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—
because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-­‐kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A-­‐ feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you’re bored.
And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,
“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?
It’s no big deal.”
And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you’ve got this,
then you follow this,
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this.

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?

"reading gatsby"

by eric pellerin

i read it when i was 14                                                                     

well i am not sure

the book was there somewhere

in my ll bean backpack

initials engraved

got it for christmas

i remember daily quizzes

we cheated

there was a multiple choice exam

aced it

an essay on the american dream

my sixth

is everything about the american dream

it meant a great deal to mr canepa

standing with a tattered copy of his own

in his cotton dockers

simple dress shirt

wide matching tie

boat shoes

20 dollar watch

john lennon spectacles

pontificating

spit droplets

how i hate the front row

there was a big party

a car crashed

daisy

her mean husband

a billboard with a doctor

donning john lennon spectacles

his name starts with an h

has two gs in the middle

that was symbolic of something

robert redford

who somehow failed

to capture gatsbys essence

a green light

also a symbol

that meant everything

or nothing

which is existentially

everything

or something

and it made mr canepa

look sad

because it was so beautiful

like amy

who sat in front of me

dangling her shoe on her toe

tanned legs

shoulder straps

i loved seeing her face

when she handed papers back

to me

did i mention

i got an a on that essay

i do not remember

anything actually

i just always got an a

on my english essays

and amy was hot

so i guess i became an english teacher

at 23

taught Gatsby to sophomores

i knew what it meant

now

i told the kids everything

i knew

in a more meaningful way

than old mr canepa

the novel is told from nicks perspective

a third person narrator

who acts as our eyes and ears

tells us that he is trustworthy

but he is an unreliable narrator

though he wants us to look at gatsby

we are really forced to take a hard look at

nick symbolically

ourselves

as he walks the streets of new york

like a ghost

without a home to haunt

consumes our dreams

as the eyes of dr tj eckleburg

watch over our collective consciousness

symbolically

from high above

through foggy spectacles

and gatsby

the beautiful man

in the cool suit

old sport

his party

his death

daisy

daisy

daisy

the green light

he did it all for her

but it was too late

so tragic

what we dream

what we achieve

desire

acceptance

to be loved

they got it

i got it

together

in the classroom

one collective

unconscious

experiencing

itself as

one

peering across the bay with nick

at a green light

that may never be ours

bear that in mind

as you read

kids

old sport

hahaha

at 40

i read the great gatsby by f scott fitzgerald

for the first time

daisy is careless and disgusting

like amy

gatsby sad

nick too much myself

the new film

leo and tobey

remember them

romeo and spidey

now they have crows feat like

me

now

a husband

a father

an old sport

too young to die

too old to live

again

what does the green light symbolize

i do not know anymore

what i know

experience

when i read the last page out loud

i never used to do that

i find myself

standing on the dock staring

across a sea of young people

who dream

with everything ahead of them

i do know

i must look sad

like mr canepa

staring at a light

that can

no longer

be mine