Naming the World: Daily Poetry
In this section, we'll read and respond to a wide range of poetry to get us into a literary mindset before starting our own writing.
Directions:
Read the daily poem to yourself. If there is an audio file, you may listen instead (use headphones). Respond to the prompts in your notebook and be prepared to share.
Directions:
Read the daily poem to yourself. If there is an audio file, you may listen instead (use headphones). Respond to the prompts in your notebook and be prepared to share.
Friday, January 13th
_Today's poems, Birchand Shelter, come from one of my favorite anthologies of poetry: Unleashed: Poems by Writers' Dogs. The editors of the collection asked a bunch of dog-owning poets to write poems as if they were their own dogs. the results are funny, thought-provoking, and moving.
Birch
You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?
I'll eat that.
-- Karen Shepard
Birch
You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?
I'll eat that.
-- Karen Shepard
Response:
Look at the poem, Shelter, by R.S. Jones. This is such a yearning poem. Record the lines where you get the sense of just how much this dog is yearning to be owned.
Look at the poem, Shelter, by R.S. Jones. This is such a yearning poem. Record the lines where you get the sense of just how much this dog is yearning to be owned.
Thursday, January 12th
_Some of the saddest poems are about the deaths of our pets. We feel so
helpless to offer comfort or relief when our animals suffer. In this
haunting poem, John Updike tells the story of a puppy that couldn't tell
her people that something was wrong.
Dog's Death
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
-- John Updike
Response:
In your notebook, write down the lines and language that touched your heart. Explain what it was about Updike's language that moved you: it might be a personal connection, a mental image, etc.
Dog's Death
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
-- John Updike
Response:
In your notebook, write down the lines and language that touched your heart. Explain what it was about Updike's language that moved you: it might be a personal connection, a mental image, etc.
Tuesday, January 10th
_Today's poem considers the essential nature of our domestic pets. We tend to give our dogs our feelings and needs and reactions, but underneath, our dogs are beasts. Mary Oliver, an American poet, reminds us of the genealogy of our dogs - and that deep down, they're still beasts.
Dogs
Over
the wide field
the dark deer
went running,
five dogs
screaming
at his flanks,
at his heels,
my own two darlings
among them
lunging and buckling
with desire
as they leaped
for the throat
as they tried
and tried again
to bring him down.
At the lake
the deer
plunged--
I could hear
the green wind
of his breath
tearing
but the long legs
never stopped
till he clambered
up the far shore.
The dogs
moaned and screeched
they flung themselves
on the grass
panting
and steaming.
It took hours
but finally
in the half-drowned light
in the silence
of the summer evening
they woke
from fitful naps,
they stepped
in their old good natures
toward us
look look
into their eyes
bright as planets
under the long lashes
here is such happiness when you speak their names!
here is such unforced love!
here is such shyness such courage!
here is the shining rudimentary soul
here is hope retching, the world as it is
here is the black the red the bottomless pool.
-- Mary Oliver
Response:
In your notebook, record the lines that your think are the most important, and explain why you think they're critical to understanding the poem.
Dogs
Over
the wide field
the dark deer
went running,
five dogs
screaming
at his flanks,
at his heels,
my own two darlings
among them
lunging and buckling
with desire
as they leaped
for the throat
as they tried
and tried again
to bring him down.
At the lake
the deer
plunged--
I could hear
the green wind
of his breath
tearing
but the long legs
never stopped
till he clambered
up the far shore.
The dogs
moaned and screeched
they flung themselves
on the grass
panting
and steaming.
It took hours
but finally
in the half-drowned light
in the silence
of the summer evening
they woke
from fitful naps,
they stepped
in their old good natures
toward us
look look
into their eyes
bright as planets
under the long lashes
here is such happiness when you speak their names!
here is such unforced love!
here is such shyness such courage!
here is the shining rudimentary soul
here is hope retching, the world as it is
here is the black the red the bottomless pool.
-- Mary Oliver
Response:
In your notebook, record the lines that your think are the most important, and explain why you think they're critical to understanding the poem.
Monday, January 9th
Billy Collins is a former poet laureate of the United States. His poem, Dharma, is about his dog, but "dharma" isn't the name of his dog. "Dharma" is a Sanskrit word that means someone's essential spiritual state. Collins once said that this poem was an attempt to investigate the spiritual possibilities of his dog.
Dharma
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance--
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
-- Billy Collins
Response:
In your notebook, please record 2 or 3 lines that you really liked from the poem. Then, write a sentence or two explaining why you liked them.
Dharma
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance--
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
-- Billy Collins
Response:
In your notebook, please record 2 or 3 lines that you really liked from the poem. Then, write a sentence or two explaining why you liked them.
Friday, January 6th
_
Definitions:
Simile: A comparison between two things using like or as.
Example: Her eyes were like the moon.
Metaphor: A comparison between two things that does NOT use like or as.
Example: His car was a dinosaur.
Setting the Stage:
In this poem, Edward Hirsch tells us about a great high school football coach – his old coach – and the man’s favorite word, execution, by which the coach means, to accomplish a play according to the plan. But execution has other meanings, too.
Execution
The last time I saw my high school football coach
He had cancer stenciled into his face
Like pencil marks from the sun, like intricate
Drawings on the chalkboard, small x's and o's
That he copied down in a neat numerical hand
Before practice in the morning. By day's end
The board was a spiderweb of options and counters,
Blasts and sweeps, a constellation of players
Shining under his favorite word, Execution,
Underlined in the upper right-hand corner of things.
He believed in football like a new religion
And had perfect unquestioning faith in the fundamentals
Of blocking and tackling, the idea of warfare
Without suffering or death, the concept of teammates
Moving in harmony like the planets — and yet
Our awkward adolescent bodies were always canceling
The flawless beauty of Saturday afternoons in September,
Falling away from the particular grace of autumn,
The clear weather, the ideal game he imagined.
And so he drove us through punishing drills
On weekday afternoons, and doubled our practice time,
And challenged us to hammer him with forearms,
And devised elaborate, last-second plays — a flea-
Flicker, a triple reverse — to save us from defeat.
Almost always they worked. He despised losing
And loved winning more than his own body, maybe even
More than himself. But the last time I saw him
He looked wobbly and stunned by illness,
And I remembered the game in my senior year
When we met a downstate team who loved hitting
More than we did, who battered us all afternoon
With a vengeance, who destroyed us with timing
And power, with deadly, impersonal authority,
Machine-like fury, perfect execution.
- Edward Hirsch
Notice:
Response:
Reread the poem. In your notebook record at least TWO examples of similes and/or metaphors used by the poet.
Simile: A comparison between two things using like or as.
Example: Her eyes were like the moon.
Metaphor: A comparison between two things that does NOT use like or as.
Example: His car was a dinosaur.
Setting the Stage:
In this poem, Edward Hirsch tells us about a great high school football coach – his old coach – and the man’s favorite word, execution, by which the coach means, to accomplish a play according to the plan. But execution has other meanings, too.
Execution
The last time I saw my high school football coach
He had cancer stenciled into his face
Like pencil marks from the sun, like intricate
Drawings on the chalkboard, small x's and o's
That he copied down in a neat numerical hand
Before practice in the morning. By day's end
The board was a spiderweb of options and counters,
Blasts and sweeps, a constellation of players
Shining under his favorite word, Execution,
Underlined in the upper right-hand corner of things.
He believed in football like a new religion
And had perfect unquestioning faith in the fundamentals
Of blocking and tackling, the idea of warfare
Without suffering or death, the concept of teammates
Moving in harmony like the planets — and yet
Our awkward adolescent bodies were always canceling
The flawless beauty of Saturday afternoons in September,
Falling away from the particular grace of autumn,
The clear weather, the ideal game he imagined.
And so he drove us through punishing drills
On weekday afternoons, and doubled our practice time,
And challenged us to hammer him with forearms,
And devised elaborate, last-second plays — a flea-
Flicker, a triple reverse — to save us from defeat.
Almost always they worked. He despised losing
And loved winning more than his own body, maybe even
More than himself. But the last time I saw him
He looked wobbly and stunned by illness,
And I remembered the game in my senior year
When we met a downstate team who loved hitting
More than we did, who battered us all afternoon
With a vengeance, who destroyed us with timing
And power, with deadly, impersonal authority,
Machine-like fury, perfect execution.
- Edward Hirsch
Notice:
- The double meaning of execute: To achieve, but also to kill
- The precise language
Response:
Reread the poem. In your notebook record at least TWO examples of similes and/or metaphors used by the poet.
Thursday, January 5th
This is one of the greatest poems ever about baseball. It moves on the page like a classic double play: all the action takes place almost at once, and Robert Wallace imitates it with form and language.
The Double Play
In his sea-lit
distance, the pitcher winding
like a clock about to chime comes down with
the ball, hit
sharply, under the artificial
bank of lights, bounds like a vanishing string
over the green
to the shortstop magically
scoops to his right whirling above his invisible
shadows
in the dust redirects
its flight to the running poised second baseman
pirouettes
leaping, above the slide, to throw
from mid-air, across the colored tightened interval,
to the leaning-
out first baseman ends the dance
drawing it disappearing into his long brown glove
stretches. What
is too swift for deception
is final, lost, among the loosened figures
jogging off the field
(the pitcher walks), casual
in the space where the poem has happened.
-- Robert Wallace
Response:
Copy three lines that create the strongest visual images. Be prepared to discuss them.
The Double Play
In his sea-lit
distance, the pitcher winding
like a clock about to chime comes down with
the ball, hit
sharply, under the artificial
bank of lights, bounds like a vanishing string
over the green
to the shortstop magically
scoops to his right whirling above his invisible
shadows
in the dust redirects
its flight to the running poised second baseman
pirouettes
leaping, above the slide, to throw
from mid-air, across the colored tightened interval,
to the leaning-
out first baseman ends the dance
drawing it disappearing into his long brown glove
stretches. What
is too swift for deception
is final, lost, among the loosened figures
jogging off the field
(the pitcher walks), casual
in the space where the poem has happened.
-- Robert Wallace
Response:
Copy three lines that create the strongest visual images. Be prepared to discuss them.
Wednesday, January 4th
First Love
Before sixteen
I was fast
enough to fake
my shadow out
and I could read
every crack and ripple
in that patch of asphalt.
I owned
the slanted rim
knew
the dead spot in the backboard.
Always the ball
came back.
Every day I loved
to sharpen
my shooting eye,
waiting
for the touch.
Set shot, jump shot,
layup, hook-
after a while
I could feel
the ball hunger-
ing to clear
the lip of the rim,
the two of us
falling through.
-- Carl Linder
Features to notice:
Response:
Please go back into "First Love" on your own and consider two questions:
Before sixteen
I was fast
enough to fake
my shadow out
and I could read
every crack and ripple
in that patch of asphalt.
I owned
the slanted rim
knew
the dead spot in the backboard.
Always the ball
came back.
Every day I loved
to sharpen
my shooting eye,
waiting
for the touch.
Set shot, jump shot,
layup, hook-
after a while
I could feel
the ball hunger-
ing to clear
the lip of the rim,
the two of us
falling through.
-- Carl Linder
Features to notice:
- The diction is specific to the sport and gives the poem its authority
- The strong verbs
Response:
Please go back into "First Love" on your own and consider two questions:
- How does the title fit the poem?
- How does the title connect with the poem's conclusion?