33 minutes ago, Kirby said:

Here's one for English teachers'

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GMEsJzgXwAA13W_?format=jpg&name=medium

With plenty of exclamation marks!

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

 

1 hour ago, MoseySusan said:

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

I had not read that in a long time!  Thanks for posting it.  

12 minutes ago, Zealot said:

I had not read that in a long time!  Thanks for posting it.  

I like Wordsworth. I knew I could count on this poem to rat out my students who pretend to read. They'd say it was about clouds. A cloudy day. lol…

20 minutes ago, MoseySusan said:

I like Wordsworth. I knew I could count on this poem to rat out my students who pretend to read. They'd say it was about clouds. A cloudy day. lol…

How can one read such poetry and not see the truth? 😊  

To clarify, I understood what you said about your students.  
 

 

I once wrote a piece for English Lit. The teacher wrote on it after grading,

 

 â€œAA+. Never in my years of teaching have I witnessed the power of the written word that you've displayed here.”

I should have followed that path. Looking back, I truly regret.  

21 minutes ago, Zealot said:

I should have followed that path. Looking back, I truly regret.  

I feel. I've been simmering a post for this thread about my writing career. Tomorrow.  

During my years of teaching, I was frequently the usher into sense-making for people who felt a wall between themselves and meaning, who believed writing was a kind of sorcery, trickery, and a set-up for their humiliation. Unfamiliar words are a kind of betrayal. "Why not just say it without the so-called vocabulary?" And poetry was the worst of all.   Too much left implied. "I don't get it," was the default response if they even read it to begin with. Looking back, I know I was uniquely prepared to meet these people where they were, and many students came away from class with a de-mystified appreciation for good writing, in part because I let all words and forms of construction become part of the discourse.  

 

Them Words

for dad

Yes, I read a dictionary for fun.

A child who played logos, rather than Legos,

But we remember which dad loved best. The one

Who built Tonka roads transecting the backyard,

Not the one who typed reams and listened beyond her ears.

So, to answer your question, I did read

The Dictionary of Them Words.

I found them captivating. Haunting. I daresay titillating.

Not irksome, nor boring. Unless we mean to say

Penetrating. Then, yes. Them words are shouldering

Through pedestrian ho-hum, reaching deeper than jejune.

Transcending those shade trees in the backyard.

 

1 hour ago, MoseySusan said:

Them Words

for dad

Yes, I read a dictionary for fun.

A child who played logos, rather than Legos,

But we remember which dad loved best. The one

Who built Tonka roads transecting the backyard,

Not the one who typed reams and listened beyond her ears.

So, to answer your question, I did read

The Dictionary of Them Words.

I found them captivating. Haunting. I daresay titillating.

Not irksome, nor boring. Unless we mean to say

Penetrating. Then, yes. Them words are shouldering

Through pedestrian ho-hum, reaching deeper than jejune.

Transcending those shade trees in the backyard.

Susan, this we share. (Making the assumption that this is yours) Though it was not a ‘father' my family could not understand me.  I recall the first blue ribbon I ever won in anything, it was for something I wrote in grade school.  I was proud of it but ashamed of it as well. My family would not share the joy of what I'd accomplished. And so when I got home from school I told them I'd won the ribbon for a relay race. I lied about my accomplishment to avoid the disappointment I'd feel at their disdain. And then felt completely horrible for the lie. Gah!!

that to say, I feel the emotion in your poem. I feel the hurt. But you've beautifully expressed it.  â¤ï¸ Thank you for sharing it here. And I should also add thanks for enlightening your students through the wisdom of understanding. And for encouraging and believing in the artists and poets and the ‘strange' kids who didn't quite fit in anywhere. There will be those who look back and remember you well as they accomplish in life. No greater reward.  

 

From one of my first:

”I want to be free;

Free to know who I am and not feel shame

I want to fly;

Fly as valiant as an eagle, yet as listless as a butterfly

I want to sing;

Sing my heart's desire through the voice of many waters

Relentlessly challenging eternity

I want to be free.”

 

2 hours ago, MoseySusan said:

During my years of teaching, I was frequently the usher into sense-making for people who felt a wall between themselves and meaning, who believed writing was a kind of sorcery, trickery, and a set-up for their humiliation. Unfamiliar words are a kind of betrayal. "Why not just say it without the so-called vocabulary?" And poetry was the worst of all.   Too much left implied. "I don't get it," was the default response if they even read it to begin with. Looking back, I know I was uniquely prepared to meet these people where they were, and many students came away from class with a de-mystified appreciation for good writing, in part because I let all words and forms of construction become part of the discourse.  

I noticed this when I first met dearie since sometimes I would use certain words in a manner that may not be always typical.   Then he learned to go with flow of the conversation.

It might be easier sometimes (not always) for someone who is bilingual, who then later, learns quickly that words used in certain ways, can have other shades of meaning in a good piece of writing.   I really believe that formal 2nd language training or lst mother language plus English later, can accelerate /heighten word use sensitivity. ...for folks who don't have a natural love of wordplay / wordsmithing.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

BY  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Come live with me and be my love,  

And we will all the pleasures prove,  

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,  

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.  

 

And we will sit upon the Rocks,  

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,  

By shallow Rivers to whose falls  

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.  

 

And I will make thee beds of Roses  

And a thousand fragrant posies,  

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle  

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;  

 

A gown made of the finest wool  

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;  

Fair lined slippers for the cold,  

With buckles of the purest gold;  

 

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,  

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:  

And if these pleasures may thee move,  

Come live with me, and be my love.  

 

The Shepherds' Swains shall dance and sing  

For thy delight each May-morning:  

If these delights thy mind may move,  

Then live with me, and be my love

 

 

Shadow Path

Within a forest dark and deep

Along a narrow path

Shivering I inch and creep

In fear of shadow's wrath

 

Evil things await me there

With eyes as black as coal

They torture me without a care

And feed upon my soul

 

They hide ‘round darkened hedges

Neath stones they lay in wait

They gather under ledges

Where they contemplate my fate

 

Caring not as others pass

For me alone they linger

As I approach the demons mass

One points an icy finger

 

Springing from their hiding place

With fiery breath so fowl

Seeking now to slow my pace

They scratch the earth and growl

 

But I fear not their teeth that tear

Or claws that rip and shred

For the monsters I have come to fear

Live only in my head

 

 

Love Came to Us

 --by James Joyce

 

Love came to us in time gone by
When one at twilight shyly played
And one in fear was standing nigh — -
For Love at first is all afraid.

We were grave lovers. Love is past
That had his sweet hours many a one;
Welcome to us now at the last
The ways that we shall go upon.

Tomorrow begins May. My last post for April poetry month is a favorite villanelle by Dylan Thomas.  
 

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 

 

I have two all time favorites that I'll post now to round out the month as well. Both are well known and maybe even cliche. But both touch me deeply:

 

 

She Walks in Beauty

BY  LORD BYRON  

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

 

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

 

 

Annabel Lee

BY  EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,  

     In a kingdom by the sea,  

That a maiden there lived whom you may know  

     By the name of Annabel Lee;  

And this maiden she lived with no other thought  

     Than to love and be loved by me.  

 

I  was a child and  she  was a child,  

     In this kingdom by the sea,  

But we loved with a love that was more than love—  

     I and my Annabel Lee—  

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven  

     Coveted her and me.  

 

And this was the reason that, long ago,  

     In this kingdom by the sea,  

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling  

     My beautiful Annabel Lee;  

So that her highborn kinsmen came  

     And bore her away from me,  

To shut her up in a sepulchre  

     In this kingdom by the sea.  

 

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,  

     Went envying her and me—  

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,  

     In this kingdom by the sea)  

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,  

     Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.  

 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love  

     Of those who were older than we—  

     Of many far wiser than we—  

And neither the angels in Heaven above  

     Nor the demons down under the sea  

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  

     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  

 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams  

     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  

     Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side  

     Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,  

     In her sepulchre there by the sea—  

     In her tomb by the sounding sea.

 

 

I lied. One more that also rates very high with me:

 

 

The Lady of Shalott (1842)

BY  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

            To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

            The island of Shalott.

 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

            Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

By the margin, willow veil'd,

Slide the heavy barges trail'd

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

            Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

            The Lady of Shalott?

 

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

            Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy

            Lady of Shalott."

 

Part II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

            To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

            Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls,

            Pass onward from Shalott.

 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

            Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

            And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed:

"I am half sick of shadows," said

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

            Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

            Beside remote Shalott.

 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

            As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

            Beside remote Shalott.

 

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

            As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

            Moves over still Shalott.

 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

            As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

            Sang Sir Lancelot.

 

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

            She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

"The curse is come upon me," cried

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

            Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

             The Lady of Shalott.

 

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seër in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance—

With a glassy countenance

            Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

Thro' the noises of the night

            She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darken'd wholly,

            Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

            The Lady of Shalott.

 

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

            Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

             The Lady of Shalott.

 

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

            All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

            The Lady of Shalott."

 

17 minutes ago, Zealot said:

Both are well known and maybe even cliche

Annabel Lee is an Emo 🖤 favorite and inspired beautiful artwork every time I taught with it. It's also a great example of rhythm.  

9 minutes ago, MoseySusan said:

Annabel Lee is an Emo 🖤 favorite and inspired beautiful artwork every time I taught with it. It's also a great example of rhythm.  

Indeed! Before ‘emo' was even a thing.