Throwback Thursday, In Flanders Fields, Etc.

The first day of testing really was an April Fool's joke.  Less than a quarter of the kids finished, and then the system went down. The story is that the State Testing Site was hacked.  It is supposed to be up again today. The fact that this test cycle doesn't really count or matter that much is a good thing. The data would be great, but we might not get the student results on individual standards anyway.  Tiny Town High is going with the flow--and not worrying about the test this year.  Whew! (We're still trying to take them--just isn't a huge deal.  Thank you, State!)

I am teaching "In Flanders Fields" in conjunction with our history teachers. They wanted the students to memorize it.  Since I didn't know it, I am memorizing it, too.  This is me--trying to recall it word for word.

            In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
                          John McCraae

I think that might be pretty close.  The hope is that the students will look at the structure of the poem, learn the history of it, but above all-- know why the veterans hand out poppies on Veteran's Day.

And now to Throwback Thursday.

I'm not sure how this photo ended up creased.

Proof that my brothers adored me--

they just don't remember that!

Happy Thursday!

Today's Lesson

Ithaka

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

                                     C.P. Cavafy

I'm sharing this poem today because I love it.  One of the joys of teaching English is that I get to share my favorite literature with my classes.  The sophomores and I discussed this poem last week. With about 40 years difference in age, they always have an interesting take on things.

After we discussed the poem and all the allusions, the students brought in songs that had a similar meaning or theme to "Ithaka."  We listened to songs about overcoming obstacles, making the most of opportunities, not taking time for granted, and going home.  They brought in songs from almost every genre of music, and they could tie every one of the songs into the meaning of the poem.

Have I mentioned lately that I love my job?

PS.  You can feel free to read that poem at my funeral some day. (And that's after the margaritas, but before the champagne!)

Never Enough

100 Years by Five For Fighting

I'm 15 for a moment
Caught in between 10 and 20
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

I'm 22 for a moment
She feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars

15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

I'm 33 for a moment
Still the man, but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way
A family on my mind

I'm 45 for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life

15 there's still time for you
Time to buy, Time to lose yourself
Within a morning star

15 I'm all right with you
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

Half time goes by
Suddenly you're wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...

I'm 99 for a moment
Dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

15 there's still time for you
22 I feel her too
33 you're on your way
Every day's a new day...

15 there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey 15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

I share these song lyrics with my sophomores.  We talk about the fact that at age 15 (their age) it doesn't get any better.  They have their whole lives ahead of them, waiting for the choices and the decisions that they are going to make.  Of course, they spend a lot of their time wishing they were older: old enough to drive, to go to college, to buy beer legally.  

This song has been running through my head for the last few days.  A student from last year is going through some pretty serious chemo treatments for an aggressive cancer.  The Mr. lost  a friend from childhood, a coaching buddy, to pneumonia at the end of last week; and his 92 year old aunt is dying. 

A hundred years.  Most of us won't see that age, but even if we did-- it would never be enough.  It is hard to imagine anything better than what we have right now-- blue skies, a change of seasons, a full moon, a cool breeze, a hand to hold, a baby to cuddle, an old friend to hug.  

"There's never a wish better than this, when you've only got a hundred years to live." 

"Invictus"

Invictus
By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

This is a memorization assignment in my class.  No one memorizes these days.  Kids don't know phone numbers.  (They are programmed into cell phones.)  Some don't even know their multiplication tables.  They certainly don't do the memorization that our parents and grandparents did in the old one room country schools.  Back then they memorized scriptures or a poem every week. (And Dad could still recite them well into my teen years. Heck, he probably still can.)

Do the students fight me on memorizing? Almost every step of the way.  Do I let them off?  Absolutely not.  I prompt.  I give second, third, and fourth chances.  And every student memorizes the poem.

So why do I make them memorize a poem that many critics consider a "B list" poem?  I don't care what the critics say.  There are a couple of lines that I hope resonate with them forever.

The title means unconquerable or invincible.  We aren't.  (The author knew this first hand.)  Cancer, strokes, accidents, or even tornadoes remind us how fragile we really are. 

Students of Tiny Town get what it means to be bludgeoned by chance.  After all, what were the odds of a tornado hitting our town, wiping out every school, and most of our churches in one fell swoop?  If you had seen Tiny Town the morning after, you would have seen a town "bludgeoned" almost to death.

These past few years, I've had to do less explaining of what it means to be in the clutches of circumstance. All the students had to do was look around at our Trailer High.  "Circumstance" had us firmly by the collar.

So what are the lines I hope they remember?  "And yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find me, unafraid."  For the rest of their lives, that will be the difference between success and failure: facing life's problems with courage.

"I am the master of my fate:  I am the captain of my soul."  It isn't what happens to us.  It's how we deal with the things that happen to us. 

Obstacles will arise.  Tragedies are going to occur.  We can't control all of the things that happen to us.  The only thing we can control is how we face the problems we encounter. The only thing we can control is our own attitude.

And that is how we "Master our fates."  We aren't invincible.  But... we can be courageous. I hope they remember that.

Two Poem Tuesday

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Yeah, I don't get it either.  I'm not sure I want to "get it."  I have never understood why this darn poem shows up in every literature anthology for sophomores that I have ever used.  You can probably imagine how thrilled my students are with this poem.  (And their teacher's lack of enthusiasm doesn't help!) 

This is why students hate poetry.  What depends??  And how would we ever figure out the answer to that one?  More than one student has said, "Who cares?" when they have finished this one.  (Grandma said that was naughty talk!)

We've done the research on the poem.  We've looked at the word arrangement, discussed the imagery, and heard the theories.  I've tried.  Sometimes, I have to side with my students.

Sadly, I prefer the following poem, which by the way, is never in my sophomore literature anthology and probably never will be. 

Going to Extremes
By Richard Armour 

Shake and shake
The catsup bottle.

None'll come—
And then a lot'll.
 
 
I can't get this poem out of my head.  (It ranks up there with "You scream.  I scream.  We all scream for ice cream.") I had both memorized the first time I heard or read them.  And I can totally get a visual of the catsup bottle unloading all over a plate of fries.
 
Great poetry?  Hardly.  Enjoyable and maybe even funny?  Yes! 
 
I know. I know.  My sophomores are rubbing off on me.  Scary stuff. 

Two Poems- No Tune

I used to teach an Introduction to Literature Class for a local Junior College.  It was a night course and a lot of fun to teach.  I loved the literature anthology that was the textbook for the class.  It had great short stories and plays, but my favorite part of the textbook was the poetry.

There was 'fun' poetry, difficult poetry, modern poetry, and old poetry.  The whole premise of the text was to help students enjoy the use of language in many different forms. 

I've used many of the poems in my high school English class.  Students come in thinking they hate poetry, but quickly learn that they don't.  They love the playfulness of some of the poems we study and the thoughtfulness of others.

This poem is one that has touched a lot of the dog lovers in both the college class and the high school class.  I just went back to find it a few weeks ago.

"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.

By John Updike

*******
I had a student teacher teach this poem to my sophomores.  He brought in a video that he thought went well with the sentiment of the poem.  I had never seen it before and loved this video from "The Best of Johnny Carson."

First of all, I've always been a fan of Jimmy Stewart.  ("It's A Wonderful Life" is one of my favorite movies.) On this video he shares an orginal poem with Carson and his audience.  It isn't often that a room full of noisy teens is speechless, but this video did it. 

Christ Climbed Down- A Christmas Poem

I first read this poem when I was a sophomore in high school. It was hard to forget. The copyright on it is 1958. The message is relevant 51 years later.
Christ Climbed Down
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no rootless Christmas trees
hung with candy canes and breakable stars

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
there were no gilded Christmas trees
and no tinsel Christmas trees
and no tinfoil Christmas trees
and no pink plastic Christmas trees
and no gold Christmas trees
and no black Christmas trees
and no powder blue Christmas trees
hung with electric candles
and encircled by tin electric trains
and clever cornball relatives

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no intrepid Bible salesmen
covered the territory
in two-tone Cadillac's
and where no Sears Roebuck crèches
complete with plastic babe in manger
arrived by parcel post
the babe by special delivery
and where no televised Wise Men
praised the Lord Calvert Whiskey

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no fat handshaking stranger
in a red flannel suit
and a fake white beard
went around passing himself off
as some sort of North Pole saint
crossing the desert to Bethlehem
Pennsylvania
in a Volkswagen sled
drawn by rollicking Adirondack reindeer
with German names
and bearing sacks of Humble Gifts
from Saks Fifth Avenue
for everybody's imagined Christ child

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and ran away to where
no Bing Crosby carolers
groaned of a tight Christmas
and where no Radio City angels
ice skated wingless
thru a winter wonderland
into a jingle bell heaven
daily at 8:30
with Midnight Mass matinees

Christ climbed down
from His bare Tree
this year
and softly stole away into
some anonymous Mary's womb again
where in the darkest night
of everybody's anonymous soul
He awaits again
an unimaginable
and impossibly
Immaculate Reconception-
the very craziest of
Second Comings

Ah, November...

November is...

raking leaves, bonfires, scraping frost, turkey and dressing, hunting season, cranberries, hot apple cider, cornucopias, college football, Macy's Day parade, Thanksgiving at the farm or at the Mr.'s cousins, bare trees, dark evenings, harvest moons, holiday decorating, Black Friday, scarves and gloves, K's birthday, soups, snuggling under the electric blanket, Santa's first visit of the season...

Feel free to add your own.

I love November. It must be the Puritan in me. It reminds me of these lines from Elinor Wylie's Puritan Sonnet:

I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very bones that owns,
Bare hills, cold silver on a slate of gray...

Wylie was probably talking about the winter, but I've always associated this poem with the month of November: gray, bare, and cold.

As much as I love November, the time change always throws us off a bit. The darkness at 5:30 takes some getting used to. Hibernation comes to mind. Maybe by Thanksgiving we will have all the clocks in the house changed. Who knew a household could have so many darned clocks?