apenglishliterature-2015.blogspot.com: Thank You Mr. Heaney Sir!

Friday, April 24, 2015

Thank You Mr. Heaney Sir!

Read the essay I gave to you about Seamus Heaney. After reading it, consider someone you know who is completely inexperienced with poetry. Name that person and find a poem that you think would relate to your person and tell us why. Include the poem! Have fun with it. You may choose a real person or a fictional character. You may also choose a real person who is inaccessible to you, like a movie star, or an author or someone who is no longer alive.

24 comments:

UnknownApril 25, 2015 at 9:13 AM
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe. My dad isn't very English-y. He's more of the science, math, and philosophy type of person. However, he once told me his favorite poem was "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. His reasoning was that it was fun because of the made up words. Nice, dad. But I think I can find something deeper that connects with him through this poem. The words can't be the only thing he likes. I think he does relate to it without even realizing it.

You all pretty much know that my dad travels for his company H.C. Stark. His dad died before I was born, and he had a huge effect on his life. My mom says my dad is exactly like his dad, which makes total sense to me. He'll even have dreams about both his parents out of the blue, and it's usually during times when he's trying to make an important decision.

The second stanza reminds me of those dreams he tells us about every once in awhile. His dad loved him, and was always giving him advice while coal mining. My dad has always been a hard worker with his whole family. All the men were coal miners when he was younger. Therefore, he learned and saw a lot that happened in the family. He guarded himself with a "vorpal sword in hand" (9). I think he still holds that sword with me. I'm his only child, and I'm also a girl so he's twice as protective and not as harsh as he would be with a son. He just wants what best for me.

If you've ever seen or observed my dad, he's always thinking. My mom and I believe he has a calculator in his head, just like his father. It's comical to watch as he stands "awhile in thought" (12). He starts talking to himself too. When I start giggling, he looks up to ask "what!?" I find it hilarious.

Just like the narrator in the "Jabberwocky," my dad is always fighting something. Whether that be someone who made me cry, someone who made him "cry," or work. He's always busy with work, and hates it. Going of China at forty-nine years old was not what he has in mind. That's why he is always so insistent on making me find a career that I have a passion for, otherwise I'll be miserable. Money can't buy happiness.

One day my dad will be reunited with his parents, and will be able to say he had a happy life because of my mom and I. His job may have been an annoyance, but we're the ones that made him smile. I'll succeed one day, and he'll be proud of me as well. I know he's proud now, but I want to prove that I can do it. That my dreams aren't just dreams.

Like I said, my dad isn't very artsy, but with my help he's coming along. I think he relates to the "Jabberwocky" but just won't admit it. (He's that kind of guy.) It makes me wonder if he ever reads this poem every once in awhile. I know I go back to read some poems. I think it would be cool to see his favorite poem project.
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UnknownApril 25, 2015 at 8:53 PM
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UnknownApril 25, 2015 at 8:55 PM
As most of you already know, I come from a big Italian family. Growing up, I was one of the younger cousins, but now that a lot of my older cousins are married and having kids, I’m the oldest “kid” cousins! It’s weird. It sounds irrelevant, but I swear it is relevant! So, my cousin Adam got married to Cathy, they had a baby girl, Norah DiIulio, and she is about two and a half years old. They just had a baby boy, Brett, too, but this isn’t about him. It’s about Norah. Obviously, theres a lot that she is unexperienced in, poetry included. But really, can you blame her? She is only two years old, after all.

When I was little, my mom never read me books. She wasn’t aloud. It was my own rule that she couldn’t read me books, I had to read her books. I was a stubborn child. It was my favorite to read the Shel Silverstein poem books. I proudly had all of them and would read them every single night. I think that starting out reading the Shel Silverstein poetry books is what really made me like to read poetry. Start ‘em young, right? Anyway, due to my young love of poetry and Shel Silverstein, it really influenced me to choose a Shel Silverstein poem for Norah. The poem that I picked for her is titled “Hug O’ War.” Its really short but it is so cute and I think it fits in perfectly with her and her age, aka the “terrible two’s.” Side note… Last time I went to visit, she yelled “eat dirt, daddy!” and while I face timed with her earlier this week, she told him that he was a little girl. Sometimes she pulls hair and kicks people in daycare too. So, yeah, “terrible two’s”. She's such a little nugget. I love her.

Hug O’ War by Shel Silverstein
I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

I think that this poem is so adorable! It is such a cute and cuddly poem and I think if Norah heard it she would just smile and giggle and I just think it would be so sweet. Also, I think it could easily be turned into a game. For example, the next time she tries to kick someone, we play hug o’ war instead so she can hug them instead of kicking them. I don’t know if that would work exactly, but I just think its so cute! Especially for little kids.

I think that if she heard a poem that she really liked while she was young, it would stick with her for a long time. This would be so beneficial as having a positive memory tied in with her remembrance of poetry, it could really open her up to the idea of poetry, and she would hopefully take a liking to it! Not only that, but she says im her favorite and I love her so much so that would be such a nice memory to share with her for when she grows up. Also, I would be so honored to have introduced her to poetry! And then, when she's older, I can teach her all about Sylvia Plath and read her all of her poems and have her read my literary specialist essay on her and force her to love Sylvia Plath and her poems just as much as I do. Haha, I’m just kidding. But, no I’m not.
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AnnApril 26, 2015 at 6:40 AM
I apologize for the length of this poem, but it was too perfect to pass up. This poem is for my sister’s boyfriend Josh. As you may or may not know my sister, Kate, is even more passionate about English than I am, especially poetry. When I want a good poet recommendation I turn to her, and one of our mutually favorite poets has become Theodore Roethke. I did not pick this poem for Josh just because it was written by one of my favorite poets, though. This poem combines everything that is Josh and Kate. It has enough of English and the ocean for my sister and enough realism and weather for Josh, who is an aspiring meteorologist. Like their relationship, it is beautiful in the way it moves and pulls sometimes with and sometimes against.

Josh is very intelligent – he loves math and the weather. But along with this intelligence comes his disinterest for literature. I think he has read the Harry Potter books and maybe a few other series like it, but unlike Kate and I, he finds little to no joy in reading a short story or a poem unless my sister has written it. Even then, you can tell he does not really enjoy literature. He is analytical and appreciates being able to trace an occurrence from the beginning to the end. He likes to understand ever aspect and to dissect a situation until it makes perfect sense in his mind, which could take minutes or hours depending upon the complexity.

I chose this poem for Josh because the writing style is similar to my sister’s, so he will be more inclined to read it, and because it tracks the progression of a hurricane, something that Josh loves to do. While the poem has no conclusion, which might bother him, it illustrates the sensations of an impending storm. For you or me this might just be a beautiful poem, but for Josh it would be like a flowery account of his favorite experience. When it comes to the weather, Josh is a kid at Christmas, gazing wistfully at cloud formations and telling me how they relate to the weather because by now my sister is too impatient to always listen. This poem captures the sharp grace of a writing style like my sister’s and as well as the emotions and senses that people feel as a hurricane rides the waves in. I don’t know if any poem could make Josh like literature, but I would put my money on this one.
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AnnApril 26, 2015 at 6:41 AM
The Storm – Theodore Roethke
1

Against the stone breakwater,
Only an ominous lapping,
While the wind whines overhead,
Coming down from the mountain,
Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces;
A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves,
And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against
the lamp pole.

Where have the people gone?
There is one light on the mountain.
2

Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell,
The waves not yet high, but even,
Coming closer and closer upon each other;
A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea,
Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot,
The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending,
Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness.

A time to go home!--
And a child’s dirty shift billows upward out of an alley,
A cat runs from the wind as we do,
Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia,
Where the heavy door unlocks,
And our breath comes more easy,--
Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, over
The flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beating
The walls, the slatted windows, driving
The last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closer
To their cards, their anisette.
3

We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress.
We wait; we listen.
The storm lulls off, then redoubles,
Bending the trees half-way down to the ground,
Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard,
Flattening the limber carnations.

A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb,
Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead.
The bulb goes on and off, weakly.
Water roars into the cistern.

We lie closer on the gritty pillow,
Breathing heavily, hoping--
For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater,
The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell,
The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses,
And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.
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UnknownApril 26, 2015 at 10:50 AM
I'm not going to go into all the gory details of why I'm writing my blog about my cousin, Mitchell, because it is not really my story to tell. However, as I was contemplating who to write my blog about and what poem to use, he happened to walk into the living room at my grandparent's house. That's when it hit me.

They're family, Mitchell and his four other siblings — as well as the rest of fifteen or so of us in the family— have been going through some tough times in the means of marriages in our families and what not. Any way, it has been about a year since everything went down and it really took a toll on Mitchell. Which is very understandable and would happen to the best of us.

Personally, I hate sympathy. For example, when my grandfather died freshman year everyone was telling me how sorry they were. It's like okay thanks but that doesn't change anything, so why say it? Just say nothing. I feel like Mitchell gets what I'm saying here. Everyone is continuing to tell him that everything was going to be okay. Well I never told him that because I hated the look in his eyes when he heard someone say it.

Any who, he is not very much of an English person; he's much more technical and math orientated. He had never been very fond of poetry and gave me the weirdest look when I told him he should try and write or read some when the whole thing went down last January. I found this poem today, and it instantly reminded me of him and what he went through. He will soon be going off to college and everything will get a little easier.

Everything is Going to Be Alright by Derek Mohon
How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart;
the sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
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Devyn CondonApril 26, 2015 at 11:23 AM
For me this blog was actually difficult to choose a person who can be taught with poetry. I had gone through many of my family members but no one truly stood out to me that I could pair a poem with. Then my mother suggested that I look at all of my families, swimming, scouts, and biological. I finally decided on someone who some of you might have known while he was alive, Michael Proudfit.

Michael was never the English type he often associated himself with mathematics, music, and of course athletics. He was, and still is, an inspiration for me to keep pushing myself harder to achieve my goals. The poem I had chosen for him originally was The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. The reason being if you got to learn who Michael really was, one would discover he liked to be different. He always thought outside the box which was one thing I truly admired about him. Often times though he got himself in some trouble with his outrageous actions; one time let’s just say running through the hallways of a school in competition suits is never the smartest idea. Also, he was truly an incredibly gifted in an athletic sense. When I was younger I looked up to him, Seth Dippold, and Andrew Cotter as heroes, like they were unbeatable/ indestructible. Then Michael got in his fatal accident, which proved to me that no one is indestructible.

The poem I chose for Michael is not only for if he were still alive today, but in a sense it is my way of remembering him. Now all I have to remember him by is the few memories we shared of when we were on BlueTide together, and when we were young and naive. If he were still alive today I'd highly recommend this poem to him because it speaks so much of his character. To remember all the little things because no one will be around forever.

Though All the Fates
By Henry David Thoreau

Though all the fates should prove unkind,
Leave not your native land behind.
The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;
The steed must rest beneath the hill;
But swiftly still our fortunes pace
To find us out in every place.

The vessel, though her masts be firm,
Beneath her copper bears a worm;
Around the cape, across the line,
Till fields of ice her course confine;
It matters not how smooth the breeze,
How shallow or how deep the seas,
Whether she bears Manilla twine,
Or in her hold Madeira wine,
Or China teas, or Spanish hides,
In port or quarantine she rides;
Far from New England's blustering shore,
New England's worm her hulk shall bore,
And sink her in the Indian seas,
Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.

To me this poem is all about remembering the little things in life. Michael was a great guy, and incredible friend who can never be replaced. Unlike the material possessions lost in the poem Michael’s guidance, friendship, and impact on my life as well as others will never be forgotten.
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UnknownApril 26, 2015 at 11:43 AM
I have a cousin named Sierra. She's about fifteen years old, tall, willowy, with bright blue eyes, and a big smile that lights up rooms. She's hilarious. And smart. And determined. But there' some thing she's not. She's not proud of the way she looks. The last time I spoke with her she complained about her knobby knees, her protruding hip bones, her big teeth, and how big her feet were. In our family, she's kind of an anomaly. Most of the women in my family are medium height, built strong and sturdy with big hips and thighs, small waists and slightly broad shoulders. Even her mother is a fairly large woman. But not Sierra. Sierra is a slightly taller than average, skinnier than average, girl. I believe that sometimes for her, she feels odd. What girl hasn't felt that way about her own physical appearance at one time or another?

This past year she has discovered a pretty cool opportunity for herself over in Dubois. A group of photographers from the area, students who need to build up their portfolios mostly, are letting girls come to a communal studio where they can pose as models. The girls must provide their own wardrobe, makeup, and hair fashioning... (Is that a word?) but it's an opportunity for girls to get to do something many girls think about. Sierra has taken advantage of this opportunity and done quite a few of the shoots. She really enjoys it and the photographers like it. She is a beautiful individual, and I think that this is good for her self esteem. However, this is definitely a double sided coin because while on the one hand she is gaining some self esteem, she has the potential to become vain and more focused on what her outfit looks like than how other people perceive her character.

She's such a smart girl, feisty, hardworking, kind. She knows what she wants and goes after it. I love that about her. But if I wanted to give her something to read, and she's never done anything with poetry in her entire life, I would want her to read "Mirror" by Sylvia Plath (nod of thanks to Felicia). This poem is so cool. I love how it isn't a normal poem about women and vanity, but one from the mirrors perspective. Sierra likes things odd like that. I think it would intrigue her to read something like that. At first, knowing my cousin, she would take it at its most artificial meaning. But when left alone with the poem in her head, she will see the complexities of the poem and what it is really saying about women and their appearance. I love my cousin dearly. She and I are really close, and I want her to mature into a beautiful, strong young lady, even more so than she already is. And if I ever get her to read "Mirror" then I'll give her "Barbie Doll" when she's slightly more prepared to be forever scarred by that poem.

Mirrow
Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
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UnknownApril 26, 2015 at 12:05 PM
Dogs Day

Sometimes a night can be
pure poetry.
Some nights a voice can sing
down darken streets
and beauty steps out
of the shadow.
Once in awhile
a small man stands tall
amongst the giants
and is
every bit of the order
and the madness.
It’s not often
these rare fleeting moments;
but every so often
the broken pieces
fall into place
and the shattered
dreams
of a damaged
soul
can pull it together
long enough
to smile
in the face of fortune.

As some of you may know, I have an older brother Jeremiah. Well, technically, he's my half brother but I just consider him to be my brother. I don't get to see him very often even though he lives here in St. Marys. Jeremiah is a very independent person. He does not like to rely on help from other people, not even during tough times, and trust me, he's had more than his share of misfortune. For instance, when the house that he was remodeling caught fire, he refused help from everyone, including my mom. He had to deal with the issue by himself and I think this is both a strength and weakness. Jeremiah has never been one to enjoy school. He would much rather spend his time outside or just being with people. Because of this, I made it my goal to find a poem that I know he would really like and be able to connect with. It took me quite some time, and I ended up finding this beauty on Tumblr.

In the poem Dogs Day, I see the speaker recognizing the rare success of the little guy amidst the never-ending triumphant days of disorder and conflict. Jeremiah is the type of person to forget the past and move on. He never dwells on mistakes or accidents; instead, he focuses on how to fix the problem on his own. I feel like this poem easily captures his personality and outlook on life. I think that Jeremiah would really like the lines that say "It’s not often / these rare fleeting moments; / but every so often / the broken pieces / fall into place / and the shattered / dreams / of a damaged / soul / can pull it together / long enough / to smile / in the face of fortune." (13-25). I like to say that everything happens for a reason and I share this motivation from him. No matter what life throws at him, he typically waits for everything to fall into place because he knows it will.

I guess for me, Jeremiah serves as a reminder that I need to be patient for the light to peek from the darkest of times. I don't know how he manages to stay strong all of the time, but he does it each and every day. As I said before, Jeremiah is an independent individual who uses his freedom to his advantage, and so I decided to use another poem by the same author that I know he would love. This one is titled Freedom, and the words really speak for themselves. I think that Jeremiah would enjoy the bold honesty in describing how freedom affects everything.

I hope that I can show these poems to Jeremiah the next time I see him, but I just might keep these to myself until the right time. I have never heard him talk about anything dealing with literature or poetry, but I have this feeling in my gut that these two were written for him.
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