more poems, Mr. Frankasaid, “There are as many types of poems as there are types of food. As many flavors, you might say. To claim you don’t like poetry because you hate ‘mushy stuff’ or things you don’t immediately understand is like saying you hate food because you don’t like asparagus.”
He looked around the room again. “So, who can at least tolerate poetry?”
All the hands went up.
“Let’s visit Xanadu.” He gave us a page number in our textbooks. “Read ‘Kubla Khan’ to yourself. Listen to the music. Let Coleridge speak to you.”
I started reading, and was hooked by the fourth line.
Mr. Franka read us another poem, called “To Augusta.” This one was sort of mushy, but even so the words sounded pretty cool. They flowed, like good music.
“Byron,” Mr. Franka said, closing the book. “You’ve all heard his work, whether you realize it or not. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night.’ You can’t tell me that line doesn’t kick butt. Byron even wrote a poem filled with ghosts and vampires.”
That caught my attention. Before I could ask about the poem, he said, “I won’t tell you the name. If you really want to find it, you’ll have to hunt it down. Or should I say, haunt it down?”
From there, he skipped around to some of his other favorite poets. Not once during the whole class did Mr. Franka utter those deadly words, “Now, what does this line mean?” He actually let us enjoy the poems without analyzing them todeath. As he told us, sometimes a dying snake is just a dying snake. Sometimes a leafless tree is just a tree.
At the end of the period, he said, “April is national poetry month. That’s why we’re reading poetry in October.”
I couldn’t resist. I raised my hand and asked, “So what are we going to study in April?”
He flashed a smile at me, and I felt doom approaching. I knew that smile. It’s the one you get when a fish that’s been nibbling at your bait for five minutes finally gulps it down. “Thank you, Scott.”
“What for?”
“I usually let the first person who asks that question make the decision about what to study in April. Congratulations. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Let me know your choice by mid-March.”
Great. Just what I need—a chance to get an entire English class pissed at me. At least the typical honors English student was a bit less threatening than the typical defensive lineman.
October 11
Check this out, Smelly:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree
:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea
.
Stop. Go back. Read it again. Read it out loud. Listen to the words. Hear the words. I hope you get what I’mtalking about. I just love the phrase “caverns measureless to man.” That’s genius. I mean, I would have said something lame like “really big caves.”
I think I like poetry. There’s an awful lot of it out there. And there’s a lot of it that’s awful. But there’s also a ton that’s good. And a lot that goes way beyond good.
Dad can hear when an engine isn’t running right. Bobby can hear when his guitar is even slightly out of tune. I can’t do that, but I think I can hear when a poem is good. Or a sentence.
Go, team, go.
Yeah, right.
Another Friday, another football game. Our team scored a touchdown. The crowd was so surprised, nobody even cheered. Their mouths just hung open like measureless caverns. The other team scored eleven times. Final score, 76 to 7. They should have had seventy-seven, but they missed one of the extra points. Not because of our defense. I think their kicker was getting tired. It was hard to tell for sure from up in the stands, but I suspect he might also have been laughing so hard it threw off his aim.
I figured I could concentrate on our small moment of glory for my article. Since it took us thirteen plays to get down the field, I’d have plenty to write about. I didn’t want to think
He looked around the room again. “So, who can at least tolerate poetry?”
All the hands went up.
“Let’s visit Xanadu.” He gave us a page number in our textbooks. “Read ‘Kubla Khan’ to yourself. Listen to the music. Let Coleridge speak to you.”
I started reading, and was hooked by the fourth line.
Mr. Franka read us another poem, called “To Augusta.” This one was sort of mushy, but even so the words sounded pretty cool. They flowed, like good music.
“Byron,” Mr. Franka said, closing the book. “You’ve all heard his work, whether you realize it or not. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night.’ You can’t tell me that line doesn’t kick butt. Byron even wrote a poem filled with ghosts and vampires.”
That caught my attention. Before I could ask about the poem, he said, “I won’t tell you the name. If you really want to find it, you’ll have to hunt it down. Or should I say, haunt it down?”
From there, he skipped around to some of his other favorite poets. Not once during the whole class did Mr. Franka utter those deadly words, “Now, what does this line mean?” He actually let us enjoy the poems without analyzing them todeath. As he told us, sometimes a dying snake is just a dying snake. Sometimes a leafless tree is just a tree.
At the end of the period, he said, “April is national poetry month. That’s why we’re reading poetry in October.”
I couldn’t resist. I raised my hand and asked, “So what are we going to study in April?”
He flashed a smile at me, and I felt doom approaching. I knew that smile. It’s the one you get when a fish that’s been nibbling at your bait for five minutes finally gulps it down. “Thank you, Scott.”
“What for?”
“I usually let the first person who asks that question make the decision about what to study in April. Congratulations. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Let me know your choice by mid-March.”
Great. Just what I need—a chance to get an entire English class pissed at me. At least the typical honors English student was a bit less threatening than the typical defensive lineman.
October 11
Check this out, Smelly:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree
:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea
.
Stop. Go back. Read it again. Read it out loud. Listen to the words. Hear the words. I hope you get what I’mtalking about. I just love the phrase “caverns measureless to man.” That’s genius. I mean, I would have said something lame like “really big caves.”
I think I like poetry. There’s an awful lot of it out there. And there’s a lot of it that’s awful. But there’s also a ton that’s good. And a lot that goes way beyond good.
Dad can hear when an engine isn’t running right. Bobby can hear when his guitar is even slightly out of tune. I can’t do that, but I think I can hear when a poem is good. Or a sentence.
Go, team, go.
Yeah, right.
Another Friday, another football game. Our team scored a touchdown. The crowd was so surprised, nobody even cheered. Their mouths just hung open like measureless caverns. The other team scored eleven times. Final score, 76 to 7. They should have had seventy-seven, but they missed one of the extra points. Not because of our defense. I think their kicker was getting tired. It was hard to tell for sure from up in the stands, but I suspect he might also have been laughing so hard it threw off his aim.
I figured I could concentrate on our small moment of glory for my article. Since it took us thirteen plays to get down the field, I’d have plenty to write about. I didn’t want to think
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