Monday, April 24, 2006

Writing a Poem Tonight

Here are your choices

Option 1

Title your piece, “What You Need to Know About Me” and end up with one page.

Here’s Langston Hughes asking and answering that question for his teacher. Look at how specific he is.

Like Hughes, you should avoid generic words like “I like music.” Instead, go for something like, Bessie bop or Bach.

If it helps, you can use this like a template and insert your specifics where his are now. But it might be better to a variation on the original, so it fits your voice.

THEME FOR ENGLISH B
By Langston Hughes

The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you,
hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

[1951 ]



Option 2

Write about a place that ignites your need for words.

Describe it to someone you love. Point to things. Be specific. What stands out? What’s the story behind this place? Don’t talk about every summer. Write about one time.


Option 3:

Try an imitation poem based on Van Morrision’s “On Hyndford Street.”


The assignment is to be specific with the details, and to come near to sentimentality without going over.
(sorry. Gave up on the line breaks)

On Hyndford Street,
by Van Morrison

Take me back, take me way, way, way back
On Hyndford Street
Where you could feel the silence at half past eleven
On long summer nights
As the wireless played
Radio Luxembourg
And the voices whispered across Beechie River
In the quietness as we sank into restful slumber in the silence
And carried on dreaming, in God
And walks up Cherry Valley from North Road Bridge, railway line
On sunny summer afternoons
Picking apples from the side of the tracks
That spilled over from the gardens of the houses on Cyprus Avenue
Watching the moth catcher working the floodlights in the evenings
And meeting down by the pylons
Playing round Mrs. Kelly's lamp
Going out to Holywood on the bus
And walking from the end of the lines to the seaside
Stopping at Fusco's for ice creamIn the days before rock `n' roll
Hyndford Street, Abetta Parade
Orangefield, St. Donard's Church
Sunday six bells, and in between the silence there was conversation
And laughter, and music and singing, and shivers up the back of the neck
And tuning in to Luxembourg late at night
And jazz and blues records during the day
Also Debussy on the third programme
Early mornings when contemplation was best
Going up the Castlereagh hills
And the cregagh glens in summer and coming back
To Hyndford Street, feeling wondrous and lit up inside
With a sense of everlasting life
And reading Mr. Jelly Roll and Big Bill Broonzy
And "Really The Blues" by "Mezz" MezzrowAnd "Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac
Over and over againAnd voices echoing late at night over Beechie River
And it's always being now, and it's always being now
It's always now
Can you feel the silence?
On Hyndford Street where you could feel the silence
At half past eleven on long summer nights
As the wireless played Radio Luxembourg
And the voices whispered across Beechie River
And in the quietness we sank into restful slumber in silence
And carried on dreaming in God.


My Attempt:

On Fremont Hills
after On Hyndford Street

Take me back. Take me way, way, way back.
On Fremont Hills where you could hear the sprinklers tick
at half past eleven on long summer nights
As my sister typed out the top forty, listening to the a.m. radio in the kitchen,
And the moths worked the lights on the deck
We heard the breeze rustle the aspen leaves before we felt it on our skin
and we were carried on
And sitting on our heels around the house and in the field
In the heat of the day
Making truck tracks or just digging holes
in the cool earth where the orchard stood
Pitching wiffle balls under the halogen light, which also ticked, until it was midnight
And meeting up at the fort
Hitting the dirt jump at the end of our street
Going up to Rimrock with dad
And walking out to the boat at the end of the dock
Stopping at The Cove for pie
In the hours before it got dark
Fremont Hills, Community Days,
Orchard, The Methodist Church,
And in between the nights were games
And wrestling and piano lessons and things felt too deeply
And tuning in to pink floyd at night
And Paul Harvey during lunch
Also Roberta Flack and Donnie Hathaway
And James Taylor albums on the marantz turntable
Just after dinner when we were loose.
Floating down the Yakima
And by the golden grass in summer and it all drifting
To Fremont, feeling wrung out and lit up inside
With a sense of things coming together
And reading Fear and Loathing and Frank Deford
And “Cat’s Cradle”
And “Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac
Over and over again
And trees quaking late into the night
And it always being nigh, and it’s always nigh.
It’s always nigh.
On Fremont, where you could hear the sprinklers
at half past eleven on long summer nights
As my sister, listening to the a.m. radio in the kitchen,
And the moths worked the lights on the deck
We heard the breeze rustle the aspen leaves before we felt it on our skin
And we were carried on

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