Welcome from Amy D. Unsworth

Language, Literature, Learning & Life.

Define "Essential"

I'm working to finish up my plan for my non-majors Intro to Lit. for the fall semester. When it comes right down to it, I have about 10 days to teach poetry without skimping on other genres which too must be taught. Ten days. If I can teach 3 poems a day, that's 30 poems with less than 20 minutes to talk about any given poem. If I teach 50 poems, that's 10 minutes a poem. I have an anthology selected, so I'm trying to pick a wide range from what is in the book.

It boils down to 400+ years of poetry in 10 days or less than one poem per decade. I can name at least 40 poems from the last 40 years that must be read. How do you decide on poems that will make students become readers? How can I make them fall in love with words?

The poetry reading was quite lovely. We all crowded into the coffeeshop and drank lemonaide and chatted with conference attendees from all over the world and those from a bit closer to home. It was lovely to hear the poets' voices, the inflection they choose as they read their own work. We read in alphabetical order, which meant I was last, and was responsible for saying goodnight. When the poet before me stood up to read, my hands began to shake. I brought my youngest son out of necessity. I heard his every shuffle, wiggle, sneeze, whisper. Before I read, he asked if we were almost done. Yes, yes, after I go. I read my poems, I looked over my own shoulder and questioned if I was reading loud enough, if I was reading slowly enough, if I was making eye-contact. When I finished, the crowd clapped as they do, and my son cheered loudly. You Rock Mom! I think he cheered because we were finished and I'd promised him a cheeseburger on the way home. I couldn't stop smiling.

Word Cloud

I found this at C. Dale Young's blog. You can try it too: Snap Shirts' Word Cloud

Drawing In

The summer is reaching its height of broiling temperatures. The pots of herbs are baking in the sun; caterpillars have eaten the rue down to just stems. Still, a weed or two pops up from some seed blown in by the wind or gathered unknowingly in the handfuls of soil.

In the heat, the mob of kangaroos bathes in dust and watches without concern as we tread through their exhibit. At the sheep station, the tank is filled with cool water and my sons splash their faces and hands. The sheep doze in the shadow of the barn. The native art shows a waterhole and the tracks of many creatures that drink. It is a different way of seeing, all of our footsteps mingling, creatures of the light, of the dark, and of the half-light of dusk and dawn.

I am gathering in-- plans, perfect cherry tomatoes, the lazy laughter echoing through the house-- before the routine of the school year is upon us again.