1. SOTA Business
Information forms
Schedules
Announcements will be at 8:10
Cell phone policy
Fringe
Google classroom sign-on
Take course for extra credit?
2. VIDEO: https://www.coursera.org/learn/poetry-workshop/ show intro and Week 1 from California Institute of the Arts
3. Exercises: The Found Poem: A Brand New poem in Three Easy Steps
Grab a paragraph of text from a book or on the web and make a found poem by breaking a passage in to lines. A poem is more than line broken prose, but this exercise can help you experiment with rhythm and sound quickly.
Breaking Good: Chop a Block of Famous Poetry
Below is a piece of lineated poetry that has been stripped of line breaks—I’ve also gotten rid of capitalization except where grammatically necessary. Copy the bolded text below into a new document or write it out by hand, adding line breaks where you think they should go.
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
To see the source of this text and in its original form, click here. Try the exercise first before taking a peek!
For instance, on the planet Earth,
ReplyDeleteman had always assumed that he
was more intelligent than dolphins
because he had achieved so much—
the wheel, New York, wars
and so on—
whilst all the dolphins
had ever done
was muck about in the water
having a good time.
But conversely, the dolphins
had always believed
that they were far more intelligent
than man
—for precisely the same reasons.
Don't call me a fairy.
ReplyDeleteWe don't like to be called fairies anymore.
Once upon a time,
fairy was a perfectly
acceptable catchall for a
variety of creatures,
but now it has taken on too many associations.
Don't call me a fairy. We don't like to be called fairies anymore. Once upon a time, fairy was a perfectly acceptable catchall for a variety of creatures, but now it has taken on too many associations.
Delete- excerpt from 'The Stolen Child' by Keith Donohue
DeleteIt was 7 minutes after midnight.
ReplyDeleteThe dog was lying on the grass
in the middle of the lawn
in front of Mrs. Shears’s house.
Its eyes were closed.
It looked as if it was running on its side,
the way dogs run when they think
they are chasing a cat in a dream.
But the dog was not running or asleep.
The dog was dead.
- Excerpt from The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
THERE are many methods of nature-study in America, and in some more attention is given to the æsthetic and emotional sides of education than to the scientific. This little book is a collection of extracts from good writers showing that trees have often been the source of literary inspiration. It is good that children should become familiar with the best literature their country provides, and when at the same time they have their attention directed to the study of nature, the lesson becomes of increased value.
ReplyDeleteTHERE are many methods
of nature-study in America,
and in some more attention
is given to the æsthetic and emotional sides
of education than to the scientific.
This little book
is a collection of extracts from good writers
showing that trees
have often been the source of literary inspiration.
It is good
that children should become familiar with
the best literature their country provides,
and when at the same time they have their attention
directed to the study of nature,
the lesson becomes of increased value.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
ReplyDeletecreeps in this petty pace
from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, that struts
and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
Abris’ stomach tightened into knots as he waited on the steps of a shining temple.
ReplyDeleteStanding watch before the temple doors was a statue of the Protector. The setting sun silhouetted its face, casting a radiant aura around its bowed head. It was carved in white stone that sparkled with flecks of gold.
Great wings framed its shoulders as it held two swords against its chest.
The statue’s helmeted expression was blank, austere, more perfect than any human.
Hundreds of candles covered the plinth at its feet.
-Excerpt from In the Fires of Justice by Rayla Heide
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
ReplyDeletecreeps in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more: it is a tale
told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
ReplyDeletecreeps in this petty pace
from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays
have lighted fools
the way to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, that struts
and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
He looks out the window, and so do I.
ReplyDeleteAnything could move out there in the darkness, I think.
A hook-handed man.
A ghostly hitch-hiker repeating her journey.
An old woman summoned from the rest of her mirror by the chants of children.
Everyone knows these stories – that is, everyone tells them – but no one ever believes them.
He looks out the window, and so do I. Anything could move out there in the darkness, I think. A hook-handed man. A ghostly hitch-hiker repeating her journey. An old woman summoned from the rest of her mirror by the chants of children. Everyone knows these stories – that is, everyone tells them – but no one ever believes them.
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteBirds and squirrels can be a problem
when seeds ripen and harvest time approaches. If you do not plan
to use the seeds,
it is fun
to watch wildlife enjoy the bounty.
You may want to cut
the flower heads off and lay them out in the sun to dry
and provide easier access
to wildlife.
Conversely, to deter birds and squirrels,
barrier devices are most effective.
As seed heads mature and flowers droop,
cover each one with white
polyspun garden fleece.
It will let light and air in
and keep critters out. Also
try cutting away the few leaves that are closest to the heads
to make it harder for birds to perch and feed.
Deer will readily eliminate a sunflower patch.
As they favor the new, tender leaves
at the top of the plants, a 36-inch chicken wire barrier
supported by 6-foot bamboo stakes
should keep them at bay.
Simply raise the wire as the plants grow.
Birds and squirrels can be a problem when seeds ripen and harvest time approaches. If you do not plan to use the seeds, it is fun to watch wildlife enjoy the bounty. You may want to cut the flower heads off and lay them out in the sun to dry and provide easier access to wildlife. Conversely, to deter birds and squirrels, barrier devices are most effective. As seed heads mature and flowers droop, cover each one with white polyspun garden fleece. It will let light and air in and keep critters out. Also try cutting away the few leaves that are closest to the heads to make it harder for birds to perch and feed.
Deer will readily eliminate a sunflower patch. As they favor the new, tender leaves at the top of the plants, a 36-inch chicken wire barrier supported by 6-foot bamboo stakes should keep them at bay. Simply raise the wire as the plants grow.
“For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much—the wheel, New York, wars and so on—whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man—for precisely the same reasons.”
ReplyDeletetomorrow,
ReplyDeleteand tomorrow,
and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
tomorrow
ReplyDeleteand tomorrow
and tomorrow
creeps in this petty pace
from day to day,
to the last syllable
of recorded time
all our yesterdays
lighted fools the way
to dusty death.
out,
out,
brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player,
strutting and fretting his hour
upon the stage,
then is heard no more.
it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
The stars shone on the sea.
ReplyDeleteThe mother told the baby some stories
about the stars.
She said
that there were two little stars
that played peek-a-boo
with two little fishes in the deep blue sea.
And there were two little frogs
that cried
‘Neap, neap, neap.
We also see a dear little baby who should be asleep!’
- Excerpt from 'Come to the Window'
Tomorrow,
and tomorrow,
and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace
from day to day.
To the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools,
the way to dusty death.
Out!
Out!
Brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
Tomorrow,
ReplyDeleteand tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow,
A poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more:
It is a tale told by an idiot,
Full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
ReplyDeletetomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace
from day to day, to the last
syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way
to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player,
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury, signifying
nothing.
The lottery by Shirley Jackson
Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
Filial Piety
Soon the men began to gather.
Surveying their own children, speaking
of planting and rain,
tractors and taxes.
They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner,
and their jokes were quiet
and they smiled rather than laughed.
The women,
wearing faded house dresses and sweaters,
came shortly after their menfolk.
They greeted one another
and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands.
Soon the women,
standing by their husbands,
began to call to their children,
and the children came
reluctantly,
having to be called four or five times.
Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand
and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones.
His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby
came quickly and took his place
between his father and his oldest brother.
Turon Parker
ReplyDeleteI am an invisible man.
No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe;
nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man
of substance,
of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids –
and I might even be said to possess a mind.
I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.
Like the bodiless heads you see
sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though
I have been surrounded by mirrors
of hard, distorting glass.
When they approach me
they see only my surroundings,
themselves, or figments of their imagination –
indeed, everything and anything except me.
tomorrow, and tomorrow,
ReplyDeleteand tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, that struts and frets
his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound
and fury, signifying nothing.
We were on our way to Pamplona. It was July and we were going to take part in the annual San Fermin festival and its week-long party, its morning bull runs through the stockaded cobbled streets. But while we followed the trail laid down by the Lost Generation, it was the Beat Generation that was captivating me as I ignored the scenery outside the coach window and instead became immersed in Kerouac’s world.
ReplyDeleteWe were on our way to Pamplona.
It was July and we were going
to take part in the annual San Fermin festival
and its week-long party.
Its morning bull runs
through the stockaded cobbled streets.
But while we followed the trail
laid down by the Lost Generation,
it was the Beat Generation that was captivating me
as I ignored the scenery outside the coach window and instead
became immersed in Kerouac’s world.
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
tomorrow,
and tomorrow,
and tomorrow, creeps
in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have
lighted fools the way to dusty death.
out,
out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, that struts and frets his hour
upon the stage and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
ReplyDeleteTomorrow,
and tomorrow,
and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace
from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays
have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player,
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then
is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury, signifying nothing
Turon Parker
ReplyDeletetomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
out, out, brief candle! life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player, that struts and frets
his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more:
it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
The sourced is The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.
ReplyDeleteI am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted
ReplyDeleteEdgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a
man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be
said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people
refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus
sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard,
distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings,
themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, everything and
anything except me.