For a reader, a question such as “What’s the most important word?” narrows
the focus while broadening the possibilities for discovery. There’s no
single correct answer; and in fact, the more answers you come up with, the more
intensely you’re participating in the life of the poem. As a classroom
discussion starter, this question and others like it are prime ways to light an
intellectual firestorm among your students: one person’s chosen word links to
another person’s chosen word, a third person begins explaining why, a fourth
person disagrees, and the room becomes charged with the excitement that arises
when curious, concentrated people overflow with opinions and ideas.
If
you’re a reader alone with a poem, a structured yet open question such as
“What’s the most important word?” can help you sidestep distraction and develop
your own conscious connections to details of a poem. But it can also help you
relax. Too often, especially when faced with a canonical bigwig such as
Shakespeare, our instinct is to hunch up in a corner like some sort of lesser
being. Yet one day, several centuries ago, he was no better off than we are at
this moment. He was faced with a blank sheet of paper. He knew he wanted to
write something, but where were the words? He snatched the word Or out of the air. And so he began. By coming face to
face with those bare words he chose, we become, in a way, his peer and his
partner. We begin to understand what it felt like to be Shakespeare writing a
poem.
[from a draft of The Conversation: Learning to Be a Poet (Autumn House Press, 2014)]
4 comments:
Thank you for sharing your drafts, Dawn. Your book is going to be wonderful, I think. I'm taken with the idea of listening to a poem as a solo/silent reader, and miss the rowdiness of college seminars in poetry. I also well recall that feeling of "hunch[ing] up" when faced with "a canonical bigwig"; that description is exactly how I felt the first time I read Chaucer (in middle English).
I think that "hunching up" sensation must be more common than we know. Alexander Pope was my first experience with it. There I was, 15 years old, browbeaten by "An Essay on Man." I still haven't recovered.
Sir Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene still makes me break out in a sweat.
Be interesting to find out what works challenged individuals who, despite the fear factor, persevered.
"from a draft of The Conversation: Learning to Be a Poet (Autumn House Press, 2014)"
Why am I always aching for the release of your next work? Two-thousand fourteen? Please let it be January. :-)
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