НОУ «Международная школа завтрашнего дня»

ЮАО г. Москвы

Поэзия: мифы и реальность

подготовила

учитель английского языка

Верютина Анжела Борисовна

г. Москва

2012

Seven Myths about Poetry

by Gary R. Hess

Today there are many myths about poetry. Late last century a surge took place among young people, teens began writing more and more poetry due to new concepts like slam poetry (Wikipedia: A poetry slam is a competition at which poets read or recite original work. These performances are then judged on a numeric scale by previously selected members of the audience) and rap music. However, many notions about poetry were formed and seen as truth. Here are seven myths about poetry:

• Poetry must rhyme.
  In fact, poetry doesn't have to rhyme. Poetry doesn't have to do anything--normally it is just good practice to have rhythm and meters. However, there are exceptions to all rules.

• Poetry must be a set length.
  A poem can be as short as one letter or as long as one billion. It just doesn't matter. Actually, poetry doesn't even have to have words or letters at all. A picture or photograph, even a drawing could be considered a poem in the right circumstance.

• Poetry requires no thinking.
  Actually, it does. Just like any art really. There are some people who can write poems right off the top of their head and make perfect poems; however, most of us can't. We need to think before we write and think about what we wrote, then edit, then edit some more and write some more.

• The best poetry is written when authors are depressed.
  You could make the argument that more poetry is written while authors are depressed, thus the chance of better poetry due to the amount. However, even this might not be true. Many famous poets have written their best works while in love.

• Poetry must make sense.
  Not entirely. Most forms of poetry do need to make sense. However, dada doesn't.

Dada Poetry is poetry which denies all sense and reason. The word "dada" originates in French meaning 'hobbyhorse', a word selected at random from the dictionary.

• Poetry must have correct grammar.
  Not even close. Of course, many who have listened to music within the past decade know this already.

• Big words make better poems.
  Edgar Allan Poe is a great example to dismiss this notion. Big words should only be used when they are absolutely necessary, unless of course your purpose is to make a poem which isn't.

Many people believe poetry must be a specific way. However, that simply isn't true. A poem is a poem as long as it has rhythm, meaning, and uses the senses of the reader to its advantage.

School Poems: Poetry for the First Day of School

School and poetry go hand in hand. Education is an important part of everyone's lives and poetry is a great way to learn. The rhythm, the rhymes, and even alliterations and metaphors allow school children to become interested in the subject at hand. Different poets will help you to learn more not only about poetry but also about society, history, and culture. Broaden your horizons!

Orphan School

by Robert William Service

Full fifty merry maids I heard
One summer morn a-singing;
And each was like a joyous bird
With spring-clear not a-ringing.
It was an old-time soldier song
That held their happy voices:
Oh how it’s good to swing along
When youth rejoices!

Then lo! I dreamed long years had gone,
They passed again ungladly.
Their backs were bent, their cheeks were wan,
Their eyes were staring sadly.
Their ranks were thinned by full a score
From death’s remorseless reaping
Their steps were slow, they sang no more,–
Nay, some were weeping.

Dark dream! I saw my maids today
Singing so innocently;
Their eyes with happiness were gay,
They looked at me so gently.
Thought I: Be merry in your youth
With hearts unrueing:
Thank God you do not know the truth
Of Life’s Undoing!

The Schoolfellow

by Sir Henry Newbolt

Our game was his but yesteryear; 
We wished him back; we could not know 
The self-same hour we missed him here 
He led the line that broke the foe. 

Blood-red behind our guarded posts 
Sank as of old and dying day; 
The battle ceased; the mingled hosts 
Weary and cheery went their way: 

"To-morrow well may bring," we said, 
"As fair a fight, as clear a sun." 
Dear Lad, before the world was sped, 
For evermore thy goal was won.

The Old Bark School 
by Henry Lawson

It was built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holes 
       Where each leak in rainy weather made a pool; 
And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks — 
       There was little need for windows in the school. 

Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track, 
       On the old grey horse that carried three or four; 
And he looked so very wise that he lit the master's eyes 
       Every time he put his head in at the door. 

He had run with Cobb and Co. — 'that grey leader, let him go!' 
       There were men 'as knowed the brand upon his hide,' 
And 'as knowed it on the course'. Funeral service: 'Good old horse!' 
       When we burnt him in the gully where he died. 

And the master thought the same. 'Twas from Ireland that he came, 
       Where the tanks are full all summer, and the feed is simply grand; 
And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue — 
       'Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand. 

And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy maps 
       Long discarded by the public-schools in town; 
And as nearly every book dated back to Captain Cook 
       Our geography was somewhat upside-down. 

It was 'in the book' and so — well, at that we'd let it go, 
       For we never would believe that print could lie; 
And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon 
       'The sun is in the south part of the sky.' 

And Ireland! that was known from the coast line to Athlone: 
       We got little information re the land that gave us birth; 
Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled) 
       And 'the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.' 

And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded race 
       Seemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew; 
Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best; 
       But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo. 

But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood upon 
       Is a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew's cry is heard; 
There's a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that, 
       For, about the time they built it, our old master was 'transferred.' 

But the bark-school comes again with exchanges 'cross the plain — 
       With the Out-Back Advertiser; and my fancy roams at large 
When I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock, 
       With 'James Bullock,' 'Grey,' or 'Henry Dale' in charge. 

And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content, 
       With his 'eddication' finished, with his pack-horse after him; 
And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track, 
       For I wish my learnin' ended when the Master 'finished' Jim.

The Latest School

by G. K. Chesterton

See the flying French depart
Like the bees of Bonaparte,
Swarming up with a most venomous vitality.
Over Baden and Bavaria,
And Brighton and Bulgaria,
Thus violating Belgian neutrality.

And the injured Prussian may
Not unreasonably say
“Why, it cannot be so small a nationality
Since Brixton and Batavia,
Bolivia and Belgravia,
Are bursting with the Belgian neutrality.”

By pure Alliteration
You may trace this curious nation,
And respect this somewhat scattered Principality;
When you see a B in Both
You may take your Bible oath
You are violating Belgian neutrality.

Two Schools

by Henry Van Dyke

I put my heart to school
In the world, where men grow wise,
"Go out," I said, "and learn the rule;
Come back when you win a prize."

My heart came back again:
"Now where is the prize?" I cried. ----
"The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
And the teacher's name was Pride."

I put my heart to school
In the woods, where veeries sing,
And brooks run cool and clear;
In the fields, where wild flowers spring,
And the blue of heaven bends near.
"Go out," I said: "you are half a fool,
But perhaps they can teach you here."

"And why do you stay so long,
My heart, and where do you roam?"
The answer came with a laugh and a song, ---
"I find this school is home."

The School In August

by Philip Larkin

The cloakroom pegs are empty now,

And locked the classroom door,

The hollow desks are lined with dust,

And slow across the floor

A sunbeam creeps between the chairs

Till the sun shines no more.

Who did their hair before this glass?

Who scratched ‘Elaine loves Jill'

One drowsy summer sewing-class

With scissors on the sill?

Who practised this piano

Whose notes are now so still?

Ah, notices are taken down,

And scorebooks stowed away,

And seniors grow tomorrow

From the juniors today,

And even swimming groups can fade,

Games mistresses turn grey.

The Schoolboy

by William Blake

I love to rise in a summer morn,

When the birds sing on every tree;

The distant huntsman winds his horn,

And the skylark sings with me:

O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn,

O it drives all joy away!

Under a cruel eye outworn,

The little ones spend the day

In sighing and dismay.

Ah then at times I drooping sit,

And spend many an anxious hour;

Nor in my book can I take delight,

Nor sit in learning's bower,

Worn through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy

Sit in a cage and sing?

How can a child, when fears annoy,

But droop his tender wing,

And forget his youthful spring!

O father and mother if buds are nipped,

And blossoms blown away;

And if the tender plants are stripped

Of their joy in the springing day,

By sorrow and care's dismay,

How shall the summer arise in joy,

Or the summer fruits appear?

Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,

Or bless the mellowing year,

When the blasts of winter appear?

An Old Man's Thought of School

by Walt Whitman

AN old man's thought of School;

An old man, gathering youthful memories and blooms, that youth itself cannot.

Now only do I know you!

O fair auroral skies! O morning dew upon the grass!

And these I see--these sparkling eyes,

These stores of mystic meaning--these young lives,

Building, equipping, like a fleet of ships--immortal ships!

Soon to sail out over the measureless seas,

On the Soul’s voyage.

Only a lot of boys and girls?

Only the tiresome spelling, writing, ciphering classes?

Only a Public School?

Ah more--infinitely more;

(As George Fox raised his warning cry, "Is it this pile of brick and

mortar--these dead floors, windows, rails--you call the church?

Why this is not the church at all--the Church is living, ever living Souls.")

And you, America,

Cast you the real reckoning for your present?

The lights and shadows of your future--good or evil?

To girlhood, boyhood look--the Teacher and the School.

Sources of information:

1. http://www.poemofquotes.com/articles/school-poems.php

2. http://www.poemofquotes.com/articles/myths-about-poetry.php