VOICE
Reading anything aloud is a challenge for many of us. I think of my students and how brilliant they can be on the page--but, when asked to read to the class, they fumble words...mis-pronounce "the"...lose their place again and again. During my sophomore year of college, Spring semester (the one where I discovered Petunia Moon's existence)--I had a frustrating and mildew-laced old professor in tweed who sucked the life out of Shakespeare every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I dreaded his class...staggering in there bleary-eyed and often still up from the night before. But, the man gave us one disguised gift--he forced us to memorize and recite over one hundred lines of Shakespeare to share with the whole lecture hall (about 85 students). At the time, I wanted to kill him for brutalizing Shakespeare and forcing me to (ugh...) actually learn something. Then, at random moments--the Shakespeare vaults from my lips--still there these years later. Also, this immersion in Shakespeare out loud to my drowsy peers broke--once and for all--my fear of public speaking and reading to large groups. Ultimately, this skill has become my career as an adjunct professor at a local college--where my performances fall every Monday and Wednesday night...minus the tweed, the beard, and (I hope) the frustration.
Reading my own writing aloud remains another story altogether. I can recite all day long, unless I'm the one who generated the words...then it may as well be written in Latin--the dead language the nuns taught me in Catholic school for no logical reason I've yet to discover. So, when the poem of mine appearing in the We'Moon anthology: 2006: Love happened to be the one anchoring the book for the week (it was featured on the wall in March)--and Poetry Thursday dared folks to risk a read-aloud, I decided it was a sign.
I went in my room and shut the door as Boy-o and Rosie played in the kitchen with measuring cups of dried rice (Hey--I was desperate and they have a lot more fun with this than you might think, pouring into containers and the floor, scooping it up again...). Then I turned to page 96 and I dove in. The first line, I blew twice. Then I was lost on the word "unfurl"--it looked like a foreign language...I kept going until I was tired of hearing my voice and I could get through without messing up (or, only once). Then--I conjured up my old musty professor and took it with me to class last night. My students were my captive audience...we were actually reviewing an essay on aging, so I used my poem as a discussion leap-off point.
I took a risk last night and shared my words with them, and now again here--not to inundate the world with another twisted cliche, I nonetheless have to mention it anyway. Last night? I didn't miss one line...
Reading anything aloud is a challenge for many of us. I think of my students and how brilliant they can be on the page--but, when asked to read to the class, they fumble words...mis-pronounce "the"...lose their place again and again. During my sophomore year of college, Spring semester (the one where I discovered Petunia Moon's existence)--I had a frustrating and mildew-laced old professor in tweed who sucked the life out of Shakespeare every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I dreaded his class...staggering in there bleary-eyed and often still up from the night before. But, the man gave us one disguised gift--he forced us to memorize and recite over one hundred lines of Shakespeare to share with the whole lecture hall (about 85 students). At the time, I wanted to kill him for brutalizing Shakespeare and forcing me to (ugh...) actually learn something. Then, at random moments--the Shakespeare vaults from my lips--still there these years later. Also, this immersion in Shakespeare out loud to my drowsy peers broke--once and for all--my fear of public speaking and reading to large groups. Ultimately, this skill has become my career as an adjunct professor at a local college--where my performances fall every Monday and Wednesday night...minus the tweed, the beard, and (I hope) the frustration.
Reading my own writing aloud remains another story altogether. I can recite all day long, unless I'm the one who generated the words...then it may as well be written in Latin--the dead language the nuns taught me in Catholic school for no logical reason I've yet to discover. So, when the poem of mine appearing in the We'Moon anthology: 2006: Love happened to be the one anchoring the book for the week (it was featured on the wall in March)--and Poetry Thursday dared folks to risk a read-aloud, I decided it was a sign.I went in my room and shut the door as Boy-o and Rosie played in the kitchen with measuring cups of dried rice (Hey--I was desperate and they have a lot more fun with this than you might think, pouring into containers and the floor, scooping it up again...). Then I turned to page 96 and I dove in. The first line, I blew twice. Then I was lost on the word "unfurl"--it looked like a foreign language...I kept going until I was tired of hearing my voice and I could get through without messing up (or, only once). Then--I conjured up my old musty professor and took it with me to class last night. My students were my captive audience...we were actually reviewing an essay on aging, so I used my poem as a discussion leap-off point.
I took a risk last night and shared my words with them, and now again here--not to inundate the world with another twisted cliche, I nonetheless have to mention it anyway. Last night? I didn't miss one line...
posted by Left-handed Trees... at 9:27 AM
14 Comments:
This links so much in to your last post: the budding, the flowering, the dying away.
This poem pulls me through the cycles of being, of caring, until I am left alone at the end on an icy precipice in a full golden light.
So beautiful, vast and important. Thank you.
I have no words other than - thank you!
Oh, I wish I could hear you read it. It is so good. Makes me remember that I need to stop and notice my children as they are. Thank you for sharing this.
And the line about your "mildew-laced" professor was perfect! LOL. Good image.
:)
Such a beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing the experience of reading aloud to your class. That much have been thrilling and scary at the same time.
My goal is to become a mildew-laced professor, but that's just about me.
When I read this aloud, it left me breathy and full, and to say, "pulse-print," that alone was a gift.
Oh C. - I love this part -
"The children will unfurl new growth with everyday--every pulseprint.
Think of this when they are knobby and awkward. They are changing.
Always."
As the parent of a "tween" that seems to morph emotionally each day into either a lovely friend or a bitter rival, these words speak volumes to my heart. I need to remember the "turning" and that I need to love her through it. Thanks so much for sharing this!
I'm sure i have better words in my vocabulary pocket, but the word that is in my head is - wow. that was a poem to be treasured, thank you for sharing it with us, and like Amber i would have loved to hear you read it - maybe one day...
Sx
I'm glad you took the risk to share both here, and in your class. Beautiful! (I love the idea of trees pressing against the sky ...)
beautiful poem; a lot to think about...
Your Shakespeare professor sounds like a horror (I love your words "mildew-laced", inspiring me to promptly put mildew on my current list of evocative words) but reading aloud is SO essential with Shakespeare. I performed in two plays in college (Cymbeline and As You Like It) and it was AMAZING how much fuller an understanding I had of those than the others from the repeated hearings. And it is so luscious to speak those words. I always read my own writing aloud to myself too, in secret, to make sure I've got the cadences right.
Wow! What an amazing poem! Well done. Thanks for sharing your creation and the story about reading to your class - and the "mildew-laced" professor. I think many of us had one of those. :)
Beautiful!
loved the last line " you gave everything and now love yourself"
Thanks for sharing..
i would love to hear you read this aloud as well.
what a beautiful, meaningful, rich poem.
thank you for sharing it with us, you brave, beautiful you!
xo,
boho
Your writing often takes my breath away. Just beautiful!
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