Kick'em When They're Up, Kick'em When They're Down

. . . in the immortal words of Don Henley.

Attacking poetry is nothing new, though back in the day it seemed like it might have been a fair fight.

When Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley called poets "the unacknowledged legislators of the world," poetry was still a brawny contender. Rich brewers might have snickered at Shelley behind their hands, but probably most educated people nodded as solemnly as my dog when I talk to her (she doesn't speak English, which limits her participation in the discussion, but she's agreeable company and likes the sound of my voice) whether they understood him or not. Then, to be a poet--to be a man or a woman of letters--was a goal worth aspiring to.

Now, says Adrienne Rich,

poetry is either inadequate, even immoral, in the face of human suffering, or it's unprofitable, hence useless. Either way, poets are advised to hang our heads or fold our tents. Yet in fact, throughout the world, transfusions of poetic language can and do quite literally keep bodies and souls together - and more.

So useless is poetry that the notion that business folk might learn something--anything--from reading Wordsworth is greeted with incredulity:

It may sound like a nice day out in beautiful surroundings, but can walking around Lake District sites synonymous with Romantic poet William Wordsworth really offer business leaders and local entrepreneurs the crucial insights they need?

Without having heard the whole of the interview, it's difficult to know whether the professor who teaches the course is patiently explaining or limply defending his work when he provides a "rationale" for the study of Wordsworth's poetry (I'm guessing the former). That the associate dean begins his defense with "Although some people laugh at the idea of learning from poetry" makes you suspect that he is one of those some people; why else introduce that which has no credence? Who laughs at the idea of learning from poetry? Tell me their names.

These who sitteth in the seat of the scornful are probably people who never learned critical thinking, because, as Martha Nussbaum says,

students exposed to instruction in critical thinking learn at the same time a new attitude to people who disagree with them. They learn to see people who disagree not as an opposing sports team to be humiliated, but instead as human beings who have reasons themselves for what they think....

Just as ignorance leads to fear of and contempt for what we don't understand, Nussbaum says that learning to examine another's perspective leads to creating a foundation of mutual respect:

And this is important not just for the individual thinking about society, but it’s important for the way people talk to each other. In all too many public discussions people just throw out slogans and they throw out insults. And what democracy needs is listening. And respect. And so when people learn how to analyze an argument, then they look at what the other person’s saying differently. And they try to take it apart, and they think: “Well, do I share some of those views and where do I differ here?” and so on. And this really does produce a much more deliberative, respectful style of public interaction.

If we laugh at the idea of learning from poetry, why read poetry at all? Why do we expect children to begin reading poetry in first grade and continue through high school and into college? Why indeed, as Martha Nussbaum asks, do we study the humanities? And what will be the consequences when we stop?

I see it as a sort of Mad Max meets mud wrestling. In contrast to the inner world Shelley describes, one that can be transformed by reading:

Poetry turns all things to loveliness; it exalts the beauty of that which is most beautiful, and it adds beauty to that which is most deformed; it marries exultation and horror, grief and pleasure, eternity and change; it subdues to union under its light yoke all irreconcilable things. It transmutes all that it touches, and every form moving within the radiance of its presence is changed by wondrous sympathy to an incarnation of the spirit which it breathes: its secret alchemy turns to potable gold the poisonous waters which flow from death through life; it strips the veil of familiarity from the world, and lays bare the naked and sleeping beauty, which is the spirit of its forms.

All things exist as they are perceived: at least in relation to the percipient. “The mind is its own place, and of itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” But poetry defeats the curse which binds us to be subjected to the accident of surrounding impressions. And whether it spreads its own figured curtain, or withdraws life’s dark veil from before the scene of things, it equally creates for us a being within our being. It makes us the inhabitants of a world to which the familiar world is a chaos. It reproduces the common universe of which we are portions and percipients, and it purges from our inward sight the film of familiarity which obscures from us the wonder of our being. It compels us to feel that which we perceive, and to imagine that which we know.

 References

Coalson, Robert. "'There Is No Values-Free Form Of Education,' Says U.S. Philosopher." RadioFreeEurope/RadioLiberty. Radio Free Europe: Radio Liberty, 21 Feb. 2011. Web. 20 Sept. 2012.

Nussbaum, Martha. "Educating for Profit, Educating for Freedom." ABC Religion & Ethics. Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 19 Aug. 2011. Web. 20 Sept. 2012. .
Reisz, Matthew. "Businesses Pay British Professor to Teach Them about Wordsworth | Inside Higher Ed." Businesses Pay British Professor to Teach Them about Wordsworth | Inside Higher Ed. Inside Higher Education, 9 Aug. 2012. Web. 20 Sept. 2012. 

Rich, Adrienne. "Legislators of the World." The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 17 Nov. 2006. Web. 20 Sept. 2012. 

Shelley, Percy B. "A Defence of Poetry." A Defence of Poetry. Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1909-14. English Essays: Sidney to Macaulay. The Harvard Classics. Bartleby.com, 10 Apr. 2001. Web. 20 Sept. 2012. 

Just Because

The Secret Service was formed not to protect the president, but to protect the economy. During and after the Civil War, the sun shone brightly on counterfeiters, and they made plenty of hay. The bills were so crude then and counterfeiting was easy to do and difficult to detect. The economy tottered.


Hence the Secret Service. (Maybe there should be a new branch to protect the economy from banks.)


How do I know? Reading.


A few days ago, I read one of the best and funniest short stories I've read in ages, "The Revolt of Mother," by a writer of whom I'd never heard: Mary Wilkins Freeman. (Yes, I am an ignoramus. Though I read a lot and have been so doing for many years, I never made much of a study of American literature. Except the exceptions: Flannery O'Connor. Eudora Welty. The modernists. Charles Bukowski and John Fante. Some others.)


Anyone who's ever been married for a long time will understand this: 

“I wish you'd go into the house, mother, an' 'tend to your own affairs,” the old man said then. He ran his words together, and his speech was almost as inarticulate as a growl.

But the woman understood; it was her most native tongue. “I ain't goin' into the house till you tell me what them men are doin' over there in the field,” said she.

I won't tell you what happens.


It was in a volume of great American short stories, which volume included all the usual suspects: Hawthorne, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, great storytellers all.


What else am I reading? Marianne Moore's Complete Poems and I'm rereading Stet: An Editor's Life by Diana Athill.


What I really want to be reading, too, but I loaned it out or misplaced it: Offshore by Penelope Fitzgerald. That book is just a lovely afternoon.

Poetry Poker

Another diversion during the week of festivities was a round or three of poetry poker. I believe the idea came from Kenneth Koch. Or so I was told. So you take a pack of cards, write words or phrases on them, and then deal 5 to each player. (We tend to be lax on rules, so we let players replace cards that seemed impossible.)


Here's one round:

• I didn't mean
• tarnished
• tiny
• little box with monsters inside
• mangoes

And here's the poem:


I didn't mean 
to give you a tarnished tiny
little box with monsters inside.
I meant to give you 
mangoes.




And here's another:

• two quiet lines
• peanuts
• sea
• boiled over
• who wanted most

And here's the poem:


Two quiet lines at the bar
we ate peanuts while we waited
the peanuts tasted like
the sea boiled over.
Who wanted most
to go to the beach, then:
you or I?


It's fun. More fun than it sounds like, especially after an evening of swimming and pizza, when you're sitting in a large bright kitchen with a dear friend. My daughters like it, too. We agreed that it's more fun the more decks you have in play. We've got two now, but we think it's not enough.


There never are enough words, are there.

Gap

As obvious as the link is between the quality of content (we could also say validity) and item writing training, it remains a mystery to me how sound practices in item writing training have nearly become obsolete.


Steven M. Downing discusses this link in "Twelve Steps for Effective Test Development" from the Handbook of Test Development:

Yet knowing the principles of effective item writing is no guarantee of an item writer's ability to actually produce effective test questions. Knowing is not necessarily doing. Thus, one of the more important validity issues associated with test development concerns the selection and training of item writers . . . . The most essential characteristic of an effective item writer is content expertise. Writing ability is also a trait closely associated with the best and most creative item writers.
. . .
Effective item writers are trained, not born. Training of item writers is an important validity issue for test development. Without specific training, most novice item writers tend to create poor-quality, flawed, low-cognitive-level test questions that test unimportant or trivial content. Although item writers must be expert in their own disciplines, there is not reason to believe that their subject matter expertise generalizes to effective item writing expertise. Effective item writing is a unique skill and must be learned and practiced. For new item writers, it is often helpful and important to provide specific instruction using an item writer's guide, paired with a hands-on training workshop (Haladyna, 2004). As with all skill learning, feedback from expert item writers and peers is required. The instruction-practice-feedback-reinforcement loop is important for the effective development and maintenance of solid item writing skills. . . .

The best and most effective training, then, is to teach item-writing skills to content area experts, give them a guide for reference, let them practice, review and comment on their work, have them make revisions, and review and comment again until the items are satisfactory. Add a peer review step -- but only if the peers have a thorough understanding of the principles for developing sound items. Repeat as necessary.


In other news, April is National Poetry Month. I like the idea of carrying a poem in your pocket.

Magic Number

In honor of World Read-Aloud Day, here are 3 lovely poems to read aloud:


April Rain Song by Langston Hughes
Color by Christina Rossetti
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost


Keep reading.

Why Not Offer Miracles If You Can?

Miracles

WHY! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,	5
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,	10
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best—mechanics, boatmen, farmers,	15
Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,	20
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,	25
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;	30
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?                                                   Walt Whitman

"To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle." To me, this poem is a miracle.


I could spend hours looking out the window and thinking about this. I did spend hours thinking about the poem at night as I walked my dog in the canyon and looked up at the stars and heard the breeze brush through the palms and in the morning as I took my daughters to school and we crested the hill and caught sight of the ocean and the islands and in the evening as I took out the trash and saw the sunset so garish that if it were a painting, you'd make fun of the artist.


I came across this poem because recently I had the great good fortune of having the opportunity to think about how to bring the American Romantics into certain high school classrooms in a certain state (intentional vagueness required by both professional courtesy and the stipulations of the non-disclosure agreement that is part of my contract).


For a week, I read Emerson, Lake, and Palmer Emerson ("To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that is genius"), Whitman, Dickinson, Dunbar. Leaving out Thoreau wasn't intentional; it's just that I started with Emerson, but once I was in the thick of the poetry, decided to stay there and tackle the essays another time.


This work was pure pleasure. Poetry and grade 11 are a match made in heaven. All those emotions, for one thing. And there's a poet for everyone. Baudelaire was the original Emo:

Dark one, I am torn
By your savage ways,
Then, soft as the moon, your gaze
Sees my tortured heart reborn.

                                      --from "Afternoon Song"

Not the least of the pleasure was my thinking about the students. Maybe there would be one or two who for whom these poems might be a signpost to the onramp to the highway that leads to this gorgeous world of poetry and self-knowledge.


Last week, I went to hear a friend and fellow alumnus from the College of Creative Studies at UCSB  speak about literature and read from his writing. He told the students about how, when he graduated, he had this sense of having a gift, a talent, that was bigger than he knew what to do with.


It was true of all of us, I think. I'll go further and say that it may be true of everyone, but maybe everyone is not lucky enough to understand that he has a gift, or not lucky enough to land in a place where he has the room and space and encouragement to find and exercise his gift.


My daughters sweetly and patiently listen when I talk about my work and endlessly quote from my readings. They have more than a passing familiarity with Emerson by now. Erin, my eldest, showed me what her social studies textbook says about Emerson and Thoreau.


The targeted standard is to read the writings of the American Transcendentalists. The means employed by the textbook writer to address this standard was to write one spare paragraph about these two in which Thoreau is described as someone who was jailed because he refused to pay a one-dollar federal tax and Emerson is described as someone who didn't want to go to jail and so he paid the tax. That's it. Thus summing up the philosophies and values of American Transcendentalism. There was no context, no real biographical information, there were no excerpts from the essays.

Why in the name of all that is holy would a writer (or a publisher, as surely it was not solely the writer's decision--as a writer, I often bump into the decisions of editors and publishers) pass up the opportunity to offer more?

In the immortal words of Emily Dickinson (see below), the brain is wider than the sky. Even at 14. I'm sure their brains could not only accommodate bushels, nay, truckloads of real information, rather than a dismissive tag line. Why not offer the miracles and let the students sort them out?

CXXVI THE BRAIN is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside. The brain is deeper than the sea, For, hold them, blue to blue, The one the other will absorb, As sponges, buckets do. The brain is just the weight of God, For, lift them, pound for pound, And they will differ, if they do, As syllable from sound.

UPDATE: Fixed link to College of Creative Studies at UCSB.