On 17/8, we had a Lit. class. I rushed up to the class, panting for breath and demanded D to follow me downstairs. Unfortunately, my endeavour to obtain more test papers was unsuccessful. (My close friends should undertand what this means.)
So we went up, fatigued with all the running and settled down.
"Today," said Pn. Y., "we'll be discussing the poem The Way Things Are. I know you don't like it, A, but it cannot be helped because that is the way things are. We are far behind and must catch up."
A looked crushed. "I prefer (suggesting another literary assignment)."
"I am sorry, but we have to learn it today, because that is the way things are." She went on saying we had to do this because "that is the way things are."
"Very witty," I thought.
"Who's born in August? I've got your birthday cake. It's made of chocolate biscuits. THere's soy bean milk and your coffee. Help yourselves."
THe four girls - all Leos and all born in August - stepped forward, and the rest of the class sang "Happy birthday."
"Happy birthday to you, you are born in the zoo," intoned the cheeky Cheese. All four of us blew the candles, wished and shared the knife between us. WE cut badly.
Pn. Y. cut the cake into blocks for us. It was covered with chocolate sauce. wE each took a piece, and headed towards the table behind to pour out our drinks. Indeed, the most enjoyable Lit. lessons I've had took place in this classroom. It is a custom for us to drink coffee and Milo during Lit. provided by our amiable teacher.
"TEam up into pairs," said Pn. Y., "and discuss between yourselves the meaning of one stanza. Write your opinions on a sheet of paper and paste it to the whiteboard. I'm not going to do all the thinking for you." This we did.
Then she walked over to the board and analysed the first stanza. We did the rest.
It was all rather jolly. THe pupils could offer their own opinions and write them down if they differd from what the original teams wrote.
A had an intersting idea: she thought that the child thought the lighthouse was a rocket. After all, rockets are launched. Listen up, Lit. students!
"THe duller the imagination, the faster the car." I interpreted it as "Our imaginations are so dull that we can only make cars faster, instead of inventing environmentally-friendly cars." AS I have said, this blog was strted to encourage literature and improve others' knowledge about it.
To be continued ...
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Defiance
I'm a sentimental person
Who weeps upon a book,
There is no sound reason
Why I shouldn't be a sentimental person,
So kindly withdraw your disapproving looks.
Why should my face not reside in gloom?
Why should I not mourn in sorrow?
I have the right to wish my tomb
Would arrive for my tomorrow.
Oh, let me be a pessimist!
I shall sulk and frown and boom -
And I shall tear my thoughts from the midst,
Step, to declare to days of doom.
Who weeps upon a book,
There is no sound reason
Why I shouldn't be a sentimental person,
So kindly withdraw your disapproving looks.
Why should my face not reside in gloom?
Why should I not mourn in sorrow?
I have the right to wish my tomb
Would arrive for my tomorrow.
Oh, let me be a pessimist!
I shall sulk and frown and boom -
And I shall tear my thoughts from the midst,
Step, to declare to days of doom.
Does any of you write fiction? I would like to hear from you. This is how my 19th-century heroine feels upon discovering her undying love for her university friend:
Thought I at that sweet time, those faraway days
THat spirits lifted, and dark eyes kindled
As due to fleeting, girlish fancies stray'd,
And what of quicken'd feet and quiv'ring pulse -
Of slow, sunken heart and murm'ring sighs?
My soul had risen from perpetual lulls
To heights that flew from placid dull;
The Arts, that fine Drama had inflamed my mind
,Released the other from constant bind?Forc'd into my very thoughts
Another reason I could not have willingly brought
To bear in words. - I refused to hear
What silent voices whisper'd into mind's ear.
Nay! - I shall sound them out
And let my feelings bloom and sprout
That I can no longer deny my Will,
For Passion shall not droop, resterain'd and still
THat I love you, dearest! It cannot be denied
Or thwarted, or drown'd, or desp'rately lied.
Goodness knows how long I struggled with thee
Bitterly, passionately, I strove to free -
Myself from this entanglement. - Nay, do not leave
But let me speak before you hastily perceive.
By Claire Wong.
Thought I at that sweet time, those faraway days
THat spirits lifted, and dark eyes kindled
As due to fleeting, girlish fancies stray'd,
And what of quicken'd feet and quiv'ring pulse -
Of slow, sunken heart and murm'ring sighs?
My soul had risen from perpetual lulls
To heights that flew from placid dull;
The Arts, that fine Drama had inflamed my mind
,Released the other from constant bind?Forc'd into my very thoughts
Another reason I could not have willingly brought
To bear in words. - I refused to hear
What silent voices whisper'd into mind's ear.
Nay! - I shall sound them out
And let my feelings bloom and sprout
That I can no longer deny my Will,
For Passion shall not droop, resterain'd and still
THat I love you, dearest! It cannot be denied
Or thwarted, or drown'd, or desp'rately lied.
Goodness knows how long I struggled with thee
Bitterly, passionately, I strove to free -
Myself from this entanglement. - Nay, do not leave
But let me speak before you hastily perceive.
By Claire Wong.
An Ode to My FAther's Birthday
An Ode to My Father’s Birthday
Others call it an awaited holiday,
Yet to me, there’s special worth
Far more than cheers and celebratory mirth –
August thirty-first commemorates your birth.
Why should we frown at dance?
Why scorn song and childlike prance?
Oh, revivalist of musical plays!
Of Pygmalion’s Victorian days –
It’s the humour in your song,
That on days when things go wrong –
And sulking, temper’d vile;
Yet helplessly, to my face there creeps a smile,
And when you tell of Spanish intrigues,
When young swains for ladies seek,
“Clutch a rose betwixt his teeth,” you suggest;
Out of barren nothings you make a jest.
When you speak of military warfare,
There’s reflection and certain flair –
In history and bygone politics,
You speak; others admire your semantics.
Oh, dear Daddy, why dost thou support a dish?
Resembling a porpentine cross’d with catfish,
Where shouts and punches erupt galore
Who is insensitive to the very core.
Yet, when you smile, it spreads like warmth,
Wide and friendly, joy springs forth,
Within, my ribcage rises, rumbles,
There’s and urge to burst out laughing
In your mischief-intention’d fumbles.
Oh, author of my spirit!
You dear old sensitive soul,
People laugh, but so may be it!
Yet having yet disclosed the whole,
Let me halt, let me say,
“Dear old parent, happy birthday!”
31st August 2007.
Others call it an awaited holiday,
Yet to me, there’s special worth
Far more than cheers and celebratory mirth –
August thirty-first commemorates your birth.
Why should we frown at dance?
Why scorn song and childlike prance?
Oh, revivalist of musical plays!
Of Pygmalion’s Victorian days –
It’s the humour in your song,
That on days when things go wrong –
And sulking, temper’d vile;
Yet helplessly, to my face there creeps a smile,
And when you tell of Spanish intrigues,
When young swains for ladies seek,
“Clutch a rose betwixt his teeth,” you suggest;
Out of barren nothings you make a jest.
When you speak of military warfare,
There’s reflection and certain flair –
In history and bygone politics,
You speak; others admire your semantics.
Oh, dear Daddy, why dost thou support a dish?
Resembling a porpentine cross’d with catfish,
Where shouts and punches erupt galore
Who is insensitive to the very core.
Yet, when you smile, it spreads like warmth,
Wide and friendly, joy springs forth,
Within, my ribcage rises, rumbles,
There’s and urge to burst out laughing
In your mischief-intention’d fumbles.
Oh, author of my spirit!
You dear old sensitive soul,
People laugh, but so may be it!
Yet having yet disclosed the whole,
Let me halt, let me say,
“Dear old parent, happy birthday!”
31st August 2007.
My Fair Lady
I'm an Ordinary Man lyrics
after all, Pickering, I'm an ordinary man,Who desires nothing more than just an ordinary chance, to live exactly as he likes, and do precisely what he wants... An average man am I, of no eccentric whim, Who likes to live his life, free of strife, doing whatever he thinks is best, for him, ... just an ordinary man... BUT, Let a woman in your life and your serenity is through, she'll redecorate your home, from the cellar to the dome, and then go on to the enthralling fun of overhauling you...OH!Let a woman in your life,
and you're up against a wall, make a plan and you will find,she has something else in mind, and so rather than do either you do something else that neither likes at all
You want to talk of Keats or Milton, she only wants to talk of love,You go to see a play or ballet, and spend it searching for her glove,Oh!Let a woman in your life and you invite eternal strife, Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands...I'd be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling than to ever let a woman in my life.
I'm a very gentle man, even tempered and good natured who you never hear complain, Who has the milk of human kindness by the quart in every vein,A patient man am I, down to my fingertips, the sort who never could, ever would,let an insulting remark escape his lips A Very gentle man... But, Let a woman in your life, and patience hasn't got a chance,she will beg you for advice,
your reply will be concise, and she will listen very nicely,
and then go out and do precisely what she wants!!!
You are a man of grace and polish, who never spoke above a hush, now all at once you're using language
that would make a sailor blush,
OH!Let a woman in your life, and you're plunging in a knife, Let the others of my sex,
tie the knot around their necks, I prefer a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition than to ever let a woman in my life
I'm a quiet living man, who prefers to spend the evening in the silence of his room, who likes an atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered tomb,A pensive man am I, of philosophical joys, who likes to meditate, contemplate, far from humanities mad inhuman noise, Just a Quiet living man.... But, let a woman in your life,
and your sabbatical is through, in a line that never ends comes an army of her friends, come to jabber and to chatter and to tell her what the matter is with YOU!, she'll have a booming boisterous family, who will descend on you en mass, she'll have a large wagnarian mother, with a voice that shatters glass, OH!Let a woman in your life, Let a woman in your life, Let a woman in your life …
I shall never let a woman in my life.
This is a most amusing song from My Fair Lady.
after all, Pickering, I'm an ordinary man,Who desires nothing more than just an ordinary chance, to live exactly as he likes, and do precisely what he wants... An average man am I, of no eccentric whim, Who likes to live his life, free of strife, doing whatever he thinks is best, for him, ... just an ordinary man... BUT, Let a woman in your life and your serenity is through, she'll redecorate your home, from the cellar to the dome, and then go on to the enthralling fun of overhauling you...OH!Let a woman in your life,
and you're up against a wall, make a plan and you will find,she has something else in mind, and so rather than do either you do something else that neither likes at all
You want to talk of Keats or Milton, she only wants to talk of love,You go to see a play or ballet, and spend it searching for her glove,Oh!Let a woman in your life and you invite eternal strife, Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands...I'd be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling than to ever let a woman in my life.
I'm a very gentle man, even tempered and good natured who you never hear complain, Who has the milk of human kindness by the quart in every vein,A patient man am I, down to my fingertips, the sort who never could, ever would,let an insulting remark escape his lips A Very gentle man... But, Let a woman in your life, and patience hasn't got a chance,she will beg you for advice,
your reply will be concise, and she will listen very nicely,
and then go out and do precisely what she wants!!!
You are a man of grace and polish, who never spoke above a hush, now all at once you're using language
that would make a sailor blush,
OH!Let a woman in your life, and you're plunging in a knife, Let the others of my sex,
tie the knot around their necks, I prefer a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition than to ever let a woman in my life
I'm a quiet living man, who prefers to spend the evening in the silence of his room, who likes an atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered tomb,A pensive man am I, of philosophical joys, who likes to meditate, contemplate, far from humanities mad inhuman noise, Just a Quiet living man.... But, let a woman in your life,
and your sabbatical is through, in a line that never ends comes an army of her friends, come to jabber and to chatter and to tell her what the matter is with YOU!, she'll have a booming boisterous family, who will descend on you en mass, she'll have a large wagnarian mother, with a voice that shatters glass, OH!Let a woman in your life, Let a woman in your life, Let a woman in your life …
I shall never let a woman in my life.
This is a most amusing song from My Fair Lady.
Friday, August 31, 2007
A Poem by E.E. Cummings
if there are any heavens
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven or
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)
standing near my
swaying over her
(silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see
nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my
(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,
and the whole garden will bow)
What do the brackets indicate? Are they stage directions?
THis is actually a boring poem, but I am bringing it out because there's room for analysis. It is also part of this year's Lit. syllabus.
Why a face with hands? What does it mean?
Notice that the dialogues do not contain the word"mother." This may mean that the persona feels he is unworthy of his mother, or else she is an abstract being, unreal. She seems not to exist, perhaps she is too good, or mentioning her makes her seem like any other common person. The poet wishes to convey she is different, and unworthy of a normal appellation.As she is not dead, and it is not time foir hr to die, the flowers cannot call her yet by name; she is not there yet.
Then, on the other hand, there is a new interpretation. AS thre are many flowers or denizens in that heaven, you cannot say "mother" or "wife" as the mother is not the mother or wife of the other flowers. So what to say? Each will say something different. Hence, the blank. yournimagination fills it. It is free; it varies for each flower.
I hope this will help 2007 Form 5
SPM Lit. tudents who are confused about this poem.
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven or
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)
standing near my
swaying over her
(silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see
nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my
(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,
and the whole garden will bow)
What do the brackets indicate? Are they stage directions?
THis is actually a boring poem, but I am bringing it out because there's room for analysis. It is also part of this year's Lit. syllabus.
Why a face with hands? What does it mean?
Notice that the dialogues do not contain the word"mother." This may mean that the persona feels he is unworthy of his mother, or else she is an abstract being, unreal. She seems not to exist, perhaps she is too good, or mentioning her makes her seem like any other common person. The poet wishes to convey she is different, and unworthy of a normal appellation.As she is not dead, and it is not time foir hr to die, the flowers cannot call her yet by name; she is not there yet.
Then, on the other hand, there is a new interpretation. AS thre are many flowers or denizens in that heaven, you cannot say "mother" or "wife" as the mother is not the mother or wife of the other flowers. So what to say? Each will say something different. Hence, the blank. yournimagination fills it. It is free; it varies for each flower.
I hope this will help 2007 Form 5
SPM Lit. tudents who are confused about this poem.
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