Poetry/Short Story/Novel Theme Unit for AP English Literature and Composition
Doyle Zellar - Southwest Star
This lesson will focus on family relationships as the students examine various poetry
selections including poetry and song. Selections that will be studied include: (all
selections are copied below for your convenience)
“Those Winter Sundays,” Robert Hayden, Bedford, 771.
“Bored,” Margaret Atwood, Bedford, 849.
“My Papa’s Waltz,” Theodore Roethke, Bedford, 999.
“The Living Years,” music and lyrics by Mike and the Mechanics.
“Untitled,” Peter Meinke, Bedford, 854.
“Dance with my Father,” music and lyrics by Luther Vandross (below)
Those Winter Sundays – Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
Bored – Margaret Atwood
All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
My Papa's Waltz – Theodore Roethke
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
The Living Years – Mike and the Mechanics
Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got
You say you just don’t see it
He says its perfect sense
You just can’t get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye
So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It’s the bitterness that lasts
So don’t yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don’t give up, and don’t give in
You may just be o.k.
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye
I wasn’t there that morning
When my father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I’m sure I heard his echo
In my baby’s new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye.
Untitled – Peter Meinke
This is a poem to my son Peter
whom I have hurt a thousand times
whose large and vulnerable eyes
have glazed in pain at my ragings
thin wrists and fingers hung
boneless in despair, pale freckled back
bent in defeat, pillow soaked
by my failure to understand.
I have scarred through weakness
and impatience your frail confidence forever
because when I needed to strike
you were there to hurt and because
I thought you knew
you were beautiful and fair
your bright eyes and hair
but now I see that no one knows that
about himself, but must be told
and retold until it takes hold
because I think anything can be killed
after awhile, especially beauty
so I write this for life, for love, for
you, my oldest son Peter, age 10,
going on 11.
Dance with my Father – Luther Vandross
Back when I was a child
Before life removed all the innocence
My father would lift me high
And dance with my mother and me and then
Spin me around till I fell asleep
Then up the stairs he would carry me
And I knew for sure
I was loved
If I could get another chance
Another walk, another dance with him
I’d play a song that would never, ever end
How I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again
When I and my mother would disagree
To get my way I would run from her to him
He’d make me laugh just to comfort me,
Then finally make me do just what my mama said
Later that night when I was asleep
He left a dollar under my sheet
Never dreamed that he
Would be gone from me
If I could steal one final glance
One final step, one final dance with him
I’d play a song that would never, ever end
‘Cause I’d love, love, love to dance with my father
again
Sometimes I’d listen outside her door
And I’d hear her, mama cryin’ for him
I pray for her even more than me
I pray for her even more than me
I know I’m prayin’ for much too much
But could You send back the only man she loved
I know You don’t do it usually
But Lord, she’s dyin’ to dance with my father again
Every night I fall asleep
And this is all I ever dream
Activities
Students will be divided into groups of 3-4.
All groups will read and examine the all five selections focusing on the following:
1.
2.
Compare and contrast the speaker’s tone in each selection.
Compare and contrast the relationships of the respective family members
3.
in each selection.
Do any of the selections allow for different interpretations? Give
examples.
Each group will individually:
1.
Be assigned one of the selections on which to focus and study in depth.
2.
Identify the SOAPSTone for each selection.
3.
Discuss the literal meaning of each selection and possible hidden, subtle
meanings.
4.
Describe how the speaker evokes the tone that comes forth from the
selection.
5.
Identify as many literary devices as you can and explain how the author
uses them.
6.
Discuss the meter and rhyming patterns you find in the selection. How do
these patterns affect the tone and meaning of the selection?