This month's book is War as I Knew It by George S. Patton Jr. If we read with an open mind; we might be surprised what we learn.
I'll post questions later in the month.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
October: Robert Frost Poems
This month, we're going to ingnite the conversation a little differently. Instead of my asking the questions, YOU are going to ask them. That's right - ask whatever you want to ask...about the Robert Frost poems, that is. Why TWO roads diverging? Why a YELLOW wood? Did Frost really stop by woods on a snowy evening? And then anyone can answer; everyone feel free to speak up and and add your comments. There are no right or wrong answers. (And no such thing as a stupid question.)
To get us started, here is one of my questions: Do you think the world will end in fire, or ice? And why?
If you are up for some extra credit (or if you want to skip the first bit and just do this), here's a different assignment: Pick your favorite poem from the list of 6 that you read, include the poem in your comment (if it's not one already on the blog), and tell us why you like it.
OH! When leaving your comment, please tell us the names of the 3 poems you chose, and include the entire poem if it hasn't already been posted. Thanks!
I look forward to talking poetry!!!
To get us started, here is one of my questions: Do you think the world will end in fire, or ice? And why?
If you are up for some extra credit (or if you want to skip the first bit and just do this), here's a different assignment: Pick your favorite poem from the list of 6 that you read, include the poem in your comment (if it's not one already on the blog), and tell us why you like it.
OH! When leaving your comment, please tell us the names of the 3 poems you chose, and include the entire poem if it hasn't already been posted. Thanks!
I look forward to talking poetry!!!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
It's October!!
Hard to believe, it's already October. Good news: it's time for some poetry. Even better, it's time for Robert Frost! Pick 3 of his poems to read (your choice) and be sure to read these 3 as well, for a total of 6 poems. Then come back to the blog and leave some comments. I will have some conversation starters on the blog soon.
*
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Reluctance
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Whither?"
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
*
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Reluctance
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Whither?"
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
It's September!
Greetings, readers. This month's book is THREE CUPS OF TEA by Greg Mortensen. I've heard good things and bad things about this book...and decided to read it for myself and see what I thought. I'm curious to read your thoughts too!
I might be a little late in posting, just because I'm swamped with required reading for my classes...but I'll get to the bloggy book club eventually and post when I've read the books.
I'm very much looking forward to Frost next month (yay, poetry!!!) and to the book about war and first ladies. I like to be challenged in my thinking and to learn new facts about history, so even though the books are long, I'm expecting that they will be informative and worth the time.
If you're busy, read when you can and comment when you have the time. The blog's always open! Happy reading!
I might be a little late in posting, just because I'm swamped with required reading for my classes...but I'll get to the bloggy book club eventually and post when I've read the books.
I'm very much looking forward to Frost next month (yay, poetry!!!) and to the book about war and first ladies. I like to be challenged in my thinking and to learn new facts about history, so even though the books are long, I'm expecting that they will be informative and worth the time.
If you're busy, read when you can and comment when you have the time. The blog's always open! Happy reading!
Monday, August 10, 2009
It's AUGUST!
It's August, which means back to school (for some) and a new book for the book club. This month's reading is DAISY MILLER by Henry James. We'll have a post for August comments soon -- and it's never too late to post your comments on previous books!
Happy reading!
Happy reading!
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