tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49522252794479754472024-03-14T02:16:30.404-05:00a book with a viewA site for readers, thinkers, and those who like to muse about what they're reading.
A place for all who love reflecting on the written word.Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-39467288694131343002012-02-22T05:49:00.002-06:002012-02-22T06:54:39.201-06:00Leap Year in Penzance<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>In case you haven't yet noticed,</b></i></span> 2012 is a Leap Year. This every-fourth-year occasion is of course necessary to keep our calendar from going totally haywire. In fact, Wikipedia says in part, "The Gregorian calendar was designed... so that the date of Easter... remains correct with respect to the vernal equinox." It isn't my intention to write about the EQUINOX, however, but the accompanying PARADOX. <br />
<br />
Which Paradox? Why the piratical one, of course, woven around Leap Day in Gilbert and Sullivan's <i>Pirates of Penzance</i>. If you haven't seen this silly bit of business about aristocratic pirates and an incompetent general with a lot of daughters to marry off, you should. The traditional and correct G & S version is available in several forms on disc from you-can-guess-where online. But the most accessible way to see it is to track down the movie version with Kevin Kline and Linda Ronstadt. It takes a few small liberties with the score so Angela Lansbury can sing the fabulous tune,<br />
"This particularly rapid, unintelligible patter<br />
Isn't generally heard, and if it is it doesn't matter!"<br />
But in return you get the angelically divine Rex Smith, and Kevin Kline as the pirate king swinging from the crows nest wearing a mustache and flowing, open-necked shirt. Tame by today's standards, perhaps, but still worth watching.<br />
"And it is, it is a glorious thing<br />
To be a Pirate King!"<br />
<br />
The Paradox revolves around Frederick, a young man freshly released from servitude to the dread Pirates of Penzance after attaining his 21st year. Frederick meets and falls promptly in love with the virginal Mabel, daughter of "the Very Model of a Modern Major-General," who has lied about his parentage to save himself and his daughters from the pirate's clutches.<br />
<br />
The only problem is, Frederick wasn't signed up to serve till his 21st year, but his 21st <i>birthday</i>. And since he had the strange luck to be born on February 29, he's only celebrated five of them. When this is pointed out to him, the "Slave to Duty" tells Mabel he must return to the pirate band for another 60+ years. "It seems so long," she laments as she promises to wait for him. <br />
<br />
In the mean time, the local constabulary is screwing up it's courage to capture the fierce pirates, lamenting as they sneak about that, "A policeman's lot is not a happy one." But don't worry, in the end the pirates are tamed, and Mabel and Frederick aren't the only ones who get their Happily-Ever-After.<br />
<br />
I have a college friend who performs a Gilbert and Sullivan play every year with a local group in Michigan. I think I saw that they're doing <i>Pirates</i> this year. I wish I lived close enough to go. There aren't many chances to see any of the operettas these days, and that's a pity. At their best they are bright bits of fun with catchy tunes and clever lyrics. Perhaps the most famous piece G & S wrote is the Major-General's song from this one:<br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a Javelin,</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery—</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy—</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">You'll say a better Major-General has never sat has he.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am the very model of a modern Major-General."</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>When you think about it, Leap Year doesn't get much respect as a holiday. No songs, traditional foods or raucous parades. And that's a pity, because a day that only comes around once every four years deserves more. So this year I'm inviting you to join me in celebrating the paradox of February 29 with a trip to the coast of Cornwall, and a rousing chorus:<br />
"Hurray for the Pirate King!<br />
Hurray for the Pirate King!"Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-70613122601718238632011-02-14T08:59:00.001-06:002011-02-14T12:01:12.850-06:00Top Love Poem of All Time<b>Yes, it's a big claim to make, </b>that one can select the top poem on a subject that has been written about more than any other. But I believe I can make a good case that I have done it here.<br />
<br />
<b>Speaking of love, the love between a mother is daughter is often complicated. <br />
For all that you gave me, Mom, thank you. <br />
For my short comings and failures, I'm sorry.<br />
I'm glad you're with the Lord finally, but the space you leave behind will never be filled.<br />
I loved you.<br />
<br />
<i>Sonnet 43</i><br />
Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br />
</b><b><br />
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.<br />
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height<br />
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight<br />
For the ends of being and ideal grace.<br />
I love thee to the level of every day's<br />
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.<br />
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.<br />
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.<br />
I love thee with the passion put to use<br />
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.<br />
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose<br />
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,<br />
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,<br />
I shall but love thee better after death."<br />
<br />
<br />
</b><i><br />
So ends 14 days celebrating love and poetry. I hope you've enjoyed reading them. I'll return later with more normal posts. </i>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-57236765673857530452011-02-13T21:05:00.001-06:002011-02-13T21:06:46.332-06:00Sonnet 29<b>This atypical love poem is truly one of the world's best. Truly Shakespeare the poet at his finest.</b><br />
<br />
<b>"When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,<br />
I all alone beweep my outcast state,<br />
</b>And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,<br />
And look upon myself and curse my fate,<br />
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,<br />
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,<br />
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,<br />
With what I most enjoy contented least,<br />
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,<br />
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,<br />
Like to the lark at break of day arising<br />
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate<br />
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,<br />
That then I scorn to change my state with kings."<br />
<i><br />
Tomorrow, the world's greatest love poem. </i>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-15816734338779077462011-02-12T11:32:00.000-06:002011-02-12T11:32:21.490-06:00Shall I Compare Thee...<b>Today we have one of the best love poems ever written in the English language, <i>Sonnet 18</i> by William Shakespeare.<br />
<br />
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?<br />
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.<br />
</b>Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,<br />
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.<br />
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,<br />
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;<br />
And every fair from fair sometime declines,<br />
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;<br />
But thy eternal summer shall not fade<br />
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;<br />
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,<br />
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:<br />
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,<br />
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-70647737926298699942011-02-11T11:59:00.001-06:002011-02-11T12:02:58.588-06:00The Dueling Poets: Marlowe vs Shakespeare<b>Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare were both</b> born in 1564. But Marlowe was a product of the educated upper class, a university trained classic scholar and translator. The darling of the disaffected elite of his time, he rose to dominate England's literary and dramatic scene. Shakespeare, on the other hand, was forced to withdraw from school at the age of 14, when his father's fortunes began to fail. Though most scholars deny the claim that Marlowe actually wrote the plays we attribute to William Shakespeare, there's no doubt that Christopher Marlowe was a brilliant writer. Among other works, he gave us one of the most memorable love poems of all time. After reading it you will find one of Shakespeare's many great love sonnets. Compare them for yourself, dear reader.<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Passionate Shepherd to His Love</i><br />
<br />
Come live with me and be my love, <br />
And we will all the pleasures prove <br />
</b>That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, <br />
Woods or steepy mountain yields. <br />
<br />
And we will sit upon the rocks, <br />
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, <br />
By shallow rivers to whose falls <br />
Melodious birds sing madrigals. <br />
<br />
And I will make thee beds of roses <br />
And a thousand fragrant posies, <br />
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle <br />
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; <br />
<br />
A gown made of the finest wool <br />
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; <br />
Fair lined slippers for the cold, <br />
With buckles of the purest gold; <br />
<br />
A belt of straw and ivy buds, <br />
With coral clasps and amber studs: <br />
And if these pleasures may thee move, <br />
Come live with me and be my love. <br />
<br />
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing <br />
For thy delight each May morning: <br />
If these delights thy mind may move, <br />
Then live with me and be my love.<br />
<br />
-- Christopher Marlowe<br />
<br />
<b><i>Sonnet 116</i><br />
<br />
Let me not to the marriage of true minds<br />
Admit impediments. Love is not love<br />
Which alters when it alteration finds,<br />
</b>Or bends with the remover to remove:<br />
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark<br />
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;<br />
It is the star to every wandering bark,<br />
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.<br />
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks<br />
Within his bending sickle's compass come:<br />
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,<br />
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.<br />
If this be error and upon me proved,<br />
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.<br />
<br />
-- William Shakespeare<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>I found another version of the fourth line of Marlowe listed several times online. In fact, one site published it both ways. Bartlett online uses the version I printed above, and that is the most common. But a few sources say "And all the craggy mountains yield," instead.</i>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-89008405978947962222011-02-09T17:21:00.000-06:002011-02-09T17:21:56.786-06:00She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways<b>"She dwelt among the untrodden ways</b><br />
Beside the springs of Dove,<br />
Maid whom there were none to praise<br />
And very few to love:<br />
<br />
A violet by a mosy tone <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKPVZUMytGxOYo5CqL4Nlh36CeGitO2Sus7ZXnHJjroXUMH1iqfUlGSGpmqcGvDS5Iyhrz4efsGSrrI17G2V0VCWl_RmGBgPGIZFF8VkGuwhIYKQhMAE8QuE86fim8zKzX8erIVA4Aw/s1600/Early_Dog_Violet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKPVZUMytGxOYo5CqL4Nlh36CeGitO2Sus7ZXnHJjroXUMH1iqfUlGSGpmqcGvDS5Iyhrz4efsGSrrI17G2V0VCWl_RmGBgPGIZFF8VkGuwhIYKQhMAE8QuE86fim8zKzX8erIVA4Aw/s320/Early_Dog_Violet.jpg" /></a></div>Half hidden from the eye!<br />
---Fair as a star, when only one<br />
Is shining in the sky.<br />
<br />
She lived unknown, and few could know<br />
When Lucy ceased to be;<br />
But she is in her grave, and, oh,<br />
The difference to me!"<br />
<br />
-- William WordsworthTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-87292706566944664642011-02-08T10:41:00.000-06:002011-02-08T10:41:21.095-06:00love in lower case<b> i carry your heart with me(i carry it in<br />
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere</b><br />
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done<br />
by only me is your doing,my darling)<br />
i fear<br />
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want<br />
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)<br />
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant<br />
and whatever a sun will always sing is you<br />
<br />
here is the deepest secret nobody knows<br />
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud<br />
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows<br />
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)<br />
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart<br />
<br />
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"<br />
<br />
-- E. E. CummingsTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-29903490289711017332011-02-07T09:56:00.002-06:002011-02-07T09:57:21.197-06:00Love that Spans the AgesOne of the most poignant love poems ever written, William Yeats <i>When You are Old and Grey.</i><br />
<b><br />
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,<br />
And nodding by the fire,</b> take down this book,<br />
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look<br />
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;<br />
<br />
How many loved your moments of glad grace,<br />
And loved your beauty with love false or true,<br />
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,<br />
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;<br />
<br />
And bending down beside the glowing bars,<br />
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled<br />
And paced upon the mountains overhead<br />
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."<br />
<br />
Enjoy those beautiful words, then when you're ready move on to consider a different kind of young lover, by A. E. Housman.<br />
<b><br />
When I was one-and-twenty<br />
</b>I heard a wise man say,<br />
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas<br />
But not your heart away;<br />
Give pearls away and rubies<br />
But keep your fancy free.'<br />
But I was one-and-twenty,<br />
No use to talk to me.<br />
<br />
When I was one-and-twenty<br />
I heard him say again,<br />
'The heart out of the bosom<br />
Was never given in vain;<br />
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty<br />
And sold for endless rue.'<br />
And I am two-and-twenty,<br />
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-7310642943936453782011-02-06T11:05:00.010-06:002011-02-07T00:23:55.843-06:00Jenny Kissed Me -- More Than Once<b>"Jenny kissed me when we met, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQe8zm8i-YvWGYarqpmGSGjR9aGp7kU1bfFe0zpqpWOfg719ZHXqaqo7FTU2zDSHDMNgPXh1IjO-sdy3JOalx6yqBGAnor-WY54kE8hDld11sL_rtcVHUVkYLGm5AEhCfxhiht-jifuA/s1600/couplekissing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="250" width="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQe8zm8i-YvWGYarqpmGSGjR9aGp7kU1bfFe0zpqpWOfg719ZHXqaqo7FTU2zDSHDMNgPXh1IjO-sdy3JOalx6yqBGAnor-WY54kE8hDld11sL_rtcVHUVkYLGm5AEhCfxhiht-jifuA/s320/couplekissing.gif" /></a></div>Jumping from the chair she sat in.<br />
Time, you thief! who love to get<br />
Sweets into your list, put that in.<br />
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;<br />
Say that health and wealth have missed me;<br />
Say I'm growing old, but add-<br />
Jenny kissed me!"<br />
</b><br />
-- <i>Jenny Kissed Me,</i> Leigh Hunt<br />
<br />
<b>There's a fun story -- actually there are two</b> -- behind this cute poem. Hunt was a neighbor of poet and author, Thomas Carlyle and his wife Jane, aka Jenny. One story says that when Hunt visited to tell them he would publish one of Thomas Carlyle's poems, Carlyle's wife, in a very uncharacteristic move, jumped up and kissed him.<br />
<br />
The other story is that one winter Hunt was ill for so long that when he finally recovered and went to visit, Jane jumped up and kissed him as soon as he appeared. A few days later one of the Hunt servants delivered a note, "From Mr. Hunt to Mrs. Carlyle." It contained the poem, "<i>Jenny Kissed Me</i>."<br />
<br />
<b>Oddly enough, someone wrote a song </b>based on this poem, which seems to have been recorded by several crooners in the 1050's. You can see Eddie Albert sing it, and hear him recite the poem itself, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vf-9-rNHjcE">here.</a> There's a different version by a High School ensemble <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNeGqd1Pefs&feature=related">here.</a> Finally, watch this recitation of the poem only <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2nN26ljixI&feature=related">here.</a> As interesting as these versions are, I think I prefer just reading it myself. How about you?<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b><br />
<i><br />
There are also numerous written parodies available on the web. Clearly this poem strikes a favorable chord with many.</i>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-34728339427887952742011-02-05T16:45:00.001-06:002011-02-05T18:47:42.372-06:00She Walks in Beauty<b>"She walks in beauty, like the night<br />
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;<br />
And all that's best of dark and bright<br />
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:<br />
</b>Thus mellow'd to that tender light<br />
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.<br />
<br />
One shade the more, one ray the less,<br />
Had half impair'd the nameless grace<br />
Which waves in every raven tress,<br />
Or softly lightens o'er her face;<br />
Where thoughts serenely sweet express<br />
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.<br />
<br />
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,<br />
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,<br />
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,<br />
But tell of days in goodness spent,<br />
A mind at peace with all below,<br />
A heart whose love is innocent!"<br />
<br />
And another still by Byron:<br />
<b>"There be none of Beauty's daughters<br />
With a magic like Thee;<br />
</b>And like music on the waters<br />
Is thy sweet voice to me:<br />
When, as if its sound were causing<br />
The charméd ocean's pausing,<br />
The waves lie still and gleaming,<br />
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:<br />
And the midnight moon is weaving<br />
Her bright chain o'er the deep,<br />
Whose breast is gently heaving<br />
As an infant's asleep:<br />
So the spirit bows before thee<br />
To listen and adore thee;<br />
With a full but soft emotion,<br />
Like the swell of Summer's ocean."<br />
<br />
-- Lord Byron<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-57446227444808067252011-02-04T09:21:00.001-06:002011-02-04T09:42:22.495-06:00A Poem for Betsy<b>Today I wish my beautiful, amazing daughter</b> Happy Birthday. Every year she grows more special to me, and I'm so proud to be part of her life! In honor of her, I present here a poem she enjoyed as a child -- a tale of love and adventure. Happy Birthday, Betsy!<br />
<br />
<i>The Owl and the Pussy-cat</i> by Edward Lear<br />
<br />
I<br />
<b>"The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea</b><br />
In a beautiful pea green boat,<br />
They took some honey, and plenty of money,<br />
Wrapped up in a five pound note.<br />
The Owl looked up to the stars above, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUrwcjVn49zDq5B1Sb0yDxnBFsC955jNUQLBahUddRV4CO2Sh1X0RDkPFWYEW6RcK32kltId4Y2rBaNUeWBeDCTIFieFiA4JiSh1GBKqt75CXlam2Es6tfuU22fYBTCkiNCPMEYYsBcA/s1600/Owlpussycat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="163" width="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUrwcjVn49zDq5B1Sb0yDxnBFsC955jNUQLBahUddRV4CO2Sh1X0RDkPFWYEW6RcK32kltId4Y2rBaNUeWBeDCTIFieFiA4JiSh1GBKqt75CXlam2Es6tfuU22fYBTCkiNCPMEYYsBcA/s320/Owlpussycat.jpg" /></a></div>And sang to a small guitar,<br />
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,<br />
What a beautiful Pussy you are,<br />
You are,<br />
You are!<br />
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!<br />
How charmingly sweet you sing!<br />
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:<br />
But what shall we do for a ring?'<br />
They sailed away, for a year and a day,<br />
To the land where the Bong-tree grows<br />
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood<br />
With a ring at the end of his nose,<br />
His nose,<br />
His nose,<br />
With a ring at the end of his nose.<br />
<br />
III<br />
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling<br />
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'<br />
So they took it away, and were married next day<br />
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.<br />
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,<br />
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;<br />
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,<br />
They danced by the light of the moon,<br />
The moon,<br />
The moon,<br />
They danced by the light of the moon."<br />
<br />
<i>Runcible</i> is a word coined by Lear. If you've read his poetry you know that he uses it to describe various items, like a hat, a rat, and a goose. In the <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJijqZTtmKuvMIGf90cN6CQaW1DD9MXdFUouVfncttRH0EhHtw5uq7vfYmOcJOKFlHHbaHAQPs-FrcoRy4LCXex_IaxtAO4IP1TIWfi5gM8tqC1SwN163qIkvfeooUwc2h5nc5m1EsyA/s1600/Lear_Runcible_spoon.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="147" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJijqZTtmKuvMIGf90cN6CQaW1DD9MXdFUouVfncttRH0EhHtw5uq7vfYmOcJOKFlHHbaHAQPs-FrcoRy4LCXex_IaxtAO4IP1TIWfi5gM8tqC1SwN163qIkvfeooUwc2h5nc5m1EsyA/s320/Lear_Runcible_spoon.png" /></a></div>illustrations to another poem drawn by Lear himself, a <i> runcible spoon</i> looks like a ladle. Despite that, dictionaries today usually define it as a three-pronged curved fork. <br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://afewreasonablewords.blogspot.com/2011/02/nonsense-edward.html">For more Lear click here.</a>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-6058691288614093582011-02-03T09:17:00.003-06:002011-02-03T13:43:11.634-06:00Poems for Young Love<b>"O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?</b><br />
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,<br />
That can sing both high and low:<br />
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;<br />
Journeys end in lovers meeting,<br />
Every wise man's son doth know.<br />
<br />
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;<br />
Present mirth hath present laughter;<br />
What's to come is still unsure:<br />
In delay there lies not plenty;<br />
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,<br />
Youth's a stuff will not endure."<br />
-- William Shakespeare, <i>Twelfth Night,</i> Act II, Scene III<br />
<br />
As I finished reading this my mind immediately went to...<br />
<br />
<b>"Gather ye rosebuds</b> <b>while ye may,</b><br />
Old Time is still a-flying:<br />
And this same flower that smiles to-day <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nnCkQSn_vGUcWDKwXUkSf6WtcydCtceXW6CsfSk8c-KTtxHRdcauC2ACOiCH2_TYjjWTWQ_-Fkt6HLPxSKzsiFJHXtaGBUthwm-LJd8Il-4YKkt30ee8_Lwwj2n2d19LeeV4jgiY0Q/s1600/rosebud+red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nnCkQSn_vGUcWDKwXUkSf6WtcydCtceXW6CsfSk8c-KTtxHRdcauC2ACOiCH2_TYjjWTWQ_-Fkt6HLPxSKzsiFJHXtaGBUthwm-LJd8Il-4YKkt30ee8_Lwwj2n2d19LeeV4jgiY0Q/s400/rosebud+red.jpg" /></a></div>To-morrow will be dying.<br />
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,<br />
The higher he's a-getting,<br />
The sooner will his race be run,<br />
And nearer he's to setting.<br />
<br />
That age is best which is the first,<br />
When youth and blood are warmer;<br />
But being spent, the worse, and worst<br />
Times still succeed the former.<br />
<br />
Then be not coy, but use your time,<br />
And while ye may, go marry:<br />
For having lost but once your prime,<br />
You may for ever tarry."<br />
-- Robert Herrick, <i>To Virgins to Make the Most of Time</i><br />
<br />
Finally, speaking of roses we have <i>A Red, Red Rose</i> by Burns.<br />
<br />
<b>"O my luve's like a red, red rose.</b><br />
That's newly sprung in June;<br />
O my luve's like a melodie<br />
That's sweetly play'd in tune.<br />
<br />
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,<br />
So deep in luve am I;<br />
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,<br />
Till a'the seas gang dry.<br />
<br />
Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,<br />
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:<br />
I will luve thee still, my Dear,<br />
While the sands o'life shall run.<br />
<br />
And fare thee weel my only Luve!<br />
And fare thee weel a while!<br />
And I will come again, my Luve,<br />
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!"<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-27330513252510016962011-02-01T23:31:00.003-06:002011-02-03T14:01:14.456-06:00Love Poem #1<b>"If thou must love me, let it be for nought<br />
Except for love's sake only.</b> Do not say<br />
'I love her for her smile her look her way<br />
Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought<br />
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought<br />
A sense of ease on such a day'<br />
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may<br />
Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought,<br />
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for<br />
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry,<br />
A creature might forget to weep, who bore<br />
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!<br />
But love me for love's sake, that evermore<br />
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity."<br />
<br />
-- Elizabeth Barrett Browning, <i>Sonnets from the Portuguese #14</i><br />
<br />
This is the first of what I hope will be fourteen love poems for fourteen days. <br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-62034659718292699242011-01-18T16:33:00.003-06:002011-01-18T20:50:20.069-06:00Winnie-the-Pooh Day<b>Today, according to the A Kids Book-a-Day Almanac, is officially Winnie-the-Pooh day.</b> In honor of the august occasion, (but it's January, not August, Pooh grumbles. Yes, I know that, I tell him...), anyway, in honor of the occasion, I will present you with a few of Pooh's thoughts on education, spelling, and other brainy stuff.<br />
<br />
I will admit, first, to being a Pooh snob, and thus only using quotes he actually said, as reported by Mr. Milne. Those other people have no business putting words in his mouth. (Actually, he says, his mouth is empty right now, and he wouldn't mind a bit of honey or condensed milk, but never mind the bread.)<br />
<br />
So, Pooh on reading:<b><br />
"I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words Bother me."</b><br />
<br />
Spelling:<br />
<b>"My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places."</b><br />
<br />
<b>"You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY," </b>(speaking about Owl), <b>"even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count."</b><br />
<br />
And here's one from Eyore: <br />
<b>"This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated, if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it."<br />
</b><br />
Pooh on thinking:<br />
<b>"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."</b><br />
I know what you mean, Pooh, I often feel the same way when it's time to write on my blog. (You do? he asks. I assure him I do. Then might we have a little something to help us feel better? Perhaps, I say.)<br />
<br />
In the mean time, here's a little winter poem for you, from my good friend, Winnie-the-Pooh. <br />
<b>"The more it snows (Tiddely pom),<br />
The more it goes (Tiddely pom),<br />
The more it goes (Tiddely pom),<br />
On snowing. And nobody knows (Tiddely pom),<br />
How cold my toes (Tiddely pom),<br />
How cold my toes (Tiddely pom),<br />
Are growing."<br />
</b><br />
Good-bye and keep warm.<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-6241032691491999442010-12-13T11:28:00.001-06:002010-12-13T12:25:13.369-06:00Teaching, Reading, and Workshops: Or is The Book Whisperer Enough? <b>Because I'm hoping to get back into teaching soon,</b> I've been reading a lot about education lately. It's been a long time since I was surrounded by teachers, and times, and methods, have evolved. Of course, all the new governmental regulation is changing the face of education yet again -- for better or worse. But those are conversations for another day. For now, I've been reading, marking up, and taking notes on about a dozen books, mostly about language arts. Specifically, I've recently read four books about teaching reading. Yesterday I read <i>The Book Whisperer</i> by Miller, and today I'm into <i>The Art of Teaching Reading</i>, by Calkins. <br />
<br />
Miller is a woman after my own heart. Bring them into a classroom rich with wonderful books, and have them read, she says. Time spent reading makes readers better, and the best readers are the best writers, communicators, students, and test-takers. But Miller teaches 6th grade Language Arts and Social Studies, so students are coming to her with at least some rudimentary ability to read. She doesn't need to wrestle with phonemes or phonics, letter formation or spelling sight words. What would she do differently if she taught Kindergarten or First Grade, I wonder? Has she ever had a student who can't read or write? I'd like to know how she would deal with the need to provide appropriate books and support to a non-reader who had already been held back once or twice, or a foreign student with no English. Perhaps these situations haven't come before her. If they have, I wish she'd write about them. (I know she has a website, but I haven't visited it yet.)<br />
<br />
Two of the books I purchased, (see below), are specifically about Reading Workshop, a method of organizing reading instruction with a large group lesson, small groups, mini/strategy lessons, book partnerships, book clubs, reading journals, individual conferences and independent reading. (As you can imagine, not a small part of these books is spent discussing planning and organization.) At the center of a Reading Workshop is supposed to be the child, reading a book of their own choosing, hopefully at their independent reading level. We know from many studies that when kids have plenty of time to read books they want, they become better readers. But looking at sample schedules, I see that of a 90 minute block, independent reading is often only 20-25 minutes, and kids are being pulled out of it for small groups and one-on-one conferences with the teacher. Also, while they're reading, they are often armed with sticky notes reminding them to stop and predict, question, or record their reactions to something they've read. So I wonder, how much time are these students actually spending inside their books? Are they able to get caught up in the story, knowing that at any moment they might be called for a meeting, interrupted to discuss theme or strategies to sound out words they don't know? Again, grade level matters here. Twenty five minutes focusing on books is quite a while for a five year old who may not have had any experience with books before coming to school, but perhaps not enough when you're eleven and desperate to finish Harry Potter. Miller's contrasting attitude, leave them alone and let them read, is appealing. She relies on a weekly response journal, and talking with her kids about books to gauge comprehension. They also do occasional book commercials and recommendations. I just wish I knew more about the level of the students who come into her room. <br />
<br />
Calkins also advocates the workshop approach. "During independent reading, teachers confer with children individually and in partnerships. A teacher may also gather a cluster of children together for a strategy lesson around a shared text.... A teacher may also gather a small group for a guided reading session.” p73. I can’t help but wonder what message this sends our kids about reading -- that it’s something to do to stay busy till the teacher is ready for you? Yet I totally understand the fact that teachers are dealing with a limited amount of time to teach, a great number of demands on that time, and a wide range of abilities within one classroom. When I was in school, (back in the old days...) we had USSR or DEAR, Uninterrupted Sustained Silent Reading, or Drop Everything and Read, in which even the secretaries and janitors were encouraged to curl up with a book for 20-30 minutes every day. Now we seem to have Read Until Some Thing Interrupts, (RUSTI?) <br />
<br />
Any decent teacher will tell you that instruction depends on grade level and the individual needs of the students. I know that. But I can’t help but wonder, as I read these books on reading instruction, how much of what we do to teach reading is still based on what we think kids need, as opposed to what will actually help them become better readers, writers, and thinkers. I wish I knew. I guess I’ll keep reading, in hopes of finding out.<br />
<br />
Read Well, Friend<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>The Art of Teaching Reading</i>, Lucy McCormick Calkins<i><br />
Making the Most of Small Groups</i>, Debbie Diller<br />
<i>The Book Whisperer</i>, Donalyn Miller<br />
<i>Teaching Reading in Small Groups</i>, Jennifer SerravalloTeri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-13509445207471701382010-11-07T09:16:00.001-06:002010-11-07T10:05:08.906-06:00In Flanders Field<b>Ypres, 1915<br />
Although he had been a doctor for years and had served</b> in the South African War, Canadian Major John McCrae became overwhelmed by his experience in his 17 days as a surgeon near Ypres, Belgium. He later wrote of it:<br />
<br />
"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."<br />
<br />
While there he scribbled these lines:<br />
<br />
"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow<br />
Between the crosses row on row,<br />
That mark our place; and in the sky<br />
The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br />
Scarce heard amid the guns below.<br />
<br />
We are the Dead. Short days ago<br />
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br />
Loved and were loved, and now we lie<br />
In Flanders fields.<br />
<br />
Take up our quarrel with the foe:<br />
To you from failing hands we throw<br />
The torch; be yours to hold it high.<br />
If ye break faith with us who die<br />
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow<br />
In Flanders fields."<br />
<br />
-- Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae<br />
<br />
I salute those who have lived, and died, for their country.Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-79456744918255939592010-11-02T15:42:00.001-05:002010-11-07T10:04:32.117-06:00More Edu-speak<b>"Show me a kid who understands that he is 'synthesizing, analyzing and evaluating the validity and reliability of information from multiple sources,' and I’ll show you a wise, old owl, aka curriculum writer."</b><br />
- Melinda Ehrlich, in response to<a href="http://educationnext.org/data-driven-and-off-course/"> <a href="http://educationnext.org/data-driven-and-off-course/">this article in Education Next, <i>Data-Driven and Off Course</i>.</a></a><br />
<br />
More on it later. Until then, <br />
<br />
<b>Vote and Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-85559380234978362992010-11-01T16:44:00.000-05:002010-11-01T16:44:30.018-05:00This is Teaching?<b>I know I've been out of education-speak for a while, but</b> what does this mean? "...a constructivist design process should be concerned with designing environments which support the construction of knowledge, which...provides an Intellectual Toolkit to Facilitate an Internal Negotiation Necessary for Building Mental Models"? I posted this lovely bit of edu-speak on Facebook a while back. I'm studying to take a Principles of Learning and Teaching (Praxis II) test to get re-certified to teach, and found this "explanation" on a university website. <br />
<br />
Why do college professors and researchers, (and politicians, I might add), so often think that big words and complicated phrases are a sign of big intelligence? I know that special areas of knowledge need specialized vocabulary, but shouldn't that vocabulary help clarify, not obscure, meaning? To what degree does language like this serve as some sort of group marker -- "If you can talk like this you're one of us and if you can't you're obviously not, you inferior, teeny-brained life form." <br />
<br />
What particularly kills me about this is that it's taken from a site designed to help explain these topics to education students. I got my degree 30 years ago, so I've been out of the "research talk" loop for a long time, and I'm not surprised at finding myself needing to make an effort to wrap my head around some of the vocabulary again. But if someone who claims to be a teacher can't explain their point more clearly than this, I think there's a problem. What is teaching but, on some level, the quest to make the currently unknown knowable to our students? If those who teach our teachers can't or won't do this, then why are we so surprised that people aren't learning?<br />
<br />
Communication should be the foundation of teaching. If I have the background needed, and the desire to learn, and you can't explain it in a way that makes sense to me, then guess what? Maybe YOU'RE NOT A VERY GOOD TEACHER! That goes for my college Calculus teacher who thought writing the answers to the practice problems on the board and then walking out of the room was teaching. And to my Tae-Kwan-Do teacher who kept telling me I wasn't holding the baton-thingy wrong, but wouldn't tell me how to correct it. If you can't explain constructivism to me in a way I can grasp and apply, then there's a problem. Maybe you don't really understand it yourself. Maybe it's a very vague concept, and thus probably not all that useful to some fourth grade teacher in a real classroom anyway. Or perhaps you're not really trying, but using lazy thinking and regurgitated phrases. But it's also possible that you're not good at explaining things so others can understand them. In that case, perhaps you shouldn't be teaching, and certainly not teaching those who will be teaching our young. If you can't lead by example, then maybe it's time for you to get out of the classroom and let in people who can. <br />
<br />
Back to the flash cards. "Constructivism is a theory of learning based on the idea that..."<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-25965682041081604612010-10-21T11:12:00.001-05:002010-10-21T12:40:02.415-05:00It's All Moot Anyway<b>It came up first on Says You!,</b> that PBS radio game of "words and whimsy, bluff and bluster" that's always entertaining. When they asked their panelists to define the word moot, you just knew there had to be a catch. It means not worth talking about, right, a moot point being something that's already been decided? Not exactly. It turns out moot is a bit like inflammable -- it does and it doesn't, if you get my meaning. Yes, one definition of it is "of no legal significance," probably because it's already been decided. I always thought that's what a moot court was -- law students sitting around arguing cases that had already been decided, just for the practice. But it turns out that the word moot is also defined as "arguable or open to debate, as in 'that's a moot question.'"<br />
<br />
It got worse when I turned to Merriam-Webster online for help. There it's considered perfectly fine to use moot as a verb meaning to bring up for discussion, i.e. "broach", but it's obsolete to use it in terms of a legal debate, though a moot court is still one in which law students argue hypothetical cases. Oh well. Glancing further down I see that Merriam-Webster thinks that the words moot and mute rhyme, which they clearly do not, so I now feel justified in throwing their opinion out all together. The baby and the bathwater approach works just fine for me, thank you. However, I still have two pretty contradictory definitions using moot as a adjective -- 1. Debatable or 2. Not worth debating because it's already settled or has no meaning. <br />
<br />
By the way, the word moot comes from the Ole English gemot which was a meeting of freemen where various affairs and legal issues were discussed. That comes from the Germanic word motam, also meeting. So though the word-pure among us consider that moot actually means worthy of holding a meeting and discussing, it seems we in the US, at least, have taken the legal idea of a hypothetical debate, and turned moot into a word not worth talking about. Thus my frustration while watching <i>Law and Order: SVU</i> yesterday when I informed the actors, "Who cares who gets jurisdiction, you just proved he was insane at the time of the crime so it's a m--t point!" Help! I obviously need a new word for the second meaning of moot. Any suggestions? I suppose I could say hypothetical, but it just “ain’t got that swing,” you know? <br />
<br />
Oh, and if you’re looking for some help rhyming, please don’t turn to Merriam-Webster. Moot and mute, indeed.<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-16306374071395884252010-10-12T10:51:00.002-05:002010-10-12T10:55:55.754-05:00Rules for the Aspiring Detective, Part Two<b>Here are the last five of Robert Knox’s 10 Rules for Detective Fiction from the Golden Age of Mysteries.</b><br />
<br />
Rule #6. “No accident must ever help the detective, nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right.” Personally I don’t mind the occasional accident helping to unmask a killer. After all, bizarre events do happen in real life. (Just ask me about my last two years, for example...) I’ll also accept some intuition, mostly in amateur female sleuths. We’re rather known for it, after all. But it must be born out by the facts of the story, which the detective must unearth before the end. What I personally don’t like is smugness on the part of the detective who has a perfectly good reason for suspecting someone, but refuses to reveal it. That's is another reason Sherlock Holmes will never be my favorite guy, though I like some of the stories about him a lot. The Speckled Band, for example. Come to think of it, there is a kind of a secret passage in that story, and another favorite, Hound of the Baskervilles, appears to have a supernatural element to it, (rules #2 and 3.) There may be a trend here... <br />
<br />
Rule #7. “The detective himself must not commit the crime.” I like this rule, because it keeps me from feeling the need to peek to the end of the book, just to be sure I can trust what I'm reading. I did once read a book where the criminal turned out to be the sleuth, and I was thoroughly disgusted when I realized I had been tricked that way. Without trust between the writer and audience, reading becomes too much of a mine field for me to enjoy. I’ve never been a big fan of the kind of speculative fiction that keeps me off balance while I’m reading. Too much like real life, perhaps? No, part of the appeal of a mystery is the sense of write and wrong in these stories. Just like in a real western, there must at least one good guy, and I want to know who he is.<br />
<br />
Rule #8. “The detective is bound to declare any clues which he may discover.” No more scenes of the detective slowly unfolding a piece of paper, turning it to the light to read it more clearly, then -- folding it back up and sticking it in his pocket. A real man, or woman, shares his clues!<br />
<br />
Rule #9. “The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson, must not conceal from the reader any thoughts which pass through his mind: his intelligence must be slightly, but very slightly, below that of the average reader.” Now these are Robert Knox’s words, not mine. But let’s admit it, Watson can be very dense sometimes. I used to worry about his patients, wondering if a man as slow as he was could really be a decent doctor. Fortunately, his physician/neighbor spends so much time covering for him, is patients were probably pretty safe. <br />
<br />
Rule #10. “Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them.” Or even then. I mean, really. What kind of self respecting mystery writer relies on a body double, twin, or long-lost relative to make their case? In the same vein I dislike undisclosed marriages, innocent looking people who turn out to have worked for the SS or MI-5, and secret wills. In Ngaio Marsh’s The Final Curtain, Sir Henry Ancred has the details of his new will read aloud. When his subsequent death is explained by the existence of a quite different version he had drawn up at the same time, I always cry “Foul.” Mysteries are supposed to be full of lies, cheats, and trickery -- but that’s supposed to be the criminal, not the writer or the sleuth. After all, it can be a scary world out there, and a girl needs to have someone she can trust.<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-86665403525408099212010-10-11T15:15:00.004-05:002010-10-12T00:13:35.129-05:00Visit My New Blog<b>I get frustrated sometimes at only being able to post snippets of poems</b> on this blog. I don't want to overwhelm my posts, and a sidebar can only hold so much. So I've taken advantage of the the ease of designing new blogs in blogger and added another one -- <i>A Few Reasonable Words. </i>It will contain the full text of poems I reference on<i> A Book With a View,</i> and probably other bits and pieces that strike my fancy, too. You can get to it from my sidebar, or with this link -- <a href="http://afewreasonablewords.blogspot.com/"><i>A Few Reasonable Words.</i></a><br />
<br />
The title comes from this quote, "One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words." Goethe<br />
<br />
Stop by for a visit, please.<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-47464816097353844102010-10-10T22:50:00.005-05:002010-10-11T00:54:07.001-05:00Rules for the Aspiring Detective, Part One<b>The 1920s and 30s, commonly known as the Golden Age of Detective Stories,</b> saw the rise of many of our most famous mystery writers. Among them were Agatha Christie, GK Chesterton, Margery Allingham, Dorothy Sayers, Dashiell Hammett, Ellery Queen, Josephine Tey and Raymond Chandler. Mysteries moved from primarily being the sphere of the short story to novel length, and different styles developed. The cozy mystery, the English country house, hard -- boiled, and locked room stories emerged, for example. It was during this period that, in a preface to <i>Best Detective Stories of 1928-29</i>, priest, mystery writer and editor Robert Knox laid down the 10 Rules for Detective Fiction. These rules are often referred to as the corner stone of mystery writing in the Golden Age of Detective Stories. Did he mean them to be taken completely seriously, or were they given tongue -- in -- cheek? Honestly, I can't tell. It's very hard to assign motive and intent to something done years ago. Whatever his attitude, the rules do promote the idea of fair play between the writer and reader, something many of us still appreciate today. Here, with my thoughts added, are those 10 rules.<br />
<br />
Rule #1. "The criminal must be mentioned in the early part of the story, but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to know." Thus the innocent sounding narrator can't turn out to be the murderer in disguise. The inverted mystery is an exception to this rule. In this type of story we know who did it, how and why. The fun is in watching the detective unravel the clues and track the miscreant down. For some reason, I think these inversions work better when seen than read. Examplers are TV’s <i>Columbo</i> and <i>Law and Order: CI</i>. Is there anyone who doesn't get a secret thrill every time Columbo turns to the bad guy and says, "Oh, just one more question..." <br />
<br />
Rule #2. "All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course." This eliminates Gothic novels, generally defined as a combination of horror, mystery, and romance, which is fine by me. I'm not a fan of them, I don't even like Jane Eyre. (Sorry, April.) While I generally prefer to avoid anything smacking of the supernatural in my stories, Knox only asks that any such elements eventually be explained by rational means. Georgette Heyer's <i>Footsteps in the Dark</i> is one such book that I do enjoy; it's long been one of my favorites. A husband and wife, brother, sister and their aunt all move into the Priory, where strange noises and a ghostly monk soon begin to unnerve some of them. I like the common sense attitude of the other characters, the descriptions of the house, the humor, and the relationships between the everyone in this book. The final explanation may stretch my credulity a bit, but I still enjoy every reread.<br />
<br />
Rule #3. "Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable." Alas for Nancy Drew! I'm certain she broke this rule many times, and I so glad. I grew up in a very straightforward farmhouse -- no secret passages there. Even Grandma's old Victorian only ran to a damp cellar and a few oddly shaped closets. I think there's something enticing about a house with hidden panels and winding passageways. Come to think of it, <i>Footsteps in the Dark</i> has some of those, too. Even C. S. Lewis used this idea for the wardrobe in his Narnia books -- not mysteries, I know -- but if it's good enough for Aslan it's good enough for me. (Is the tesseract in Madeleine L'Engle's <i>A Wrinkle in Time</i> the modern equivalent the old fashioned secret passageway? It's something to ponder...)<br />
<br />
Rule #4. "No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used, nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end." How about nixing any ending which requires a long drawn out explanation? I love Christie’s <i>What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw</i>, but it does bog down a bit when Miss Marple begins to explain the railway timetable, curves in the track, and exactly how dear Elsa McG. saw what she did. On the other hand, I should be perfectly honest and admit that I don’t really care exactly how it happened, and I always just skip that part of the story, since I’m willing to take it on faith. She sat in one moving train and saw the murder being done on a different one, all right? Who cares how British rail allowed it to happen.<br />
<br />
Rule #5 "No Chinaman must figure in the story." <br />
This reference to a Chinamen really alludes to any of the mysterious foreigners equipped with weird, often animal like powers that could be found skulking around many mysteries of the age. I wish Conan Doyle had obeyed this last point. In my opinion <i>The Sign of the Four</i> is ruined in part by his interjection of a mysterious aborigine climbing up drain pipes, hiding in the attic, and shooting poisoned darts with his blow pipe. The unfortunately bizarre and unhuman characterizations of these foreigners is often embarrassingly bigoted to today’s readers. In fairness it should be pointed out that this rule does not, of course, apply to mysteries actually set in China, Chinatown, or a foreign country. In that case Knox would presumably rule out mysterious bands of Englishmen instead.<br />
<br />
These are the first five of Robert Knox's rules. What do you think of them, in reference to your favorite mysteries, or any other books for that matter? <br />
The rest of his list will be in my next post. In the meantime...<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-67722115266899157942010-10-08T13:17:00.006-05:002010-10-11T21:32:45.659-05:00You Call This Cozy?<b>I was sitting innocently in my living room,</b><br />
a PBS Masterpiece Mystery video spinning away in the DVD player, when Diana Rigg said something that shocked me. She introduced an episode of Elizabeth George's Inspector Lynley mystery series as a "cozy mystery", based somehow on the idea that it took place in an English country house. At first I was prepared to defer to Dame Diana and the experts at PBS, who surely must know their mysteries. However, the more I watched the more my mind rebeled at calling Inspector Lynley, Superintendent Havers and the many miscreants they've uncovered "cozy". <br />
<br />
I've tried off and on over the years to enjoy Elizabeth George's novels and never succeeded. They are mysteries, which I do like. And she sets all of them in England, a country I've visited and love reading about. They're also thick books, well-researched, and the Lynley ones at least follow a set of ever evolving characters -- all characteristics that I look forward to in books. Still, I've never managed to become a fan, and it's purely a matter of taste, not a comment on her skill as writer. I just found the books I tried too dark and too convoluted. So much so, in fact, that I'm glad I didn't realize this series was based on her books, because I might not have bothered to watch them. Perhaps because I often wrestle with my own psychological demons, I've never enjoyed taken much pleasure in such books or movies. Instead I'm an admitted sucker for an uplifting, feel good story. It's one of the reasons I enjoy cozy mysteries -- at least I thought it was. Yet here we have Lynley -- and George -- with stories about incest, abandonment, child stealing, suicides real and faked, school bullying, drug use... well, you get the idea... all gathered under the "cozy" umbrella simply because a man died in a country home. It just didn't sit right, Dame Rigg, CBE, DBE, or not.<br />
<br />
<b>So, what IS a cozy mystery?</b><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Cozies, it appears, date from the Golden Age of Mystery, those halcyon years between the two World Wars. It may not be an accident that the three detective fiction writers most often called the greatest of this period are all women -- Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, and Ngaio Marsh, (the first two are considered cozy writers,) as cozies seem to be closely associated with females. I even found one definition that specifically said that cozy mysteries are intended for "intelligent women” readers. Well, how could I quibble with that? It's not true, though, that women are the only fans of cozies. I think that misconception arises from the idea that men will only read books written by men, with males as the main characters. But that doesn't have to be the case. The three writers mentioned above, along with a number of other women of the period like Margery Allingham and Josephine Tey, were widely read and respected by men. However that may be, here, after some fun hours spent browsing mystery websites, blogs, and books about mystery writing, is my compilation of what makes a mystery "cozy": <br />
<br />
#1. Don't Quit Your Day Job<br />
Miss Marple knits baby layettes as she listens to the local gossip, and Lord Peter Whimsey goggles through his eyepiece while tracking down miscreants. Other cozy detectives may work very hard as caterers, journalists, art history experts, store owners and actors, but none of them make their livings chasing down criminals. Inspector Lynley and Superintendent Havers work for Scotland Yard, about as professional as a sleuth can get.<br />
<br />
#2. Mystery Lite<br />
Light on the violence and psychological torment, that is. People may get murdered in cozies, but it usually happens off the page, frequently before the book opens. Subsequent deaths aren't described in detail, brains don't get splattered on walls, and no self respecting cozy sleuth would ever attend an autopsy. If incest, kidnapping or suicides figure into the story, they also take place out of sight and are barely referred to. George's books, on the other hand, seem to me to revel in the psychological torment of her characters. <br />
<br />
#3. It's All in the Game<br />
The puzzle is everything in a cozy, or at least it should be. Unfortunately, too many times when I've picked up a recently published book, I've found myself identifying the villain right away. Several times I knew who did it before anyone had even been killed, once I identified the killer and victim on page two, based solely on a conversation other people had about them. This is a great disservice to the cozy, which should always puzzle the reader as long as possible. Christie could spin out so many possible solutions you needed a chart to keep track of all the suspects and red herrings. At least when I'm watching the Lynley series, I'm never sure who did it until the very end.<br />
<br />
#4. It's a Small World<br />
PBS got it wrong. Country House mysteries and cozies are not identical genres. But cozies do usually take place in a local setting, probably because Lord Peter is one of the few amateur detectives with the resources to fly off to France or motor down to the city at the drop of a hat. Cozy stories benefit from an interesting but limited cast of characters, and they make great series stories, bringing back again and again all the crazy friends, relatives, co-workers and neighbors of the sleuth who've yet to be knocked off or sent to prison. Jane Marple, surely the undisputed doyenne of the group, sometimes solved mysteries without leaving her house, depending on her maid, nephew, or old friend Sir Henry Clithering to gather the facts. <br />
<br />
#5. It's Called Cozy for a Reason<br />
Though the heyday came in the early 20th century, the term was coined much later, when mystery writers began to return to the ideas of Golden Age writers. Defined as "enjoying or affording comforting warmth and shelter especially in a small space," the name describes the genre well. "Snug, comfortable, easy, chatty, sociable, familiar," cozy is seen as "fostering a warm or friendly atmosphere." While one may quibble about other defining characteristics, let's at least agree that these books should reflect "the happy innocence, the purity and confidence of purpose, which was its true hallmark" of the Golden Age. Sorry, Dame Diana, as much as I'm enjoying Inspector Lynley, it definitely doesn't qualify.<br />
<br />
Alistaire Cooke would have gotten it right.<br />
<br />
<b>Read Well, Friend</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
(Ending quote from Robert Knox, known for The 10 Commandments of Detective Fiction. 1929.)Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-49290125042842756202010-03-12T20:37:00.018-06:002010-10-09T12:22:56.962-05:00And Ladybugs?<span style="font-size: large;"><b>For all the mysteries, engines, instruments,</b> wherewith the world is filled, which we are able to frame and use to thy glory. </span> <br />
<div class="epigraph"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> <br />
For all the trades, variety of operations, cities, temples, streets, bridges, mariner's compass, admirable picture, sculpture, writing, printing, songs and music; wherewith the world is beautified and adorned.</i></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Much more for the regent life, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And power of perception, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Which rules within. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> That secret depth of fathomless consideration </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> That receives the information </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Of all our senses, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> That makes our centre equal to the heavens, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> And comprehendeth in itself the magnitude of the world; </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The involv’d mysteries </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Of our common sense; </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The inaccessible secret </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Of perceptive fancy; </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The repository and treasury </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Of things that are past; </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The presentation of things to come; </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Thy name be glorified </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> For evermore. </span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> O miracle </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Of divine goodness! </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> O fire! O flame of zeal, and love, and joy! </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Ev’n for our earthly bodies, hast thou created all things. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> { visible </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> All things { material </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> { sensible</span><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Animals, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Vegetables, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Minerals, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Bodies celestial, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Bodies terrestrial, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The four elements, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Volatile spirits, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Trees, herbs, and flowers, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The influences of heaven, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Clouds, vapors, wind, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Dew, rain, hail and snow, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Light and darkness, night and day, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The seasons of the year. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;">Springs, rivers, fountains, oceans, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Gold, silver, and precious stones. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Corn, wine, and oil, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The sun, moon, and stars, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Cities, nations, kingdoms. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;">And the bodies of men, the greatest treasures of all, </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"> For each other. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;">What then, O Lord, hast thou intended for our </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;">Souls, who givest to our bodies such glorious things!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>A Serious and Pathetical Contemplation of the Mercies of God</i> by Thomas Trahern</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For the reference in my title, see the next post. </span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="font-size: large;">Read Well, Friend</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">(I read this on PoetryFoundation.org, and found it so fascinating I decided to share it with you. He is considered a Metaphysical post and writer, living in the late 1600's in England. <i>Pathetical</i> could mean inferior and ineffective, or arousing strong emotion. What do you think?) </span> </div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"></div>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4952225279447975447.post-55404620080710393362010-03-08T19:53:00.005-06:002010-10-09T11:57:22.545-05:00"Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home"<span style="font-size: large;"><b> I woke to a perfect morning.</b> For the first time in quite a few days the night temps had stayed in the 40s, and today -- high of 71, or better. (Better, as it turned out. I’m sitting outside right now enjoying a breezy 74.) The light and heat of the sun streamed into my bedroom as I woke. Stretching, savoring warmth on my skin, I opened my eyes to the morning, gazing toward the window seeing -- Ladybugs? Ladybugs filled the top half of my window, crawling over glass and curtain. The swarmed around the wall beside the window, and over the ceiling. Twenty, maybe thirty small, round, black and orange bugs, greeting the morning sun. Just like me. Unfortunately.<br />
<br />
I have always been a fan of ladybugs. Even when I was really little and creeped out by almost anything that had more than four legs or moved unpredictably. Still, I was a farm girl, with one of those obnoxious older brothers who wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone, and never let me forget it. So I faked it, accepting spiders, frogs, crawdads and an innumerable parade of crawling, jumping, bizarre creatures. I don’t know if I ever fooled anyone -- my brother, I was sure, saw through me. Fortunately I didn’t have to fake it when it came to ladybugs. Easily identifiable, ladybugs seldom flew around you trying to get into you face or hair. They didn’t have long appendages sticking out in odd places, and they never, never jumped out of nowhere into your mouth. You may laugh, but we had three to four inch long grasshoppers. I kid you not. Some of them were probably longer, and they weren’t skinny little guys, but husky, well equipped with thighs that could fling them from a weed a yard or more away directly into you face or hair. And they were everywhere, leaping on me from all directions, clinging to my clothes and skin. Taking the nightly scraps to the compost heap was my own personal nightmare. I understood why locusts were a Biblical plague, even if they hadn’t eat anything.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Ladybugs, however, deserved their name. Lady-like one and all, they carefully walked onto my hand. Brightly colored, they actually made the flowers in the beds prettier. Add to that the sad story of a house fire, with “poor little Ann,” who had "crept under the frying pan." I decided ladybugs deserved protection. My kids learned to carefully carry them outside and place them on a leaf or flower. Spiders in the house? Stomp on them. Ladybugs? Man the door, rescue in progress! In those halcyon days of bug-love there were things I didn’t know about my tiny friends. Not until we retired in W. TN did I learn these sweet looking, aphid-eating darlings had a dark side. <br />
<br />
It happened the first spring after we bought our house in a deceptively quiet looking hamlet, on a short, wooded street. Bright spring sun shone on the south-facing front of our yellow home. Spring here can be chilly, wet and gray for weeks at a time. But now blue skies had arrived, and the front of the house grew warmer almost by the hour. Stepping onto the porch, I noticed ladybugs crawling on the siding by the front door. OK by me, I knew my new roses would have plenty of protection from aphids. As they say in those gothic novels, “Had I but known…” These visitors are not Hippodamia convergens, the aphid eater of my childhood, but the infamous and invasive Harmonia axyridis. A native of Eastern Asia, they were introduced to the US to help control aphids, and happily settled in and began multiplying -- the insect world’s version of kudzu. They are beneficial, saving everything from pecans to soybeans from serious aphid infestations. But they’re also registered in some states as a minor agricultural pest, and have become despised by home dwellers around the South. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Your house is on fire, your children all gone."<br />
<br />
Most sources on Harmonia axyridis control tell me to collect the bugs, perhaps by vacuuming them into a fresh bag padded with paper towels; then immediately take them outside and set them free. An option is to set peeled apples in the rooms, collect the bugs that swarm on the fruit, and carry them outside. Presumably I’ll have to keep these apples sitting around my house for four to six weeks, fall and spring. Aphids won’t be they only thing in my homer attracted to rotting apples, believe me. And that's only if I can keep the dogs from eating the bait. What these do-gooders fail to realized is that these bugs have excellent eyesight, and will actually travel back to the place they were removed from. They also eat native ladybugs, the good guys I’d like to save. As for letting them loose somewhere else, believe me, no one else around here wants my pests. So I have declared war. Yes, I vacuum them up, but without one worry about the softness of their fall. Then I rubber-band a cloth over the end of the hose so they can't crawl back to their favorite hangout, my bedroom. After their version of spring break slows down, I empty the bag and toss them, dirt and all. After that I find smashing them with an old magazine and tossing them into the trash is quite gratifying. Especially accompanied by several rousing rounds of "Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home." To Japan. Please.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Read Well, Friend</span>Teri Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03999534282021701036noreply@blogger.com6