Poetry experiments love more love feelings more feelings war teacher's book


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more love
more feelings

teacher's book



Deze poëzie-cursus bevat zes blokken poëzie.

Blok 1:Experimental Poetry

Blok 2:Love Poetry

Blok 3:More Love Poetry

Blok 4:Feelings

Blok 5:More Feelings

Blok 6:War

Elk blok is voorzien van een aantal opdrachten per gedicht, opdrachten over het hele blok en een presentatie-opdracht. De dichtbundels en de bijbehorende opdrachten zijn gescheiden gehouden. Er zijn ongeveer vijftig dichtbundels en zes sets van elk vijftien exemplaren met opdrachten.


De volgende werkwijze lijkt me een zinvolle.

I. Vooraf duidelijk maken dat er niet in de bundels of de bijbehorende opdrachten geschreven mag worden. Deel de dichtbundels uit en geef de leerlingen de opdracht om eerst de bundel grondig onder de loep te nemen en dan een van de zes blokken te kiezen. Deel blaadjes uit waarop zij hun naam en keuze vermelden alsmede hun motivatie voor die keuze. Die motivatie moet in het Engels en moet minstens honderd woorden lang zijn. Zeg vooraf dat, indien je als leraar kiest voor groepswerk, jij de groepen indeelt en niet de leerlingen. Dit om te voorkomen dat zich clubjes vormen op basis van een sociale wens in plaats van een literaire! Zeg dat de leerlingen elke les dat ze werken aan de gedichten hun woordenboeken bij zich moeten hebben. Vertel hen ook dat ze beoordeeld worden.

II. Maak op basis van de keuzes van de leerlingen een groepsindeling. Maximaal vier leerlingen per groep. Het is verstandig om geeikte, niet al te ijverige groepen bij je indeling te voorkomen. Zorg dat je evenveel schriften hebt als groepen en zet hier de namen van de groepsleden op.

III. Vertel in het kort wat je van de leerlingen verwacht. Vertel de leerlingen dat er uitsluitend in de klas aan de opdrachten gewerkt wordt en dat zowel de dichtbundels als de opdrachten en werkschriften aan het einde van de les moeten worden ingeleverd. Alle vragen worden in het Engels beantwoord. De woordenboeken zijn nodig om woorden op te zoeken in de gedichten maar ook voor het beantwoorden van de vragen. Per les is er een leerling die schrijft, elke les een andere.

In ongeveer zes lessen moeten alle opdrachten over de individuele gedichten en de algemene opdrachten af zijn. Geef maximaal een les voorbereidingstijd voor hun presentatie. Bekijk na elke les wat de leerlingen dat uur gepresteerd hebben en voorzie dat eventueel van commentaar. Door de schriften bij te houden, houd je zicht op de prestaties per groep en kun je eventueel bijsturen.

IV. Presentatie. Laat elke groep 10/15 minuten vullen. Dit onderdeel kan natuurlijk vervallen als je vindt dat het teveel tijd kost of als je een klas hebt die dit niet aankan.

V. Evalueer zelf en laat de leerlingen opschrijven wat ze ervan vonden, of ze geleerd hebben gedichten te lezen en waarderen, hoe ze gedichten kunnen analyseren en dergelijke.


Het is heel goed mogelijk om de schriften te beoordelen en er een groepscijfer aan te koppelen. Dat is natuurlijk wel een heleboel werk(6 X 6 gedichten!) In plaats daarvan of ernaast zou je een individuele toets kunnen maken. Dat betekent drie verschillende gedichten voorzien van vragen(voor de twee blokken "love" en "feelings" kun je volstaan met een gedicht + "experimental" en "war"). Het nadeel van de cijfergeving voor groepswerk is dat de slechte leerlingen zich kunnen verschuilen achter de prestaties van anderen.

Het lijkt me niet verstandig om een cijfer te geven voor de presentatie. Beschouw die als een weerslag van het leerproces.

Cor Dekkers


more love
more feelings

'T was brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

the frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought -

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

'T was brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll

"Buffalo Bill's"
Buffalo Bill's

who used to

ride a watersmooth-silver


and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat


he was a handsome man

and what i want to know is

how do you like your blueeyed boy

Mister Death

he peeps i duck
i shoot he ducks
i wave he waves back
i peep he shoots
he waves i shoot
and duck i peep
i peep again
he's dead

draped across his turret

he smiles my arrow tickles

the inside of his head

Johnny Byrne

The Hours Rise Up
the hours rise up putting off stars and it is


into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems
on earth a candle is

extinguished the city


with a song upon her

mouth having death in her eyes
and it is dawn

the world

goes forth to murder dreams...
i see in the street where strong

men are digging bread

and i see the brutal faces of

people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy

and it is day,
in the mirror

i see a frail




dreams in the mirror

and it

is dusk on earth

a candle is lighted

and it is dark.

the people are in their houses

the frail man is in his bed

the city

) sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes

the hours descend,

putting on stars...

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems


The Garden of Love
I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be;

And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys & desires.

William Blake
I Hold Your Hand in Mine
I hold your hand in mine, dear.

I press it to my lips.

I take a healthy bite from your dainty fingertips.

My joy would be complete, dear

If you were only here.

But still I keep your hand as a precious souvenir.

The night you died I cut it off.

I really don't know why.

For now each time I kiss it.

I get bloodstains on my tie.

I am sorry now I killed you.

For our love was something fine.

Until they come to get me.

I shall hold your hand in mine.

Tom Lehrer

Reported Missing

Can you give me a precise description?

Said the policeman. Her lips, I told him,

Were soft. Could you give me, he said, pencil

Raised, a metaphor? Soft as an open mouth,

I said. Were there any noticeable

Peculiarities? he asked. Her hair hung

Heavily, I said. Any particular

Colour? he said. I told him I could recall

Little but its distinctive scent. What do

You mean, he asked, by distinctive? It had

The smell of woman's hair, I said. Where

Were you? he asked. Closer than I am to

Anyone at present, I said, level

With her mouth, level with her eyes. Her eyes?

He said, what about her eyes? There were two,

I said, both black. It has been established,

he said, that eyes cannot, outside common

Usage, be black; are you implying that

Violence was used? Only the gentle

Hammer blow of her kisses, the scent

Of her breath, the ... Quite, said the policeman,

Standing, but I regret that we know of

No one answering to that description.

Barry Cole

At Lunchtime/A Story of Love

When the bus stopped suddenly to avoid

damaging a mother and child in the road, the

younglady in the greenhat sitting opposite

was thrown across me, and not being one to

miss an opportunity i started to makelove

with all my body.
At first she resisted saying that it

was tooearly in the morning and toosoon

after breakfast and that anyway she found

me repulsive. But when i explained that

this being a nuclearage, the world was going

to end at lunchtime, she tookoff her

greenhat, put her busticket in her pocket

and joined in the exercise.

The buspeople, and therewere many of

them, were shockedandsurprised and amused

and annoyed, but when the word got around

that the world was coming to an end at lunch-

time, they put their pride in their pockets

with their bustickets and madelove one with

the other. And even the busconductor, being over, climbed into

the cab and stuck up

some sort of relationship with the driver.
Thatnight, on the bus coming home,

wewere all a little embarassed, especially me

and the younglady in the greenhat, and we

all started to say different ways howhasty

and foolish we had been. Butthen, always

having been a bitofalad, i stood up and

said it was a pity that the world didn't nearly

end every lunchtime and that we could always

pretend. And then it happened...

Quick asa crash we all changed partners

and soon the bus was a quiver with white

mothballbodies doing naughty things.

And the next day

And everyday

In everybus

In everystreet

In everytown

In everycountry

people pretended that the world was coming

to an end at lunchtime. It still hasn't.

Although in a way it has. Roger McGough

Reading Scheme
Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.

Jane has a big doll. Peter has a ball.

Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!
Here is Mummy. She has baked a bun.

Here is the milkman. He has come to call.

Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.
Go Peter! Go Jane! Come, milkman, come!

The milkman likes Mummy. She likes them all.

Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!
Here are the curtains. They shut out the sun.

Let us peep! On tiptoe Jane! You are small!

Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.
I hear a car, Jane. The milkman looks glum.

Here is Daddy in his car. Daddy is tall.

Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!
Daddy looks very cross. Has he a gun?

Up milkman! Up milkman! Over the wall!

Here is Peter. Here is Jane. They like fun.

Look, Jane, look! Look at the dog! See him run!

Wendy Cope


Over the heather the wet wind blows,

I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,

I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,

My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,

I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;

There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;

I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye

I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

W.H. Auden

One Flesh

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,

He with a book, keeping the light on late,

She like a girl dreaming of childhood,

All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait

Some new event: the book he holds unread,

Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,

How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,

Or if they do it is like a confession

Of having little feeling - or too much.

Chastity faces them, a destination

For which their whole lives were a preparation.

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,

Silence between them like a thread to hold

And not wind in. And time itself's a feather

Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,

These two who are my father and my mother

Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

Elizabeth Jennings

A boy's best friend
The exercise book fell open.

Open at a page on which I'd written poems.

Like some comic French detective, you picked it up, my mother,

scrutinized one poem, then gently closed the cover.

"What's behind all this, then?"

you asked with arched eyebrows.

"Are you unhappy, then?"

You never said, but then you always were quiet, even as a baby."

I made some excuse about bad company,

you know, mixing with some of the grammar school boys, ideas

above my station and all that.

You promised not to tell anyone about our little secret,

but then, one Christmas, when you'd had a little too much to drink,

you dragged me into the family's gaze and said,

"Here, what do you think?

Our Philip's been writing poems, go on, Phil, read us one."


"No need to get upset, dear, it's just a bit of fun."

Paul Camp
The funeral of Father

They all wore black.

Even the cat wore black.


Wreaths of flowers.

Gardens of flowers

for him who only grew vegetables.


Mother wept,

forgetting the black eyes he gave her.

And brother,

my brother didn't care

to remember the beatings.

Only I spat on the coffin

as it dropped

and said something

my sister wouldn't tell the vicar,

who, while reading the service,

scratched his nose.

And that was the end of Father.
Back home we drank

the sherry from under the stairs.

Aunt Flo remembered early years

when Father was a lad.

I smiled,

infamous by now

for my lack of gravity.

I smiled and said aloud,

"He was the biggest bastard

you ever knew,"

and then,

as the clock passed one,

they had an honest moment;

nobody denounced

the prodigal son

with his two-tone shoes.

That was the memory of Father.

Strange fits of passion have I known
Strange fits of passion have I known:

And I will dare to tell,

But in the Lover's ear alone,

What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath an evening-moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard plot;

And, as we climbed the hill,

The sinking moon to Lucy's cot

Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

And all the while my eyes I kept

On the descending moon.

My horse moved on;hoof after hoof

He raised, and never stopped:

When down behind the cottage roof,

At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a Lover's head!

'O mercy!' to myself I cried,

'If Lucy should be dead!'

William Wordsworth

Talking in bed
Talking in bed ought to be easiest,

Lying together there goes back so far,

An emblem of two people being honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.

Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest

Builds and disperses clouds about the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.

None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why

At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find

Words at once true and kind,

Or not untrue and not unkind.

First day at school
A millionbillionwillion miles from home

Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)

Why are they all so big, other children?

So noisy? So much at home they

must have been born in uniform.

Lived all their lives in playgrounds.

Spent the years inventing games

that don't let me in. Games

that are rough, that swallow you up.
And the railings.

All around, the railings.

Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?

Things that carry off and eat children?

Things you don't take sweets from?

Perhaps they're to stop us getting out.

Running away from the lessins. Lessin.

What does a lessin look like?

Sounds small and slimy.

They keep them in glassrooms.

Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name.

Mummy said it would come in useful.

Like wellies. When there's puddles.

Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.

I think my name is sewn on somewhere.

Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.

Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

Roger McGough

In the bath, if you waved your legs
In the bath, if you waved your legs at the rate

of the waves, it would splash right over the side.

I asked Daddy. The water would 'resonate',

he said. Slower would only send it flopping

in a weary slump, however hard you tried.

Faster made your legs ache and sent it slopping

in your face. If you fell in though with the way

of the waves, they were quiet and powerful,

and they took you along with them in their play

and they kept you in time, a kind of cradle

or a swing, till you wanted it more and more

till Mammy screamed at half the bath on the floor.

Edmond Leo Wright

Tich Miller
Tich Miller wore glasses

with elastoplast-pink frames

and had one foot three sizes larger than the other.
When they picked teams for outdoor games

she and I were always the last two

left standing by the wire-mesh fence.
We avoided one another's eyes,

stooping, perhaps, to re-tie a shoelace,

or affecting interest in the flight
of some fortunate bird, and pretended

not to hear the urgent conference:

'Have Tubby!' 'No, no, have Tich!'
Usually they chose me, the lesser dud,

and she lolloped, unselected,

to the back of the other team.
At eleven we went to different schools.

In time I learned to get my own back,

sneering at hockey-players who couldn't spell.
Tich died when she was twelve.
Wendy Cope

Southern cop
Let us forgive Ty Kendricks

The place was Darktown. He was young.

His nerves were jittery. The day was hot.

The negro ran out of the alley.

And so Ty shot.

Let us understand Ty Kendricks

The negro must have been dangerous,

Because he ran;

And there was a rookie with a chance

To prove himself a man.

Let us condone Ty Kendricks

If we cannot decorate.

When he found what the Negro was running for,

It was all too late;

And all we can say for the Negro is

It was unfortunate.

Let us pity Ty Kendricks

He has been through enough,

Standing there, his big gun smoking,

Rabbit-scared, alone,

Having to hear the wenches wail

And the dying negro moan.

Sterling A. Brown
Let me Die a Youngman's Death
Let me die a youngman's death

not a clean & inbetween

the sheets holywater death

not a famous-last-words

peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73

& in constant good tumour

may I be mown down at dawn

by a bright red sports car

on my way home

from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91

with silver hair

& sitting in a barber's chair

may rival gangsters

with hamfisted tommyguns burst in

& give me a short back & insides

Or when I'm 104

& banned from the Cavern

may my mistress catching me in bed with her daughter

& fearing her son

cut me up into little pieces

& throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death

not a free from sin tiptoe in

candle wax & waning death

not a curtains drawn by angels borne

'what a nice way to go' death
Roger McGough

I sat all morning in the college sick bay

Counting bells knelling classes to a close.

At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying -

He had always taken funerals in his stride -

And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram

When I came in, and I was embarassed

By old men standing up to skake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble",

Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,

Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.

At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived

With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops

And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him

For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,

He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.

No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Seamus Heaney

From 'After Apple-picking'
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

Robert Frost

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

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