I read “Ozymandias” with my 7th, 8th, and 9th grade writing students today. I was not prepared for the intense discussion that followed.

At first, they rolled their eyes that we were reading poetry. As we read the poem, we worked on finding the narrative and saying what we see. Twenty minutes later every student in the class–including my 7th graders!–knew what the poem was about and had very strong opinions.

We landed on the question, “Is it true that everything we do will be forgotten someday?”

One 8th grade student didn’t think so. His evidence? Michael Jordan. According to him, because Jordan is the greatest basketball player to ever live, and because everyone loves his “Air Jordan” shoes, it was not possible for him to be forgotten. Some of the other students quickly pointed out the flaws in his example, but the question was still being contested when we finished class.

It’s always a strange moment for me when I see students become intensely interested in something as revered as Shelley’s poetry. But I also love these moments. Despite the tendency to compartmentalize learning, and then to categorize people as a “Math Person,” a “Literature Person,” a “Science Person,” etc., our curiosity is actually unbounded by such arbitrary delineations.

No one is actually a “Literature/Math/Science person.” We’re attracted to Goodness, Truth, and Beauty wherever we happen to find them.

Poetry with High School Students

Part way through the 2017-2018 school year, I stumbled into a new routine with my 10th-12th grade literature students. Every Friday, we designated the whole class period to reading and discussing a single poem.

I can’t say when exactly this idea occurred to me, but I’ve always enjoyed breaking up the usual class routines with poetry. At my previous school, I occasionally hosted “Poetry Geek-out Sessions.” I would bring in a poem, read it with the class, and then I’d let my enthusiasm for poetry do the rest. It was a simple lesson in close reading. It also didn’t hurt that the students enjoyed watching their teacher lose his mind over a handful of words on a page.

Now that I’m back in the classroom this year, I’ve made my poetry geek-out sessions more scheduled and more conducive to a student-led discussion format. Don’t get me wrong. I still bring in poetry that, as Emily Dickinson says, “makes me feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off.” So the students are hardly deprived of my tendency to make a fool of myself. But in this context, I’m more self-conscious about making sure students are doing the work of close reading.

At the beginning of each class, I give students two rules to follow every time we read and discuss poetry:

  1. Say what you see.
  2. Find the narrative.

Prior to our discussion, we read the poem out-loud at least three times using different readers. The goal is to hear how the same poem can elicit different cadences which in turn produce different understandings. Whereas some students will pause at the end of each line, others will read with the syntax. The effect is palpable. Where one reading left students puzzled about the meaning of one stanza or line, another will clarify it beyond all doubt.

During the discussion, we’ll talk about things like meter, rhyme, enjambments, and figurative language as we encounter them. For example, we had a “light bulb moment” reading The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock last year when we realized that Eliot had cleverly used meter to echo Hamlet’s famous “To be or not to be” speech at the beginning of the poem.

  • Hamlet: “To be or not to be that is the question.”
  • Prufrock: “To lead you to an overwhelming question…”
    • Both lines are five and a half feet long and follow an iambic rhythm. They also begin and end with the same words (To…question). Given Prufrock’s themes of growing old, of action vs. inaction, and of the trouble with appearances vs. reality, it’s safe to assume Eliot was thinking of Hamlet the whole time.

My primary goal during Poetry Friday, however, is to help students grasp the content of a poem. This is not a class dedicated solely to learning about the complexities of poetic form. (Which I love, by the way, and some day, I’d love to teach a class that dives into the complexities of meter, rhyme, etc.). My focus on Fridays is to help students experience first-hand how poetry can change the way they see and experience the world. I think this is important because most students have an adverse reaction to poetry–e.g., “It’s too weird.” “Why don’t they just say what they mean in a simpler way?” “Poetry is great for some people, but it’s just not my thing.”

If my experience teaching poetry has taught me anything, it’s that the instinctive reaction to dislike, to disregard, or to politely reject poetry is symptomatic of never having connected with a poem in a meaningful way. And I can’t blame students. Reading poetry is a participatory activity. Unlike the majority of their other reading requirements and habits, students cannot passively receive the information of a poem, much less quickly skim a poem for a “basic understanding.” Poetry is demanding. You must slow down, concentrate, and patiently allow the words and images percolate in your imagination. Then you must listen for the way the words and images resonate with each other and with their various social, etymological, and historical contexts. It’s hard work. But my goodness it is worth it every time.

To use Gerard Manley Hopkins’ phrase, poetry helps us see the world “charged with the grandeur of God.” The sound of lake water will transport you to Innisfree. The color black will elicit visions of nobility and divine grace. And hope will forever be a thing with feathers.

The other day I was once more reminded of why reading poetry with students is worth it. We were reading W. H. Auden’s poem, “As I walked out one evening.” In the middle of a lively discussion, I noticed that one of my students, (I’ll call him Joe) was silently squirming in his seat.

Quick background on Joe: he’s a 10th grade boy who loves his truck, his knives, and all your usual outdoor hobbies–hunting, camping, etc. Joe does not care for school. He’s not a bad kid, but it’s clear that his mind is always elsewhere.

So, when I saw Joe looking uncomfortable during our discussion, I had to know what was going on. For all I knew, maybe he really needed to use the restroom. I asked what he thought of the poem and of the discussion. He sat up straight, grimaced at the poem, and then fell back into his seat. He said that he did not expect the poem to end the way it does. It begins with idealistic lovers, and then transitions into a meditation on the destructive nature of time, the deterioration of relationships, and culminates in a haunting line: “You shall love your crooked neighbor with your crooked heart.”

It still wasn’t clear to me why Joe would look so unsettled. Finally, after a short pause, he said, “Usually when I read poetry I just think of it as pretty words on a page. It doesn’t affect me. But this one makes me feel something.”

I struggled to contain my excitement. Thankfully, I had enough self-control not to push him to say more than he was willing to say. Instead, we continued to talk about how and why the poem could produce such an effect in us. The class ended without any profound words on the power of poetry, and by the grace of God I avoided impersonating Mr. Keating. The poem made him feel something, and that was enough.

While I may not know everything that was going on in Joe’s heart and mind, I can say that he’s been a little more attentive in class since then. Poetry has changed his world a little. And that’s enough.

UPDATE: 9/10/2018

Credit where credit is due: I get many of my ideas for poems and discussion questions from the Saint Constantine School Podcast, Poetry Corner. Like my set up for Poetry Fridays, Timothy Bartel’s episodes follow a simple structure. He provides some biography for the poet and poem, reads the poem, and then does a close reading. Bartel is also a poet in his own right.