American Literature

I have not updated this blog in a long time for various reasons...the end of the school year, exams, teaching at Cincinnati State, having a life, having two children, trying to squeeze in some time to read. Now, I am beginning to read books for next year...11th grade American Lit. I have already read a lot of the books on the curriculum list, but I decided to read the other books on the list I have not read, such as: Intruder in the Dust by William Faulkner, The Crucible by Arthur Miller (I have read Death of a Salesman), The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (I have read a lot of other novels by Steinbeck...my favorites: The Winter of Our Discontent and Cannery Row). I also want to reread To Kill a Mockingbird because I'll be teaching 10th grade next year and I haven't taught that in a while. Whew! Currently, I have finished Intruder in the Dust, I'm 1/3 of the way through The Grapes of Wrath, and I'm 30 pages into The Crucible. I'm also reading (for enjoyment) Essential Pleasures: A New Anthology of Poems to Read Aloud, edited by Robert Pinsky. I'm considering trying to commit some poems to memory over the summer...we'll see how that goes. I'm also teaching high school summer school and teaching an online college composition class.

The Crucible: Abigail and Proctor...quite an interesting pair so far!

One Hundred Poems from the Chinese

I came across a book of translations by Kenneth Rexroth: One Hundred Poems from the Chinese. It's a New Directions paperback from what I guess to be the 1950's. There is actually no copyright date provided inside the cover where it should be. The book cost $1.55 when it came out. Now, decades later, it is in my possession. As soon as I opened the pages, I knew I needed to purchase the book...and it was only $.83 after tax. Here is one of the poems I came across that sealed the deal for me:

Snow Storm by Tu Fu

Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts.
Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing
To myself. Ragged mist settles
In the spreading dusk. Snow skurries
In the coiling wind. The wineglass
Is spilled. The bottle is empty.
The fire has gone out in the stove.
Everywhere men speak in whispers.
I brood on the uselessness of letters.