Year 9s raise the bar for poetry – slam!


Above: 9L Slam Poetry winners, Ivan and Yi Ming and their English teacher, Mr Mahoney

Yesterday Memorial Hall was host to  performance and celebration as the winning teams from each year 9 class amazed the audience with their Slam Poetry performances.

The judges were extremely impressed with the high standard of all teams’ poetry and their powerful renditions.


Runners up, the team from 9E (Ms Hamilton), performing Safwan’s poem

The winning team was 9L (Mr Mahoney’s class), followed by 9E (Ms Hamilton’s class) in second place and 9D (Ms Grimwade’s class) in third. The Best Individual Performance was awarded to Ivan Tat of 9L, and the Best Line was also awarded to 9L.

Poverty is the cracked lips of a boy, hands outstretched, eyes like a dead fish, …

There is so much to celebrate in the year 9 students’ poetry! I’d like to take the opportunity to share some of the poetry.

Standout lines from 9A:

A blind man will never know the colour of blue nor ever see the so-called ordinary hue

But he know he does not need to discover the new.

He’s surrounded like an animal in a zoo,

Caged by prejudice and stereotypes.

A slice of 9B’s offering:

Patriotism, loyalty: who do I please?

Lion Dairy, Abbey, and Colby: three types of cheese.

Which industry do I support?

Which farmer do I make abort?

An Irish cow, an Australian goat, an American sheep,

Which allegiance do I keep?

Or should I be like sister Tegan,

And just like her become a Vegan?

Powerful, dark lines from 9C:

His mind is out to kill him

So far his mind is winning

It sews his lips

Shuts his mouth

Beats him, blinds him from those who care,

Tying him down to the bottom of the ocean,

Drowning him

He can’t die

He can’t escape

He is drowning 24/7.

He’s been drowning since he was 11

Yet no one saw and we all breathed around him.

Powerful lines from 9D:

But why has our society become one where such people are glamorised and idolised

While teens are hurting themselves and hurting others over their own demise,

Because their waist size is over 26 inches, because their skin is wrinkled and because, unlike their role models

their looks aren’t stylised?

They think that, that is something to be ashamed about

It seems we regret celebrity influence upon teens,

The roots and trunk of our future, hollowed out like logs

To be only superficial and not care about what’s on the inside.

But our current generation can still be saved without doubt

If we look up to Mandela, Churchill and Malala

Instead of Minaj, West and Gaga.

From the runners up, 9E:

You may say that you wish to live forever,

That you wish to die never,

But our eventual passing is what gives our life its merit,

The looming presence of death is what motivates us to get out of bed each morning,

Because we may not always have a tomorrow,

The looming presence of death is what lets us perceive the true beauty of our lives,

The looming presence of death is what gives our life its momentum,

It is not the vindictive venom we make it out to be,

Can’t you see?

Death is what coerces us to be alive.

From 9F:

Until this day I never thought dragons existed…

… Yet today I found one, lips curled in a ferocious snarl,

dressed in a satiny carpet of brilliant, crimson scales, and with eyes…

… This dragon was none other than the one that dwelled within me,

the one which I have tried to subdue for so long.

It is eating me, chewing at the fibres of my identity.

This dragon’s name is Guilt.

From 9G:

I thought I knew who I was.

I thought I was that person who would always do well in school,

That person who should be popular and loved,

That person who could shove other people aside to get what he wanted,

The centre of the universe.

The world would revolve around the brightness of my glow and the other planets would looks to me with envy and greed,

knowing they could never reach me.

I knew who I was.

I was happy.

I was content.

I was frolicking inside the beautiful meadow in my little bubble,

skipping in time with the beat that had been set out for me.

From 9H:

The powers of the world don’t like change,

So they shut up the game-breakers,

the would-be preachers,

the idea makers, because their system only works

when nothing changes, so they keep them quiet,

with only their malicious greed behind it,

planting the seed.

When the seed grows, it turns into a tree,

and when a tree grows tall, it’s hard to cut down…

From 9J:

My speech I left like a house on fire,

But this time my words won’t misfire.

That bully, it’s time to confront him,

To show I’m not just a melting icecream.

Without dismay, without distress,

Chest out, back straight.

Because I will take on the dare.

From 9K:

Blinks of cosmic glitter twinkled  in the sky

shimmering with an exuberant brilliance

as it stained the rich vermillion sunset.

The place where the sky met the sea

Had a majestical topography.

and a favourite line of mine:

They tormented the sky, tearing the delicate canvas,

Its colour a conflux that couldn’t stop bleeding…

And, to honour 9L’s winning poem, here is the full text:

9L  Ivan and Yi Ming

Poverty

 

Somewhere in Australia they are incinerating

Designer handbags, never used, to maintain brand exclusivity

Whilst in inner-suburbia there is a child digging through

The Salvo’s donation tip for a jacket that can last them the winter

Somewhere in Australia they are building boutique apartments

And fancy shopping malls so that we forget that

Unemployment is soaring

Homelessness is soaring

Poverty is the cracked lips of a boy, hands outstretched, eyes like a dead fish,

it is the blackened toenails of the outworker, chest compressing with each breath

Do you not hear the lullaby of a mother hunched in a rusty old car in a parking lot at night?

Do the cries of the homeless who scream with fleshy pink throats fall upon your deaf ears?

Do you hear the peoples sing: but only until it stops making you feel comfortable

Because it is better to be silent, hold our tongues

Bow our heads in defeat and get back to work

Then for you to acknowledge that the wealth, the privilege you accumulated

Was built on the blood and bones of the oppressed minorities

Built on the sweat and tears of the homeless and overworked

Is it truly benevolence when you throw a piece of stale bread

To the people whose homes you drove them out of?

Our narrative, our stories aren’t your pay-per-view poverty porn to ogle at

Do not throw us your scraps, your pittances for us

For us to climb onto the back of other others to reach for

We were confined to lifetimes hunched over, lifeless, in factory plants

Lethargic and weary as pawns in your pyramid scheme

Would you rather us complacent and obedient slaves?

 

(SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH)

Do we scare you?

Since when has saying nothing done anything?

This is not an outlet to spruik your faux philanthropy

This is not an appeal for a rich people Jesus to come to our salvation

We learnt the hard way that in the snaking queues of Centrelink

Under the Flinders Street bridge at night that there is no god pining for us

We don’t care if you don’t want to believe we exist but we believe in you!

Each and every one of you are complicit in our death

On the streets, in rusty cars, in public housing units,

Guilty whether by consent, complacency, indifference.

The only way to enact social change, to close up the crackswe have fallen into is

To lend a hand, give a shoulder to cry on, open up your ears.

This is a conversation.

Won’t you listen?

 

 

A huge thank you to Ms Buckland for organising this event, to all the English teachers involved for hard work and inspiration, to Ms Morgan and Mr Sloan for judging (I can’t thank myself, but I enjoyed the judging experience so much), and to Ms Tsilimidos for her unrivalled skills as M.C.! A big thank you to our wonderful stage and film crew, Brett and Mr Morton.

 

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“How to read a poem” by Mr Blair Mahoney on World Poetry Day #tenminutetuesdays

To celebrate World Poetry Day, Mr Blair Mahoney talked about “how to read a poem” today as part of our Ten Minute Tuesdays series at recess.

He started with the poem “Introduction to Poetry” by Billy Collins:

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Mr Mahoney encouraged us to enjoy the poem without having to understand all of it.

“The Windhover” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

To Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-

dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

  No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.      

Mr Mahoney read “Cartoon Physics, part 1” by Nick Flynn after he talked about poems sometimes having personal meaning for people at different times of their lives.

Children under, say, ten, shouldn’t know

that the universe is ever-expanding,

inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies

swallowed by galaxies, whole

solar systems collapsing, all of it

acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock

only he can pass through it.

Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds

should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,

ships going down—earthbound, tangible

disasters, arenas

where they can be heroes. You can run

back into a burning house, sinking ships

have lifeboats, the trucks will come

with their ladders, if you jump

you will be saved. A child

places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus,

& drives across a city of sand. She knows

the exact spot it will skid, at which point

the bridge will give, who will swim to safety

& who will be pulled under by sharks. She will learn

that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff

he will not fall

until he notices his mistake.

 

After sharing some tips for reading poetry out loud, Mr Mahoney read out “In the Park” by Gwen Harwood, demonstrating paying attention to punctuation and run-on sentences.

She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.

Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.

A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt

Someone she loved once passed by – too lateto feign indifference to that casual nod.

“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”

From his neat head unquestionably rises

a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing

the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet

to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ”

she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing

the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.

To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

 

Thanks to Mr Mahoney for his engaging session and expertise. Thanks to all who came; I’m sure you got the most out of ten minutes of your recess on World Poetry Day.

Slam Poetry is alive and well at MHS

Last month Year 9 English classes gathered in Memorial Hall to support and barrack for their class teams in an entertaining competition for the opportunity to perform in the Melbourne Writers’ Festival Out Loud Poetry Slam Competition.

Dynamic duo, Alex Shang and Jian Lam of 9F gave a stirring performance of The Black Dog and were chosen to represent Melbourne High. Two weeks later semi-finals were held in the State Library with teams from 14 Victorian schools.
Competition was hot and only five teams could be selected for the MWF finals.
Slam poet and organiser of the contest, Emilie Zoe Baker remarked that this was the best prepared MHS team ever.

alexJian

Special thanks to 9F English teacher, Mrs Hamilton and Performance Coach, Ms Brownhill and congratulations to all Year 9 English teachers for creating such a fun and lively competition across the year level.

edge1           edge2

9F students enjoyed their class reward – yesterday’s visit to the Out Loud Finals at Deakin Edge in Federation Square

9F1

 

9F2

9F3

What is slam poetry? Teachers give Year 9s a taste.

Do you groan when someone mentions poetry? Now be honest. Let’s face it, understanding poetry is not one of the easiest things. And how relevant are daffodils and daggers to the everyday lives of teenage boys?

What about slam poetry? Urbandictionary.com defines ‘slam poetry’ as:

A type of poetry expressing a person’s personal story and/or struggle usually in an intensely emotional style. Very powerful, sincere, and moving.

and

The only thing known to man that makes anyone under the age of 30 like poetry.

Okay, perhaps the second one is a bit extreme but it’s reasonable to assume that Slam Poetry or Spoken Word or Urban Poetry might resonate more with young people than Elizabethan verse. After all, it’s almost Hip-Hop, isn’t it? It has the qualities young people can relate to: passion, political awareness, critical voice… It doesn’t stay in a book; it gets performed. It gives the performer an opportunity to deliver a message in a strong way, to embody a persona which allows you to shout, to insist, to uncover, to get angry, to be inspired – you get the idea.

Today in assembly our Year 9s were introduced to Slam Poetry by Mr Blair Mahoney who showed 3 examples before giving 3 English teachers unseen Slam Poetry to perform, after which 3 students gave them a score out of 10 (yeah, I know, lots of mystical numbers).

Ms Amanda Carroll was brave as first Slam Poet, performing Tom Wayman’s, “Did I Miss Anything?”. Sorry, Ms Carroll, I missed the start of your performance, but great stuff.

After Ms Anne-Marie Brownhill’s professional performance of Taylor Mali’s, “What Teachers Make, or Objection Overruled, or If things don’t work out, you can always go to law school”, Mr Richard Edge talked about the importance of confidence in the delivery of the poem, and then performed Harry Baker’s, “Where the Wild Things Are.”

It was a close competition but Mr Edge came out on top according to the student judges (don’t they look excited!).

Poetry is dead – Staff vs Students Debate @MHS

So you missed the Students versus Staff Debate. Fear not, for we have at least some of it here in this blog post. Sadly two students were so relieved the debate was over that they threw their speeches into the bin. However we do still have speeches delivered by two of the teachers and one of the students, James Hayne, School Captain. Enjoy.

Poetry is dead was the topic for debate at Litfest 2015.

Representing the affirmative team were the teachers: Ms Amanda Carroll, Mr Sam Bryant and Mr Blair Mahoney.

Representing the negative team were the students: Alan Xue, Daniel Li and James Hayne.

Ms Amanda Carroll, first speaker for the affirmative team:

Who here saw the Year 9 Poetry Slam? [ hands up].  Poetry is dead.  I rest my case. Thank you and goodbye.[pretends to leave the stage]

No, I jest.

About leaving the stage.  Not about the death of poetry.  I actually applaud the year 9s attempts to resuscitate it (an act akin, if I may be so bold, an act akin to the desperate making out that goes on in the break out rooms at the Junior Social – if Junior Social was First Aid training and the body in question was Resuscitation Annie).

……..

Believe it or not there was a time when poetry was everywhere…a happier time when people could be free in their love for poetry.  Free in their poetry, free in their love, even (ask Mr Cogo)  I mean their love of free poetry…

There was no shame.  Poetry was a form of art and it had the power to move people.

To give you an example, I have here a heartbreakingly beautiful poem.  A haiku (that brief but resonant form) that Mr Barham wrote for Mr Crocket: (I actually wonder whether I should even read this out) *pauses

Tall Man

Shake your beard shake it

More than a beard to me: leaves, water

Reflect in autumn

Oh yes, as this poem shows, poetry has been very much alive. Misunderstood, yes.  Misappropriated, maybe.  But alive, nevertheless.  Gloriously, shamelessly, thrillingly alive and that , dear friends, was poetry’s downfall. There was a time when the poet Lord Byron could wake up in the morning, drink a white wine spritzer, wrestle his pet bear, write a verse or two then make sweet love to his half-sister Augusta.

Who can say how poetry became associated with debauchery, but over time this is exactly what happened.  It became the p-word.   Held responsible for allowing people to say and feel too much, blamed for excessive expressions of emotion,  it went underground – it became contraband. Soon noone wanted to be caught looking at poetry.

And No one knows this better than Mr Mahoney’s mum. She passed her son’s bedroom door of a night and she knew.  She had heard the occasional sob or squeal of delight. She had seen the box of Kleenex on the floor.  (for the tears, gentlemen, the tears). She knew what was happening – her boy was growing up….reading poetry.

Indeed it was not so very long ago at all, that teachers of all disciplines taught using poetry – there was no shame.  Poetry wasn’t just something you did in English class.  Teachers used to rhyme in a happier time.

Ms Petrie used Hamlet to teach algebra: To be or not two be that was the question

Mr Bush used to cycle wistfully along the Yarra calling into his loudhailer: O Romeo, Romeo!

Mr DeKorte used to teach reclined on a chaise lounge, robes askew, eating grapes peeled by his 9H minons and he was all: if music be the food of love play on.  (He also said a load of other random stuff about volleyball but that was not in iambic pentameter)

But teachers began to realize that poetry was falling on deaf ears.  More disturbingly students couldn’t understand simple poetic devices. Staff members at Melbourne High School who had alliteration in their names had to have them changed by Depol because students simply couldn’t understand them.  Who were these staff members, I hear you ask?, Ray Rawson, Flick Fusden and Ken ‘the King’ Kong. (nevermore, nevermore).  The alliterative beauty of their birthright a burden too much to bear.

And that’s not counting those whose names had the resonance of assonance:  You look askance – you’re right it’s pants these giants of our school now ants.  So I want to pay homage to the tonnage of number oneage – the teachers who went to Depol because of poetry dumbage:

Richard Prichard. Barney Mahoney.  Betty Sette. (all changed, changed utterly)

You know the most shocking thing about the death of poetry is that while poetry took body blows over the years: the dumbing down of culture –messages in greeting cards; the emergence of emoji; clickbait; a Ludowyke assembly or two….it was here – in the classrooms of MHS that poetry finally expired.

The prime suspect?  The Year 9 boy who sits down to write a poem (too easy).  Hmmmmm “My heart beat fast”  What is fast?  What is a fast thing?  (this is hard!)…..  A cheetah is fast.  My heart beats as fast as a cheetah.  (He looks around.  Very pleased) Now.  What rhymes with cheetah?

Or perhaps it was this Valentine’s day effort from a Melbourne High year 10:

Roses are Red,

Violets are Blue

I can recite pi to 3.141592….65358979….323846264338327950288419716

and I think you know where this is going….

This kind ineptitude – murdering of the metaphor and strangling of the simile, of cliché ridden claptrap –  it took its toll on poetry.

Because Poetry could not stop for death He kindly stopped for Poetry

Yes, poetry is dead.  And the fact that you wouldn’t know a satirical take on an Emily Dickinson poem if it whisked you away to your Maker in a carriage is neither here nor there.  That poetry is dead is as clear as the skin on a Year 11’s face.

We might even ask, today, if it wasn’t the sheer ineptitude of MHS boys, was it plain ignorance that dealt poetry the mortal blow?

Let’s face it, the only Blake you guys know is the Lively blonde from Gossip Girl.  You think Yeats is a versatile range of horticultural supplies. The only Burns you have heard of is called Montgomery and you think Keats is a collective noun for geography teachers.

Whatever the case, the opposition will try to tell you Poetry lives.  They might try to pass something off as research.  Yes, “research”, you know: “Siri: is poetry dead?” In truth, they know nothing.  Their part in this collective ignorance will become apparent all too soon.

So…. let me school you.  You fools, you.  No more Captain My Captain. It got capped in the ass; it passed behind the arras; it lived but alas; Poetry stopped in its tracks:

Hip-hopped

K-Popped

End-stopped.

Mr Blair Mahoney, third speaker for the affirmative team:
Of course poetry is dead, and I have the proof right here in my last royalty cheque for Poetry Reloaded and Poetry Remastered. I may as well retitle them Poetry Refinanced. In fact, this isn’t even a cheque, it’s just a cheque sized piece of paper that I cut out to use as a prop, but even then it’s still worth only slightly less than the real thing.
The truth is, there’s even less money in poetry than there is poetry in money.

Do you know what the bestselling Australian poetry book was last year and how much its author earned? Would you be surprised if I told that that it was Les Murray’s New Selected Poems, which sold just 934 copies, earning its author the paltry sum in royalties of $1800? You should be surprised, because I just made that up, but the point stands that the term “bestselling poetry book” is an oxymoron. The last time anyone made some money from poetry was when Bill Shakespeare dedicated his sonnets to someone called W.H. and received 20 guineas, a small herd of livestock and a year’s supply of writing quills in payment.

Meanwhile, Eminem’s 2004 album Encore has sold more than five million copies thanks to lyrics like “I ain’t never seen an ass like that. The way you move it, you make my pee-pee go doing-doing-doing.’’ Apart from the fact that he clearly needs to see a doctor you can see why the author of lines like “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” would be turning in his grave in recognition of the fact that poetry is truly dead.

Alas poor poetry, I knew it, Horatio; a literary form of most infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.

The negative team has been trying to tell you that poetry isn’t dead, that it’s just resting, it’s stunned, or it’s pining for the fjords, but we know very well that it is no more, it’s ceased to be, it’s expired and gone to meet its maker. If they hadn’t nailed poetry to its perch it’d be pushing up daisies.

If I asked any of these supposed poetry lovers on the negative team who their favourite living poet was, they’d look flummoxed and then throw out a few names like Robert Frost (dead), Dylan Thomas (drank himself to death), Christopher Marlowe (stabbed in the eye in an argument over a bar tab), Sylvia Plath (stuck her head in the oven and gassed herself) or Edgar Allen Poe (found delirious in a gutter wearing another man’s clothes and died four days later). There was a reason the film was called ‘Dead Poet’s Society’…
The reason poetry is dead is because as much as we English teachers have tried to resuscitate poetry, to reanimate his corpse for the benefit and enlightenment of you students, you’ve spurned him. We’re not the villains here in this trial, as we gather round the fallen body of this once noble literary form. No, it’s you guys. You’re the ones that killed poetry. He used to be so full of life, so gay. And then we introduced him to you guys, and you started snickering about the word “gay.” We said, “Hey, calm down now. Poetry is great you just need to get to know him better to fully appreciate his charms.” And you started moaning about how “difficult” he was, how he just “didn’t make any sense.” And then we turned our back for a second and before we knew it you’d slammed poetry [pause] out of the window from the top floor of the N building and he was lying splattered on the concrete below. There’s no need to call in CSI for this case: you’ve got poetry’s blood all over your hands and a little water will not clear you of this deed.

If we’d had better students it could have been a different story. Come teach at Melbourne High, the brochures said. The smartest students in the state, Mr Ludowyke promised. So Mr Bryant and I gave up our lucrative positions in private schools and Ms Carroll winged her way home to Australia from England, a place where being able to quote a bit of John Donne is enough to land you a job as an investment banker. Here is educational utopia we thought. How wrong we were. Our efforts to share the delights of iambic pentameter were met with blank stares. Our hearts would lift a little at the sight of a raised hand only to plummet again when it turned out to be a request to go to the toilet. So many bladder problems amongst young men these days… Day after day we see poetry beaten down by the supposedly superior seductions of specialist maths and those websites where you can try to calculate your ATAR. Is it any wonder that poetry didn’t survive in the face of such callous indifference and literary ineptitude?

But poetry didn’t have to die. Occasionally we English teachers dream of a better world, one where people can quote lines from Seamus Heaney without shame, a world where people can rhyme… all the time, a world where poetic techniques such as similes live on, like something that lives for a really long time, a Galapagos turtle or something. At times we think we can even catch a glimpse of it, a place where the students aren’t afraid to study Literature for VCE because it means they have to read a few poems: it’s called Mac.Rob…

James Hayne was a student speaker for the negative team. (James is School Captain.)

Boys, poetry isn’t dead. It isn’t even dying. It’s simply being reloaded. Which brings me to the textbook reference for the reloading of poetry. Poetry reloaded by…. Wait a minute…. Mr Blair Mahoney. Today, I thought I’d theme my speech along the biblical words of Mr Mahoney himself.

Chapter 1: Poetry gets Started

It’s well known that poetry is like every schoolies trip. In the morning, poetry is fine. But by 3pm, poetry turns you to drink until you’re drunk and passed out on the floor. To prove this point, I’d like detail how my Sunday night went.

6:00pm: Opened Poetry Reloaded and read 2 pages.

6:05pm: Was bombarded with terms such as alliteration, analogy, near rhyme, metaphors and similes

6:06pm: Drunk half a bottle of vodka.

6:07pm: Wondered why the page had just turned green and chunky

6:08pm Passed out

8:00am the next morning: Woke up and realized that I’d have to battle through assembly while hung over

Some may wonder why I recounted those events. I’d like to submit today that poetry is a rite of passage. Having had Ms Carroll for English in Year 10, I know first hand how poetry changes your life. In year 10, Ms Carroll pushed me to ‘just let your feelings flow out onto the page’. And having done so, she then crushed my hopes of becoming a poet by saying ‘try to make your poem happier next time’. That’s when I realised what poetry was. It’s like Thursday’s Child, Death of a Salesman and Merchant of Venice. It’s part of the English curriculum just to infuriate you. And poetry only just got started.

Chapters 2 through 4: Mr Mahoney makes insightful commentaries about seemingly mindless poems.

One cannot tackle poetry without tackling poetry analysis. Poetry analysis is the singular most hated thing at MHS. Having read Mr Mahoney’s textbook, I realized what English teachers are employed to do – tell their students that everything has a deeper meaning.

I thought I’d provide three examples from Mr Mahoney’s textbook:

  • From the poem Daffodils by Wordsworth: ‘Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky way’. What did the poet mean when he wrote this? Ironically the poet is reflecting on the Syrian crisis. His use of the lexime ‘continuous’ explores the economic and social harms of the crisis. Further, the symbolism of ‘the milky way’ refers readers to the galactic impact of the crisis on ties between the USA and Syria.
  • From the poem The Stolen Child by Yeats: ‘to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles’. What did the poet want the reader to feel when he wrote this? Obviously the poet wants the reader to reflect upon Guantanamo Bay. The use of phrasing such as ‘to and fro we leap’ exposes how ‘Guantanamo’ comes from the Algerian term ‘Guanlepo’ which means ‘to leap’. Yeat’s reference to the ‘frothy bubbles’ reveals how bubble baths are popular among inmates at the prison.
  • From the poem Love Song by Parker: ‘the ways are fair to his roaming feet’. What did the poet intend to do? Although many students believe she was reflecting upon the recent Chinese economic downturn, Parker was just talking about how there are many ways to walk to her husband.

Yet, as I conclude today, I thought it best to turn to one of Mr Mahoney’s many poetry activities. In Chapter 5: Poetry falls in love, Mr Mahoney suggests to his readers that they write a love poem. Having provided examples of love poems that could have the girls dropping to their knees at social next year, I decided to write one myself.

Love, by James Hayne as inspired the works of Bryant, Carroll and Mahoney

How do I love you? Let me count the ways.

Mr Mahoney you write textbooks of poetry

Filled with anaphora, pentameter and limerick that you set ablaze

As you 420 blaze it for many days

Ms Carroll you taught me how to analyse.

I made sure I filled my essays with word level analysis

I talked about symbolism, alliteration and caesuras until I agonized

Then, on my final exam, you gave me 12/25.

Mr Bryant you just look like verse.

When I think of poetry, I think of you

Because when you recite rhyme, your students disperse

As they realize that English simply cant worse.

Why do I love you? Of reasons, I only know three.

Students of MHS, poetry is like an STD.

It won’t kill you but it will bug you forever,

Because poetry will make you fail VCE.

We are inspired by people who are inspiring – #LiteratureWeek #BookWeek

Yesterday we had Abe Nouk, spoken word poet, speaking to the Year 10 students. Abe kept the students captivated with stories about his life as a Sudanese refugee who found asylum in Australia. He talked about the importance of finding a way to tell your own stories and how his belated efforts to achieve literacy and the discovery of spoken word poetry were an avenue for him to serve the society that has become his home.
On Wednesday, MHS old boy and comedian Nazeem Hussain will be speaking to the Year 11 students. Nazeem has written for his own comedy shows, such as Fear of a Brown Planet (with Aamer Rahman) and the television series Legally Brown.
On Tuesday next week, Indian writer Samhita Arni, author of The Mahabharata – A Child’s View (which she started writing and illustrating when she was just eight), Sita’s Ramayana (with artist Moyna Chitrakar) and The Missing Queen, will be speaking to the Year 9 students.
(Mr Blair Mahoney – organiser of English program for Literature Week)

Abe tells stories from the heart and encourages young people to believe in the value of their stories.

After fleeing South Sudan with his single mother and seven brothers and sisters as refugees, Abe described coming to Australia in 2004 as nothing short of magical. He said only a few years ago he couldn’t read or write a word of English and now he was creating art and connecting with people in ways he never would have imagined. (Source: The Creative Issue)

You can keep in touch with Abe on Twitter – @AbeNouk   His tweets are uplifting, simple messages advocating happiness through humility, gratitude and service to others.

Abe has given his permission to post photos and videos of his talk to our year 10 students. I missed the beginning of his first spoken word poem because he launched into it seamlessly in the middle of his talk.

Emilie Zoey Baker slams MHS again #poetry

Guess who’s back in town? Emilie Zoey Baker has returned to Melbourne High School for another crowd-raising series of spoken word workshops (Shhh… we won’t tell them it’s poetry). If today’s year 9 assembly was any indication of how engaged our students are going to be with poetry – slam poetry or spoken word poetry – then it’s going to be a wild ride.

We had a poetry slam competition: 3 awesome spoken word poets and some mean judges. What’s going on with that?!

Judging by the amount of cheering and booing in Mem Hall, everyone had a great time. Thanks, Emilie.