Passion Project Examples

"Baking Beauties" video- Cooking as a Passion Project

e.e. cummings

Does this poem capture your attention? It is an example of a Concrete Poem, a poem that looks like what it represents (in this case, a leaf falling).

How do you read this poem? A leaf falls, loneliness? Does it have to be interpreted this way?

Consider how the poet uses visual techniques like punctuation (using parentheses for a sense of separation and enclosure); line breaks and emjambment (when one line wraps around to the next).

What do you see and feel when you look at this poem?

Is there a sense of falling? A leaf floating down into the leaf pile at the bottom of the poem?
Do you see isolation? A negative connotation from the the "l" being set alone- loneliness?
Do you see singularity of self? "Iness?" A more positive feeling?
Is it loneliness, or oneliness? If the latter, what does oneliness mean? cummings loves to invent new words!

This is an amazing poem from e.e. cummings, one of the most avant-garde and free-spirited poets in the English language. cummings was incredibly experimental, especially for his time of writing during the early 20th century.

This excerpt from a biography of cummings at poetryfoundation.org summarizes his style: "cummings experimented with poetic form and language to create a distinct personal style. A cummings poem is spare and precise, employing a few key words eccentrically placed on the page. Some of these words were invented by cummings, often by combining two common words into a new synthesis. He also revised grammatical and linguistic rules to suit his own purposes, using such words as "if," "am," and "because" as nouns, for example, or assigning his own private meanings to words. Despite their nontraditional form, cummings' poems came to be popular with many readers. "No one else," Randall Jarrell claimed in his The Third Book of Criticism, "has ever made avant-garde, experimental poems so attractive to the general and the special reader." By the time of his death in 1962 cummings held a prominent position in twentieth-century poetry."
                                                                    

(You may have noticed that e.e. cummings' name is not capitalized. He did this on purpose to reflect his style.)

Below is e.e. cummings' signature poem, "in Just," another poem that heralds the arrival of Spring. I performed this in my theatre group in high school so it's a sentimental favorite of mine. I love the phrases "when the world is mud luscious" and "the world is puddle-wonderful." cummings is like Shakespeare- he makes up his own words! Enjoy! This one needs to be read aloud....

[in Just-] By E. E. Cummings 1894–1962       

in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far          and             wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles

far

and

wee

Springtime with the Imagist Poets

One style of modern poetry is called Imagist Poetry. This is poetry that "describes images with simple language and great focus." It is a departure from classic poetry with contrived detail, rhyme, and highly philosophized language. Here there is a greater simplicity and purity. It is an offshoot of the free verse pioneered by Whitman.

Several major Imagist poets in America are Ezra Pound, William Carolos Williams, H.D., and Amy Lowell.

Ezra Pound, one of the founders of Imagism, said that there were three tenets, or rules, to writing Imagist poetry:

1. Direct treatment of the subject. That is, the poem should deal directly with what's being talked about, not try to use fancy words and phrases to talk about it.
2. Use of no word that does not contribute to the presentation. Use as few words as possible.
3. Compose in the rhythm of the musical phrase, not in the rhythm of the metronome. In other words, create new rhythms instead of relying on the old, boring ones

(excerpted from educationportal.com)

Here are examples of Imagist poetry about Spring by Amy Lowell. The three poems below are part of a larger series wherein in she chronicles the magic of Spring in her daily life.

 Spring Day [Bath] by Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

 

Spring  [Breakfast Table]

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.
Spring [Night and Sleep]

The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver of a watchmaker’s sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?
  I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.
  My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring.
  The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air.
  Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.

 

 

I really like how these poems are evocative snapshots, verbal photographs of the sensations of her day.

 

Another famous poem about Spring is from Imagist poet, William Carlos Williams:

 

Spring and All [By the Road to the contagious hospital]

 

I

By the road to the contagious hospital

under the surge of the blue

mottled clouds driven from the

northeast-a cold wind.  Beyond, the

waste of broad, muddy fields

brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water

the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish

purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy

stuff of bushes and small trees

with dead, brown leaves under them

leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish

dazed spring approaches-

 

This is a more bleak characterization of Spring, waking itself from death and decay, even contagion, to rise anew.

 

 

Funny Poem Week: Day Five (Billy Collins)

Billy Collins is perhaps my favorite current poet. He is real, active, self-depracating, observant, and most of all funny. In an interview he gave to publicize his new volume of poetry, Aimless Love, he speaks about the pressure to be funny.

He says, "Well, I thought originally when I was in school and I wanted to be a poet, I knew that poets seemed to be miserable. And I was a pretty happy kid, so I decided... to fake it. I had to get into this miserable character before I wrote poems. And it wasn’t for quite a while that I was able to read poets that were —[that] allowed me to be humorous without being silly."

You can watch the whole interview using the link below:

Poet Billy Collins discusses humor, authenticity and ‘Aimless Love’

There are also some good TED Talks featuring Billy Collins, if you're interested in learning more. The link below offers animated versions of five of his poems.

http://www.ted.com/talks/billy_collins_everyday_moments_caught_in_time?language=en#t-630056


Here is a poem that I can relate to about forgetting the books that I have read. I devour so many books, live fully in the moment as I digest them but have a sort of "literary amnesia" afterward. Yes, I read that! I liked it! But what was it about?? What happened? I'm glad I'm not the only one who experiences this frustration about not being able to retain these worlds of prose.

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins    

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue

or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river

whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those

who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted   

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

 

 

Here's another excellent poem that we can appreciate as we ponder, Will this snow EVER melt? Will Spring EVER COME?

 

Snow Day by Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,

its white flag waving over everything,

the landscape vanished,

not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,   

and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,

schools and libraries buried, the post office lost   

under the noiseless drift,

the paths of trains softly blocked,

the world fallen under this falling.

In a while, I will put on some boots

and step out like someone walking in water,   

and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,   

and I will shake a laden branch

sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,   

a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.   

I will make a pot of tea

and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,   

as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,   

the Ding-Dong School, closed.

the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,   

the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,

along with—some will be delighted to hear—

the Toadstool School, the Little School,

Little Sparrows Nursery School,

Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School   

the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,

and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,

These are the nests where they letter and draw,   

where they put on their bright miniature jackets,   

all darting and climbing and sliding,

all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard

in the grandiose silence of the snow,

trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,   

what riot is afoot,

which small queen is about to be brought down.

 

 

Billy Collins' poetry makes everyday life magical and transcendent.

 

And just because I can't stop myself, one more. This makes me think of my son and nephew, then

three years old, glued for hours to their toy train tables, caught up in a whirlwind of actity and 

imagination.

 

 

BOYHOOD by Billy Collins

Alone in the basement,
I would sometimes lower one eye
to the level of the narrow train track

to watch the puffing locomotive
pull the cars around a curve
then bear down on me with its dazzling eye.

What was in those moments
before I lifted my head and let the train
go rocking by under my nose?

I remember not caring much
about the fake grass or the buildings
that made up the miniature town.

The same went for the station and its master,
the crossing gates and flashing lights,
the milk car, the pencil-size logs,

the metallic men and women,
the dangling water tower,
and the round mirror for a pond.

All I wanted was to be blinded
over and over by this shaking light
as the train stuck fast to its oval course.

Or better still, to close my eyes,
to stay there on the cold narrow rails
and let the train tunnel through me

the way it tunneled through the mountain
painted the color of rock,
and then there would be nothing

but the long whistling through the dark -
no basement, no boy,
no everlasting summer afternoon.

 

 

 

Funny Poem Week: Day Four (Dorothy Parker)

One of the sauciest, most irreverent humorists is Dorothy Parker. Yes, she is amusing and entertaining, but her scathing wit often masks her loneliness, insecurity and depression. This can be seen in her most well-know quip: “Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

She was funny even to the end, writing, “excuse my dust” as an epitaph for her tombstone, her final resting place.

Enjoy these two interesting poems by Parker. The second one is for you, Racquel and Emily!

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend —
Bed awaits me at the end.
Though I go in pride and strength,
I’ll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I’m bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall —
I’m a fool to rise at all!

The Passionate Freudian to His Love

Only name the day, and we’ll fly away
 In the face of old traditions,
To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot,
 Where we’ll park our inhibitions.
Come and gaze in eyes where the lovelight lies
 As it psychoanalyzes,
And when once you glean what your fantasies mean
 Life will hold no more surprises.
When you’ve told your love what you’re thinking of
 Things will be much more informal;
Through a sunlit land we’ll go hand-in-hand,
 Drifting gently back to normal.

While the pale moon gleams, we will dream sweet dreams,
 And I’ll win your admiration,
For it’s only fair to admit I’m there
 With a mean interpretation.
In the sunrise glow we will whisper low
 Of the scenes our dreams have painted,
And when you’re advised what they symbolized
 We’ll begin to feel acquainted.
So we’ll gaily float in a slumber boat
 Where subconscious waves dash wildly;
In the stars’ soft light, we will say good-night—
 And “good-night!” will put it mildly.

Our desires shall be from repressions free—
 As it’s only right to treat them.
To your ego’s whims I will sing sweet hymns,
 And ad libido repeat them.
With your hand in mine, idly we’ll recline
 Amid bowers of neuroses,
While the sun seeks rest in the great red west
 We will sit and match psychoses.
So come dwell a while on that distant isle
 In the brilliant tropic weather;
Where a Freud in need is a Freud indeed,
 We’ll always be Jung together. 

 

Funny Poem Week: Day Three (Ogden Nash)

Ogden Nash is a humorous poet best known for his funny sayings and short poems:

"You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely!" (I have a sticker of this one that's proudly displayed on my home computer)

"Midde age is when you're sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn't for you."  (Haha! My old bones can relate to this!)

Maybe you'll relate to this one:  "Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore, and that's what parents were created for."


A Word to Husbands by Ogden Nash

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.                    


The Germ

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.        


Last but not least, here's one of his longer ones that's fun to read at the holidays. I love the line "with impudent vim."

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus

In Baltimore there lived a boy. He wasn't anybody's joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued. He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE. He said he acted thus because There wasn't any Santa Claus. Another trick that tickled Jabez Was crying 'Boo' at little babies. He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways instead of up and down. Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any Santa Claus!' Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their grave. They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral early. Like whooping cough, from child to child, He sped to spread the rumor wild: 'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes There isn't any Santa Claus!' Slunk like a weasel of a marten Through nursery and kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' The children wept all Christmas eve And Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared hang up his stocking For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice dancing in his head, When presently with scalp-a-tingling, Jabez heard a distant jingling; He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof Crisply alighting on the roof. What good to rise and bar the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, But anyhow, I never said it!' 'Jabez' replied the angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez then with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes there is, and I am him! Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't' And suddenly he found he wasn't! From grimy feet to grimy locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, An ugly toy with springs unsprung, Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup And went and hung their stockings up. All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

 .                                                                                    

Funny Poem Week: Day Two (Jack Prelutsky)

Jack Prelutsky is like Shel Silverstein for a younger generation. He's the funny poet that my six-year old knows best and his poems often come home with Owen after school. Owen has learned the nuance of language and the nature of rhyme by reading these silly poems. Yes, the poems are frivolous and juvenile but I find their simplicity and humor quite charming. I hope they give you a laugh and a sense of being a little kid once again.

Be Glad Your Nose Is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky      

Be glad your nose is on your face,

not pasted on some other place,

for if it were where it is not,

you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose

were sandwiched in between your toes,

that clearly would not be a treat,

for you’d be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread

were it attached atop your head,

it soon would drive you to despair,

forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be

an absolute catastrophe,

for when you were obliged to sneeze,

your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,

remains between your eyes and chin,

not pasted on some other place—

be glad your nose is on your face!

 

 

I Found a Four Leaf Clover by Jack Prelutsky

 

I found a four-leaf clover

and was happy with my find,

but with time to think it over,

I’ve entirely changed my mind.

I concealed it in my pocket,

safe inside a paper pad,

soon, much swifter than a rocket,

my good fortune turned to bad.

       I smashed my fingers in a door,

       I dropped a dozen eggs,

       I slipped and tumbled to the floor,

       a dog nipped both my legs,

       my ring slid down the bathtub drain,

       my pen leaked on my shirt,

       I barked my shin, I missed my train,

       I sat on my dessert.

I broke my brand-new glasses,

and I couldn’t find my keys,

I stepped in spilled molasses,

and was stung by angry bees.

When the kitten ripped the curtain,

and the toast burst into flame,

I was absolutely certain

that the clover was to blame.

       I buried it discreetly

       in the middle of a field,

       now my luck has changed completely,

       and my wounds have almost healed.

       If I ever find another,

       I will simply let it be,

       or I’ll give it to my brother—

       he deserves it more than me.