I was 23 and self-effacing, my hair in a tight bun, when I read these lines, out of George Oppen's  Of Being Numerous . I read them on my hour or so ride on the Q train, when I went to teach Brighton Beach community college students who had failed their basic reading and writing exam. That season, in which one of my students left obscene phrases on torn pieces of paper on my desk, I tried to teach poetry to him and the others and sometimes succeeded.

Long ago as a high school sophomore, I had yet to experience "first love," or anything resembling it, so when I read the sonnet  Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,  it wasn't so much the romantic tone that entranced me. There was no particular girl or boy that I thought of as I read it in class. It wasn't the deft imagery either, gorgeous to be sure, but the poem's assertion of immortality in its last two lines. That was what got me.

You love John Keats. I do too. He revolutionized the art, died young, left a lot of masterful poetry unwritten, was good-looking and tubercular: Keats!

But Christopher Marlowe left a lot of poetry unwritten too.

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I was 23 and self-effacing, my hair in a tight bun, when I read these lines, out of George Oppen's  Of Being Numerous . I read them on my hour or so ride on the Q train, when I went to teach Brighton Beach community college students who had failed their basic reading and writing exam. That season, in which one of my students left obscene phrases on torn pieces of paper on my desk, I tried to teach poetry to him and the others and sometimes succeeded.

Long ago as a high school sophomore, I had yet to experience "first love," or anything resembling it, so when I read the sonnet  Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,  it wasn't so much the romantic tone that entranced me. There was no particular girl or boy that I thought of as I read it in class. It wasn't the deft imagery either, gorgeous to be sure, but the poem's assertion of immortality in its last two lines. That was what got me.

You love John Keats. I do too. He revolutionized the art, died young, left a lot of masterful poetry unwritten, was good-looking and tubercular: Keats!

But Christopher Marlowe left a lot of poetry unwritten too.

Для использования нашего нового интерфейса поиска требуется JavaScript. Включите JavaScript в браузере и повторите попытку .

Uploaded by tomworkman on January 18, 2008

I was 23 and self-effacing, my hair in a tight bun, when I read these lines, out of George Oppen's  Of Being Numerous . I read them on my hour or so ride on the Q train, when I went to teach Brighton Beach community college students who had failed their basic reading and writing exam. That season, in which one of my students left obscene phrases on torn pieces of paper on my desk, I tried to teach poetry to him and the others and sometimes succeeded.

Long ago as a high school sophomore, I had yet to experience "first love," or anything resembling it, so when I read the sonnet  Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,  it wasn't so much the romantic tone that entranced me. There was no particular girl or boy that I thought of as I read it in class. It wasn't the deft imagery either, gorgeous to be sure, but the poem's assertion of immortality in its last two lines. That was what got me.

You love John Keats. I do too. He revolutionized the art, died young, left a lot of masterful poetry unwritten, was good-looking and tubercular: Keats!

But Christopher Marlowe left a lot of poetry unwritten too.

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