Guten Tag, Weekly Geeks! This week’s theme was suggested by Renay. She says, “I thought it would be cool to ask people to talk about other forms of story-telling.”
This week’s theme is once again one you could approach several ways. You might want to tell about the forms of storytelling (aside from books) you love. Maybe you enjoy TV shows, movies, music, narrative poetry, or Renay’s favorite, fanfiction. You could give us an overview of a type of storytelling, such as listing your favorite movies. Or you might pick a more specific story, one particular favorite.
I can never pick just one … and I’m going to get rambly again, so bear with me. J
First, let me say, I love stories. Any stories, in any medium; be they books, movies, TV shows, songs, poetry … I love stories.
My Dad died suddenly two years ago. He was 83, but in good health. One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t get more of his stories. For Patrick, my father is only ever going to be photographs. He’ll never hear him speak, or sing, or play the violin (Dad was a pretty good musician.) Stories about my father for Patrick (Dad’s namesake) will have to come from me, and I just hope I’m a good enough storyteller.
Every year, around Anzac Day (April 25) these two verses from the war poem, For the Fallen start haunting me:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Dad was in World War 2; somewhere in the South Pacific. He almost never talked about it and I had always hoped that one day I’d be in a position to talk to him about it, but of course, it never happened. So there’s one lost story. Sometimes, what you don’t know weighs more heavily than what you do.
I love poetry and the imagery contained. It’s so economical, and yet it conveys so much. I don’t read a lot of it, having just said that, but once I find something I really like; I tend to read it a little obsessively. “I’m Nobody” by Emily Dickinson is one of my favourites, but I know next to nothing about Dickinson herself. Likewise, the imagery conveyed in these lines by Robert Frost:
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
It just speaks of loneliness, and weariness to me.
Then, there’s The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, by T S Eliot:
My favourite line from that poem is the refrain, of sorts:
“In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michelangelo”
Like J Alfred Prufrock is just … there; on the fringes, looking on. He’s a tentative, shy, diffident type I think _ at least, that’s how I read the poem. J
So. Um. H’m. I love poetry. I do have a half-assed English degree (in other words, I barely scraped through in my last year with a passing mark) and picked up some of it from there. But it’s the way poets arrange their words to tell their stories that really perks up the ears of my soul and gets them listening.
So I’m fascinated with song lyrics as well, sort of. It’s really just another form of poetry isn’t it? I’d say my musical taste doesn’t run much past the mill really, but so what? If I hear a song that has lyrics I can really mull over, or chew on, then that’s all I need to know.
This week’s theme is once again one you could approach several ways. You might want to tell about the forms of storytelling (aside from books) you love. Maybe you enjoy TV shows, movies, music, narrative poetry, or Renay’s favorite, fanfiction. You could give us an overview of a type of storytelling, such as listing your favorite movies. Or you might pick a more specific story, one particular favorite.
I can never pick just one … and I’m going to get rambly again, so bear with me. J
First, let me say, I love stories. Any stories, in any medium; be they books, movies, TV shows, songs, poetry … I love stories.
My Dad died suddenly two years ago. He was 83, but in good health. One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t get more of his stories. For Patrick, my father is only ever going to be photographs. He’ll never hear him speak, or sing, or play the violin (Dad was a pretty good musician.) Stories about my father for Patrick (Dad’s namesake) will have to come from me, and I just hope I’m a good enough storyteller.
Every year, around Anzac Day (April 25) these two verses from the war poem, For the Fallen start haunting me:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Dad was in World War 2; somewhere in the South Pacific. He almost never talked about it and I had always hoped that one day I’d be in a position to talk to him about it, but of course, it never happened. So there’s one lost story. Sometimes, what you don’t know weighs more heavily than what you do.
I love poetry and the imagery contained. It’s so economical, and yet it conveys so much. I don’t read a lot of it, having just said that, but once I find something I really like; I tend to read it a little obsessively. “I’m Nobody” by Emily Dickinson is one of my favourites, but I know next to nothing about Dickinson herself. Likewise, the imagery conveyed in these lines by Robert Frost:
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
It just speaks of loneliness, and weariness to me.
Then, there’s The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, by T S Eliot:
My favourite line from that poem is the refrain, of sorts:
“In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michelangelo”
Like J Alfred Prufrock is just … there; on the fringes, looking on. He’s a tentative, shy, diffident type I think _ at least, that’s how I read the poem. J
So. Um. H’m. I love poetry. I do have a half-assed English degree (in other words, I barely scraped through in my last year with a passing mark) and picked up some of it from there. But it’s the way poets arrange their words to tell their stories that really perks up the ears of my soul and gets them listening.
So I’m fascinated with song lyrics as well, sort of. It’s really just another form of poetry isn’t it? I’d say my musical taste doesn’t run much past the mill really, but so what? If I hear a song that has lyrics I can really mull over, or chew on, then that’s all I need to know.
Like A Stone, by Audioslave is like that:
I know next to nothing about the band, but I love that song – especially the chorus and the image it evokes of a kind of desperate, patient, waiting.
And Fall At Your Feet, by Crowded House. There’s something aching and delicate and wanting about that song; all at once.
6 comments:
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions
which a minute will reverse
This was always my favourite passage of the Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock.
What a beautiful post! I'm so sorry about your father!
I've always loved poetry, too. But it's a personal kind of thing...I never feel like I can talk about it intelligibly.
Alessandra: It's a great poem, all around. :)
Debi: I'm a lover of poetry, too; rather than someone who "appreciates" it.
You won the pecans! E-mail me w/ your address so I can mail them to you! mmoranATnorthwestmsDOTedu
Thanks for the reminder about family stories. I'm in the process of writing down as much as I can from my grandparents (now 86 and 90) ... no matter what I write, there are always holes in the stories. Click here if you want a sample.
Heather, thanks for the link. I hope you can fill in as many holes as possible; it's so great that you still have your grandparents to ask. :)
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