Creative Writing Love Poetry

Jeg kan godt lide digte. Og jeg kan godt lide at arbejde med digte i klasserummet. Både som analyseobjekter og øvelser i creative writing. Fra tid til anden er der endda elever, som opdager digte, som taler til dem. Eller de finder digtere som på fascinerer dem.

The Poetry Project er mit forsøg på at engagere eleverne i nærlæsning, lyd, rytme, intensitet, sproglige billeder gennem mødet med engelsksproget poesi fra alle hjørner af verden. Vi læser digte – denne gang – af Kae Tempest, af Carl Sandburg, af Allen Ginsberg, Rupi Kaur, Charles Bukowski, ee cummings og Shakespeare. Vi lytter til digte, smager på digte, ser digte folde sig ud i vignetter og animationer. Og vi slutter af med at skrive og performe vores egne tekster.

Det kan godt være grænseoverskridende for eleverne at stå frem med deres egne ting, så derfor skriver jeg også selv med og går forrest i oplæsningssceancen. Her får du mit digt fra udsigten over sportspladsen og et spil Ultimate – fortolkningen må du selv stå for:-)

It looks so clean this green space encircled
By faint white lines straight as a rule
For some incomprehensible game

Cardboard cutouts send tiny white and yellow lines
Flying they twist and turn from line to moon to circle
Catch the falling circumference
Run for cover for truth for distance.
Run because he tells you to run
For laughter run for the sheer joy of movement

A blue car passes behind trees in the distance
Unaware of the players
The blue reds, the yellow oranges
Soon the trees will turn from green
Leave their summer dress behind to
Stand naked in the gentle rain
The car will keep its colour
Unless burned to rust
Under a pale sky it too
Naked in its corroded metal skin

Somewhere children are picking
Fragments of shells
On deserted beachfronts
Exploding like rivers
High on mars bars and protein shakes
Like you a crane
Like you a sea
Like you forever moving closer to
Last remaining glimpses
Of conscious thought
Provoking animals and dreams and kings
Charles comes in third in the race for the bottom
Mother lying in state broken – truth
Be told – like the wings of a fly
The drugs are quick
The centre cannot hold
The Rosenhergs electrocuted in queer sultry summers
What is – in fact – in a name?
Putin sounds like putain in French
The name like a whore out for money or blood or tangerine peel
It looks so clean this green space encircled
Tomorrow – perhaps – shadows will smell like cinnamon

UNtitled by Morten Mølgaard Pedersen