Poems Aloud

My first introduction to poetry was when I was seven. I was on a family holiday and, in an attempt to entertain, my uncle recited to me The Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. It was a remarkably successful attempt for I was smitten.

Over the following week I asked him to repeat it again and again and again until he must have regretted ever mentioning the thing. It never lost its charm for me however and, thirty-one years on, I still joyfully recite it to myself during the tedium of long commutes home or the marking of my thirtieth English book.

I can’t pinpoint what it was about this strange and often nonsensical piece that had me so mesmerised except that upon hearing the movement of those words, I can remember a wave of joy washing over my young mind.

The words bucked and jolted along with the hero’s voyage into the deep, ‘tulgey’ woods. I stood distracted in ‘uffish thought’ as our hero rested by the ‘Tumtum tree’. I could see the movements of the ‘Bandersnatch’ and the ‘Jubjub bird’ and the less I was told about these fantastical creatures the more I wanted to know and so my brain busily filled in the gaps. In pyjamas and supposedly ‘ready for bed’, ‘The vorpal blade’ and it’s ‘snicker-snack!’ had me jumping up in a fencing pose and ready to do battle.

Hot on the heels of Lewis Carrol came Jeff Wayne’s musical version of War of the Worlds and in particular, the dry, rasping and melodic tones of Richard Burton’s monologues. I could be found (again, ‘ready for bed’) with head wedged between two giant hi-fi speakers with eyes tightly closed, picturing the unearthly ‘red weed’ as it eerily swallowed up the Thames and ‘slowly and surely’ devoured London.

That early, simplistic joy of hearing words being read aloud with a sense of enthusiasm and drama is still with me. My love of The Jabberwocky led to an adoration of other fictional, fantasy realms. War of the Worlds led to loving the rasping timbre of Tom Waits, Patti Smith and rediscovering Burton in Under Milk Wood.

Starting university, a decade later, armed with the foreboding brick of the Norton Anthology of English Literature and some overly serious expectations of the literary world, I encountered very hard walls and understood very little of what I was meant to. Still though, I adored poetry, all the more so when listening to others read and perform it aloud.

A decade further and finding myself a Literacy Coordinator of a South London primary school, I realised that I wanted our children to experience the same thrill and enthusiasm I had felt when hearing my first, second, third and, if I’m honest, hundredth poem.

This was a process; firstly, we made sure there was a range of poetry books and anthologies in each classroom. We allotted a fixed time in the Friday assembly for children to perform memorised poetry – some nugget of verse they really enjoyed. We asked if any of the older children - boys and girls - would lead the charge by reciting some of their favourites hoping this might catch on.

And, whenever the budget allowed, we booked in writers, storytellers and poets to perform their work and run workshops (organisations like Apples and Snakes and Authors Aloud were brilliant and connected us with many amazing writers).

And something remarkable did happen. Children began to see that by performing a poem – alone or with friends – they could quickly move others, make them laugh and share their experiences and feelings or just their best jokes. Children often huddled in small groups in the playground with a poetry book reciting and performing with friends – it was fun, cooperative and akin to singing a song together.  Some children developed an emotional need to read poetry and eventually to create their own, not because it was an ‘English lesson’ but because they loved writing and performing.

It initially led to many groups of friends writing a plethora of poems entitled, “Friends, by Us” and a misguided obsession with making each line rhyme at any cost. However, some trailblazers organically started to break these moulds in their writing and try different approaches. Through the year, we moved from children reciting memorised poems to others (with own poetry notebook in hand) writing and performing original work. The important thing was that they were bouncing ideas off each other, borrowing lines from one another and a small community of poets was tentatively growing there on the banks of the Thames.

Sadly, the momentum from this did not last and the various other pressures on a primary school assembly ‘slowly and surely’ swallowed up that precious fifteen minutes of Friday poetry time. The teachers continued to find opportunities through the day in class for children to perform their work and to listen to others read but it felt that we had lost an important part of the school week.

Memorising and performing poetry is important. It can often feel like poems seem out of our grasp but by memorising them, they hang around at the back of our minds waiting very patiently for us – waiting for us to have the right (or wrong) experiences and opportunities, to feel more and perhaps know less. And then, quite suddenly, if we allow ourselves to listen, a line or verse can blossom into our understanding – when the season is right. The earlier this season comes for children, the better.

Blog by Donny Morrison, Literacy Consultant @DonnyLiteracy

Posted in: Poetry