Our English Classes

A blog for Maribel's students at EOI and CEP Granada

Archive for the ‘06. your mind dancing to the drumbeat of your heart’ Category

Car Seat Headrest – Times To Die

Posted by maribel on 27/04/2017

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A Tribe Called Quest – We The People

Posted by maribel on 02/03/2017

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The Minister for Exams

Posted by maribel on 01/06/2016

The Minister For Exams is a poem by Brian Patten.

When I was a child I sat an exam.
This test was so simple
There was no way i could fail.

Question 1. Describe the taste of the Moon.

It tastes like Creation I wrote,
it has the flavour of starlight.

Question 2. What colour is Love?

Love is the colour of the water a man
lost in the desert finds, I wrote.

Question 3. Why do snowflakes melt?

I wrote, they melt because they fall
on to the warm tongue of God.

There were other questions.
They were as simple.

I described the grief of Adam
when he was expelled from Eden.
I wrote down the exact weight of
an elephant’s dream

Yet today, many years later,
For my living I sweep the streets
or clean out the toilets of the fat
hotels.

Why? Because constantly I failed
my exams.
Why? Well, let me set a test.

Question 1. How large is a child’s
imagination?
Question 2. How shallow is the soul of the
Minister for exams?

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Advent Calendar Day 13

Posted by maribel on 14/12/2014

MISTLETOE

Sitting under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

One last candle burning low,

All the sleepy dancers gone,

Just one candle burning on,

Shadows lurking everywhere:

Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go

Nodding under the mistletoe

(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),

No footsteps came, no voice, but only,

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,

Stooped in the still and shadowy air

Lips unseen—and kissed me there.

Walter de la Mare

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Advent Calendar Day 8

Posted by maribel on 08/12/2014

vintagexmasImage by Christmas Connections in Flickr under CC

A Visit from Santa Claus

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

 

Clement Moore, 1822

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Advent Calendar Day 6

Posted by maribel on 06/12/2014

mistletoeImage by Cliff in Flickr under CC

Mistletoe

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Someone came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale green, fairy mistletoe)
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen – and kissed me there.

Walter de la Mare, 1913

 

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Alphabet Aerobics

Posted by maribel on 03/11/2014

Alphabet Aerobics” is the most popular track off Blackalicious‘ 1999 EP A2G. Every couplet is filled with words starting with a specific letter. Every two lines moves to the next letter of the alphabet, however by the letter “Y”, he becomes nearly indecipherable with the gradually building pace of the song.

Daniel Radcliffe (most popular for his role as Harry Potter) performed the entire song flawlessly on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon.

Lyrics here.

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Chicago

Posted by maribel on 18/05/2014

chicago1chicago2

by  CARL SANDBURG

 

Lyrics here.

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For no particular reason

Posted by maribel on 29/03/2011

Remorse For Any Death

 

 

Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of Whom anything that could be said must be denied,
the dead one, alien everywhere,
is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything,
we leave him not so much as a color or syllable:
here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see,
there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking,
he could be thinking;

we have divvied up like thieves
the booty of nights and days.

Jorge Luis Borges

Remordimiento por cualquier Muerte

 

 

Libre de la memoria y de la esperanza,
ilimitado, abstracto, casi futuro,
el muerto no es un muerto: es la muerte.

Como el Dios de los místicos,
de Quien deben negarse todos los predicados,
el muerto ubicuamente ajeno
no es sino la perdición y ausencia del mundo.

Todo se lo robamos,
no le dejamos ni un color ni una sílaba:
aquí está el patio que ya no comparten sus ojos,
allí la acera donde acechó sus esperanzas.

Hasta lo que pensamos podría estarlo pensando él también;
nos hemos repartido como ladrones
el caudal de las noches y de los días.

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