7. You be the teacher! - Before You Were Mine

We are working in taking the fear out of poetry at the moment in class in preparation for your Unseen Poetry section of the Literature exam paper you will take in the summer. You are all coming along well but we still have a way to go.

You have said as a class that you learn best when a teacher respects you, is relaxed and connects with you as an individual, is passionate about their subject, enthusiastic, allows you to discuss things (e.g. circle time), makes it practical (doing stuff) and is knowledgable. I could not agree more, these are great things for you to focus on in this task.

So I have challenged you to teach a poem to the class that you have never seen before. This task was met with responses ranging from "Yeah, whatever! That is easy" to "Oh me god...how do we do that?". You will be great, you are the experts as you see teachers all the time and know what works well. Think about how you will get them interested (starter), what you will do in the main section of the session and what you want the class to know at the end of you session and how you will assess this. No pressure then guys!

You have finished 45 minutes group planning in class and will have some time to finish off at the start of the lesson on Thursday and we will then begin the student lead lessons. We will have a class discussoion on your poem after you teach it so be ready for questions.

Mayren, Rachel, Kismet, Emily and Michael - over to you!

Before You Were Mine

       I’m ten years away from the corner you laughed on

with your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.

The three of you bend from the waist, holding

each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement.

5     Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs.  Marilyn.

I’m not here yet.  The thought of me doesn’t occur

in the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrows

the right walk home could bring.  I knew you would dance

like that.  Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the close

10   with a hiding for the late one.  You reckon it’s worth it.

The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one, eh?

I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics,

and now your ghost clatters toward me over George Square

till I see you, clear as scent, under the tree,

15   with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?

Cha cha cha!  You’d teach me the steps on the way home from Mass,

stamping stars from the wrong pavement.  Even then

I wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewhere

in Scotland, before I was born.  That glamorous love lasts

20   where you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine.