Birmingham Grid for Learning - Multiple Intelligences (Secondary)

Birmingham Grid for Learning - Multiple Intelligences (Secondary)

Final Letter

May 13, 2008

Dear Gary,
This semester has been tremendously helpful. I'd stopped writing for pleasure and hadn't tried particularly hard for many of my classes for the last few semesters. I'd also stopped reading, something I haven't done since I first learned to read. Through the exercises and discussions, I have found my love for writing and reading and, surprisingly, I have also found that I enjoy writing poetry.
One particularly helpful assignment was the psychic distance exercise. At first I did not understand how to illustrate psychic distance, although I'd read the instructions and examples multiple times. After submitting the assignment and reading your comments I was able to do the work again, this time properly.
Another assignment that was important for me was the Music and Metaphor journal. This exercise helped me realize that there were no good excuses for not writing because there is inspiration everywhere. By simply observing life and objects around my own home I was able to draw inspiration for poems and stories.
I think the most surprising realization for me was that I like writing poetry. I love the way that you can choose where to break your lines and choose to end a line with a particularly meaningful word. You can shape poems in whatever way you want to. I also love the simplicity of the language of most poems. Simple words conveying strong emotion is a wonderful art.
I appreciate your direction and support during this semester.

Carol

Five Frame Advancement

Angel
A concrete angel stands high above other headstones in the cemetery, her chubby hands folded in prayer. Her hair and dress have been molded to give the appearance of movement; their fluttering is permanent. The angel’s feet are bare. With her outspread wings she seems to be watching over the cemetery’s residents.
A maroon-colored car approaches. Its engine is loud and rattles and the car is old and in need of repair. The driver pumps the brake to get the car to stop and turns it off. After trying, unsuccessfully, to open his door, the driver curses and climbs out through the passenger’s side.
The man walks slowly and slightly hunched forward, though he is no more than 35 years old. His clothes are rumpled and he very likely slept in them. He is probably handsome, blond and blue-eyed, but his face is so contorted with sadness that it is hard to be certain. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. The man shuffles toward the angel and stops in front of it.
He stares at it for some time. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes and finally, he lays his head against the base of the statue, near the angel’s feet. The concrete is cool against his skin and he is thankful that he chose the angel, though he could no more afford her than he could afford his own rent.
Now he is sliding to his knees, a wail of grief silent on his lips, and he covers his face with his hands. His wife filed for a divorce today and he will not fight it. Their loss has created a rift that they cannot mend. The man lets his hands fall from his face and he looks at the angel whose hands are folded in a gesture mimicking his own. She seems to be telling him to keep it together for just a little longer.

Blueberry Pie

Original Submission for the Experiment and Tradition Module:

Blueberry Pie

A velociraptor enters my diner, shaking its head
it ordered a blueberry pie this morning
when he got it home he realized
it was undercooked.

I apologized,
feeling awkward while
it explained that today was his only day
off and now it was wasted.

I noticed that its claws were filed
To a blunt edge
It tapped them on the counter
while I boxed up another pie.

Apologizing again, I watched it leave
his tail swinging slowly
back and forth
still shaking his head.

Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

Blueberry Pie

A velociraptor enters my diner, shaking its head
it ordered (wrong verb tense or change "enters" to past tense) a blueberry pie this morning
when he got it home he realized
it was undercooked.

I apologized,
feeling awkward while
it explained that today was his only day
off and now it was wasted.

I noticed that its claws were filed
To a blunt edge
It tapped them on the counter
while I boxed up another pie.

Apologizing again, I watched it leave
[his](need that?) tail swinging slowly
back and forth
still shaking his head.

INteresting, Carol. There's medicine for velociraptor issuues. You don't need to suffer:) Again, review my comments and suggestions for direction.
Gary

Final Submission:

Blueberry Pie

A velociraptor entered my diner, shaking its head
it ordered a blueberry pie this morning
when he got it home he realized
it was undercooked.

I apologized,
feeling awkward while
it explained that today was his only day
off and now it was wasted.

I noticed that its claws were filed
To a blunt edge
It tapped them on the counter
while I boxed up another pie.

Apologizing again, I watched it leave
tail swinging slowly
back and forth
still shaking his head.

Paddle

Original Submission for the Music and Metaphor Module:

We fill the photograph’s space, my father and I,
though small pieces of the scene are visible
we are in a canoe
a fishing net,
an oar and choppy gray-blue waves reflect
trees, some with leaves some with bare branches
behind us the sky has no clouds.

I am four years old
my father is drinking a beer
my mother is behind
the camera’s lens where she hides.
Our hair matches exactly, brown
and gold and messy and we
scowl at the camera
at her
at the unwelcome interruption.


My father already knows that he wants a divorce
in this photo
already has plans to rent an apartment
and the divorce counselor does not
ask me who I want to live with
they divide me between them
they learn to share and soon
my mother will have two new children to
focus on and won’t complain when
I move to my father’s.

Look. The print is faded.
He’s been dead one year
and seven months. I paddle the canoe across
the lake until my arms ache, paddle
so hard that my chest burns, paddle
all the way home.


Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

Pieces

We fill the photograph’s space, my father and I,
though small pieces of the scene are visible
we are in a canoe
a fishing net,
an oar and choppy gray-blue waves reflect
trees, some with leaves some with bare branches
behind us the sky has no clouds. (outstanding stanza great use of line breaks)


I am four years old
my father is drinking a beer
my mother is behind
the camera’s lens where she hides.
Our hair matches exactly, brown
and gold and messy and we
scowl at the camera
at her
at the unwelcome interruption.


My father already knows that he wants a divorce
in this photo
already has plans to rent an apartment
and the divorce counselor does not
ask me who I want to live with
they divide me between them
they learn to share [their divided daughter]just a suggestion and soon
my mother will have two new children to (I’m confused your siblings? Who??
focus on and won’t complain when
I move to my father’s.


Look. The print is faded.
He’s (I think you need to tell us this is your father—for clarity) been dead one year
and seven months. I paddle the canoe across
the lake until my arms ache, paddle
so hard that my chest burns, paddle
all the way home.

Outstanding work, Carol. If I’m not mistaken, you had concerns about writing poetry, but I think it’s where your natural voice lives. Review my comments and suggestions throughout for direction.
Gary

Final Submission:

Paddle

We fill the photograph’s space, my father and I,
though small pieces of the scene are visible
we are in a canoe
a fishing net,
an oar and choppy gray-blue waves reflect
trees, some with leaves some with bare branches
behind us the sky has no clouds.


I am four years old
my father is drinking a beer
my mother is behind
the camera’s lens where she hides.
Our hair matches exactly, brown
and gold and messy and we
scowl at the camera
at her
at the unwelcome interruption.


My father already knows that he wants a divorce
in this photo
already has plans to rent an apartment
and the divorce counselor does not
ask me who I want to live with
they divide me between them
they learn to share their divided daughter and soon
my mother will have a new husband to
focus on and won’t complain when
I move to my father’s.


Look. The print is faded.
My father has been dead one year
and seven months. I paddle the canoe across
the lake until my arms ache, paddle
so hard that my chest burns, paddle
all the way home.

Terminal

Original Submission for the Postcard Assignment

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before his predicted months had passed, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife. Each of his working days he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past the information booth, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the information. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman that worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts. Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame.

Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows it was like coming home.

Now With Gary’s Suggestions:

Title?

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before his predicted months had (a bit wordy) passed, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife. Sad!
Each of his (omit) working days he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past the information booth (get rid of), while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the information (change to “script”). In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman that (who) worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

Revised after Gary’s Suggestions:

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.


Show and Tell (pg 177)

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

Opening Up Your Story (pg 225)

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

What’s At Stake? ( pg 94)

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry’s doctor seemed to agree with his son and explained that the cigarettes mixed with the smells of the trains were causing an existing terminal condition to quickly become worse. If Henry stayed at the Grand, his doctor warned, he would not live more than a year. Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over (pg 239)

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry’s doctor seemed to agree with his son and explained that the cigarettes mixed with the smells of the trains were causing an existing terminal condition to quickly become worse. If Henry stayed at the Grand, his doctor warned, he would not live more than a year. (My friend said that this needed a bit more explaining) His son told him to go rent a cabin in the Adirondacks and enjoy the peace and quiet. Henry refused; a peaceful, quiet life seemed lonely to him.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

Final Submission

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry’s doctor seemed to agree with his son and explained that the cigarettes mixed with the smells of the trains were causing an existing terminal condition to quickly become worse. If Henry stayed at the Grand, his doctor warned, he would not live more than a year. His son told him to go rent a cabin in the Adirondacks and enjoy the peace and quiet. Henry refused; a peaceful, quiet life seemed lonely to him.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

The Fog

This is the poetry assignment from the Speak Memory module

Original submission:

The Fog

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen and feel suffocated.

I quietly sit on the couch and read a book about a boy
who has such grand adventures that I almost vibrate with longing.
When a giggle escapes it is quickly slapped down
By my grandmother’s narrowed eyes, one gray and one blue.

The couch is covered in a thick crocheted blanket
of green, orange, cream, and brown.
It scratches my skin and leaves red welts on pale skin
I do not complain.

A large, gray, bearded schnauzer patrols the halls lined with photographs
though he is so old that his imaginary foes are blurred by blindness.
Black and white miniatures of relatives I have never met stare blankly from plain bronze and black frames.
Their mouths are tight-lipped and disapproving.

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.

Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

A Fog

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist, I love fog!
caressing good word here my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.


I quietly sit on the couch and read a book about a boy
who has such omit grand adventures that I almost vibrate with longing.
When a giggle escapes it is quickly slapped down
By my grandmother’s narrowed eyes, one gray and one blue. great stanza, just works


The couch is covered in a thick crocheted blanket
of need this word? green, orange, cream, and brown.
It scratches my pale skin and leaves red welts on pale skin omit (on pale skin)
I do not complain.


A large, gray, bearded schnauzer patrols the halls lined with photographs
though he is so old that his imaginary foes are blurred by blindness. yes
Black and white miniatures of relatives I have never met stare blankly from plain bronze and black frames.
their mouths tight-lipped and disapproving.


The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.

Outstanding, Carol. Your strongest piece to date!! Review my comments for direction, and again, consider my comments, changes, and additions concerning your poem, for someplace in the middle is probably your finished piece.
Gary

This is the final poem:

The Fog

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.
I sit quietly on the couch and read a book about a boy
who has such freedom that I vibrate with longing.
When a giggle escapes it is quickly slapped down
by my grandmother’s narrowed eyes, one gray and one blue.

The couch is covered in a thick crocheted blanket
green, orange, cream, and brown.
It scratches my pale skin and leaves red welts
I do not complain.

A large, gray, bearded schnauzer patrols the halls lined with photographs
though he is so old that his imaginary foes are blurred by blindness.
Black and white miniatures of relatives I have never met stare blankly from plain bronze and black frames.
Their mouths tight-lipped and disapproving.

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.