【推荐1】A year after graduation, I was offered a position teaching a writing class. Teaching was a profession I had never seriously considered, though several of my stories had been published. I accepted the job without hesitation, as it would allow me to wear a tie and go by the name of Mr. Davis. My father went by the same name, and I liked to imagine people getting the two of us confused. “Wait a minute” someone might say, “are you talking about Mr. Davis the retired man, or Mr. Davis the respectable scholar?”

The position was offered at the last minute, and I was given two weeks to prepare, a period I spent searching for briefcase(公文包) and standing before my full-length mirror, repeating the words, “Hello, class. I’m Mr. Davis.” Sometimes I would give myself an aggressive voice. Sometimes I would sound experienced. But when the day eventually came, my nerves kicked in and the true Mr. Davis was there. I sounded not like a thoughtful professor, but rather a 12-year-old boy.

I arrived in the classroom with paper cards designed in the shape of maple leaves. I had cut them myself out of orange construction paper. I saw nine students along a long table. I handed out the cards, and the students wrote down their names and fastened them to their breast pockets as I required.

“All right then,” I said. “Okay, here we go.” Then I opened my briefcase and realized that I had never thought beyond this moment. I had been thinking that the students would be the first to talk, offering their thoughts and opinions on the events of the day. I had imagined that I would sit at the edge of the desk, overlooking a forest of hands. Every student would yell. “Calm down, you’ll all get your turn. One at a time, one at a time!”

A terrible silence ruled the room, and seeing no other opinions, I inspected the students to pull out their notebooks and write a brief essay related to the topic of deep disappointment.

【推荐2】Although Bertha Young was thirty she still had moments like this when she wanted to run instead of walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or to stand still and laugh at —nothing — at nothing, simply.

What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you suddenly feel happy — absolutely happy.

Oh, is there no way you can express it without being “drunk and disorderly"? How stupid civilization is! Why should you be given a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare fiddle (小提琴)?

"No, that about the fiddle is not quite what I mean," she thought, running up the steps and feeling in her bag for the key—she'd forgotten it, as usual—and rattling the letter-box. "It's not what I mean, because—Thank you, Mary"— she went into the hall. “Is nurse back?”

“Yes, M’m."

"I'll go upstairs." And she ran upstairs to the nursery.

Nurse sat at a low table giving Little B her supper after her bath. The baby looked up when she saw her mother and began to jump.

“Now, my lovey, eat it up like a good girl," said nurse, setting her lips in a way that Bertha knew, and that meant she had come into the nursery at another wrong moment.

“Has she been good, Nanny?”

“She's been a little sweet all the afternoon," whispered Nanny. "We went to the park and I sat down on a chair and took her out of the pram(婴儿车) and a big dog came along and she pulled its ear. Oh, you should have seen her."

Bertha wanted to ask if it wasn't rather dangerous to let her pull a strange dog's ear. But she did not dare to. She stood watching them, her hands by her side. like the poor little girl in front of the rich girl with the doll.

The baby looked up at her again, stared, and then smiled so charmingly that Bertha couldn't help crying.

“Oh, Nanny, do let me finish giving her supper while you put the bath things away.

“Well, M’m, she oughtn't to be changed hands while she's eating,” said Nanny, still whispering. “It unsettles her, it's very likely to upset her.”

How absurd it was. Why have a baby if it has to be kept—not in a case like a rare, rare fiddle—but in another woman's arms?”

“Oh, I must!” said she.

Very offended, Nanny handed her over.

Now, don't excite her after her supper. You know you do, M'm. And I have such a time with her after!"

Thank heaven! Nanny went out of the room with the bath towels.

"Now I've got you to myself, my little precious," said Bertha, as the baby learned against her.

She ate delightfully, holding up her lips for the spoon and then waving her hands. Sometimes she wouldn't let the spoon go; and sometimes just as Bertha had filled it, she waved it away to the four winds.

When the soup was finished Bertha turned round to the fire. "You're nice—you're very nice!" said she, kissing her warm baby. "I'm fond of you. I like you."

And indeed, she loved Little B so much—her neck as she bent forward, her pretty toes as they shone transparent in the firelight that all her feeling of happiness came back again, and again she didn't know how to express it—what to do with it.

“You’re wanted on the telephone," said Nanny, coming back in victory and seizing her Little B.

【推荐1】My real love for poetry as an adult came when, as a participant in a writer's workshop, I heard a poet read her work aloud. I was there to study nonfiction, and every evening participants gathered to hear their peers and teachers read work from their selected genres. As I listened to Solmaz Sharif read her poem, I was overcome by it. It was just like a dance and I was invited to participate. I looked around the room to see if everyone else was as shocked as I was. I was in love and I think it was because she was in love.

After the writer's workshop, I began to try on different poets. I was desperate to find another connection to a poet like the one I had experienced with Sharif. I borrowed a collection of poems from our local library.

One afternoon as I sat on the couch browsing it, the feeling returned. As I reached the final line, my 8-year-old daughter walked into the room to see me spit joy and tears and grief all over the living room carpet.

“ What's the matter, Mom?” she asked.

"A poem, that's all," I said. She smiled, relieved nothing was wrong.“ Want to hear it?” I said.

We sat together, on the couch, and I read Kay Ryan aloud.   When we were finished, my daughter ran up to her bedroom to grab a notebook so she could compose some of her own lines. She fell in love because I was in love. Those fifteen minutes spent on the couch together taught her more about poetry than any eight-week curriculum could have.

We didn't study poetry to tick the boxes of an imagined cultural syllabus. Rather, we leaned close to each other and fell in love with the words.

Part of teaching our children to love poetry is falling in love with poetry ourselves. Does that mean I don't worry about teaching them the different forms and skills? Certainly not. I mean, while it is true that great poems come as a result of a mastery of the craft, hard work, and patience, in the beginning I simply encourage my children to enjoy the words, and I cheer them on as they dare to write down their own lines.

【推荐2】About twenty of us had been fortunate enough to receive invitations to a film­studio (影棚) to take part in a crowd­scene. Although our “act” would last only for a short time,we could see quite a number of interesting things.

We all stood at the far end of the studio as workmen prepared the scene, setting up trees at the edge of a winding path. Very soon, bright lights were turned on and the big movie­camera was wheeled into position. The director shouted something to the camera operator and then went to speak to the two famous actors nearby. Since it was hot in the studio, it came as a surprise to us to see one of the actors put on a heavy overcoat and start walking along the path. A big fan began blowing tiny white feathers down on him, and soon the trees were covered in “snow”. Two more fans were turned on, and a “strong wind” blew through the trees. The picture looked so real that it made us feel cold.

The next scene was a complete contrast (对比). The way it was filmed was quite unusual. Pictures taken on an island in the Pacific were shown on a glass screen (幕). An actor and actress stood in front of the scene so that they looked as if they were at the water's edge on an island. By a simple trick like this, palm trees, sandy beaches, and blue, clear skies had been brought into the studio!

Since it was our turn next, we were left wondering what scene would be prepared for us. For a full three_minutes in our lives we would be experiencing the excitement of being film “stars”！