The Power of Poetry
Something special happened in my 4th grade literature class today.
We are reading The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder. In it, the Ingalls family is stranded inside for months during one of the most severe winters on record in American history. In the depths of this winter, when morale in the family is at its lowest, Ma stands up with a burst of positive energy, takes out a school textbook, and tells Laura and Mary to recite their favorite pieces from it.
While Laura is reciting “Old Tubal Cain,” a rousing poem, Pa comes in from the blizzard outside, where he has been slaving away at chores, and happily declares, “Those words warm me as much as the fire does.” Mary also recites a rebellious, inspiring poem, and the family’s spirits are considerably warmed by the beautiful words.
This scene is one of my favorites in the book—it captures the power of poetry so simply, and yet so powerfully. Through poetry, the Ingalls are able to keep their spirits alive through the nearly-lethal winter. Where there was dark, silence, and a dull throbbing headache, poetry sheds light, brings joy, and banishes pain. Today, we discussed the value of poetry after reading that scene, and the students showed me that they know that value.
One of my students insightfully pointed out, “The words warm Pa more than the fire does because they are inspiring. They’re rebellious. The Ingalls family needs that right now!”
Coincidentally, we are currently memorizing “The Rainy Day” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. So, after this comment, several students broke out in a spontaneous recitation of the very-relevant last stanza:
Be still sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
They were hastily joined by the rest of the class. Once they reached the end of the stanza, they went back and started from the beginning of the poem, reciting the entire poem this time.
When they reached the end of “The Rainy Day,” one student in class called out, “Aspiration!” And, as if they had been cued by a conductor, all of them began, “We never know all high we are, ‘till we are called to rise…” (Emily Dickinson). And when they reached the end of Aspiration, a different student called out, “O Captain! My Captain!” And… you guessed it… the class recited all of it from memory as well.
Every poem I’d taught them this year was recited in turn, and in its entirety.
Then, two of my students stood up and flawlessly performed a long, complicated poem they memorized in my class over a year ago. While they performed, four more students stood up to join them.
It was one of those rare, beautiful moments where, even though I felt like I was dreaming, I had the presence of mind to think, “It’s working. They get it.”