Reflections on High School Memories Through Poetry by John Updike
The poetry of John Updike beautifully captures memories of high school, particularly focusing on a character named Flick Webb who used to be a basketball star but now works at a gas station. The verses evoke a sense of nostalgia for the past and reflect on the passage of time and the changes that come with it.
Uploaded on Nov 20, 2024 | 0 Views
Download Presentation
Please find below an Image/Link to download the presentation.
The content on the website is provided AS IS for your information and personal use only. It may not be sold, licensed, or shared on other websites without obtaining consent from the author. Download presentation by click this link. If you encounter any issues during the download, it is possible that the publisher has removed the file from their server.
E N D
Presentation Transcript
Where do you see yourself in ten years? Name and describe a specific place. Where/how do you see yourself earning a living? What do you think you will miss most about middle school when you are out in the working world? 1. 2. 3.
PICTURE what is happening FIGURE OUT what strange words mean RELATE the information to your own experiences IDENTIFY the mood or feelings in the poem SUMMARIZE the point of the work 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.
John Hoyer Updike 18 March 1932 Reading, Pennsylvania 27 January 2009 (age 76) Danvers, Massachusetts novelist, short story writer, literary critic Rabbit Angstrom novels Henry Bech stories The Witches of Eastwick Born Died Occupation Notable work(s)
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot, Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off Before it has a chance to go two blocks, At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth s Garage Is on the corner facing west, and there, Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps Five on a side, the old bubble-head style, Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low. One s nostrils are two S s, and his eyes An E and O. And one is squat, without A head at all more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards. He was good: in fact, the best. In 46 He bucketed three hundred ninety points, A county record still. The ball loved Flick. I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas, Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while, As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube, But most of us remember anyway. His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench. It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Maes Luncheonette. Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball, Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates. Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
What will be the title of your poem? What is the name of the main character? What will be the setting of your poem? What part of your setting is something that you can give human characteristics to? What did the main character do in the past? What is that person currently doing? What does he/she do in their spare time? 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot, Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off Before it has a chance to go two blocks, At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth s Garage Is on the corner facing west, and there, Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps Five on a side, the old bubble-head style, Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low. One s nostrils are two S s, and his eyes An E and O. And one is squat, without A head at all more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards. He was good: in fact, the best. In 46 He bucketed three hundred ninety points, A county record still. The ball loved Flick. I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas, Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while, As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube, But most of us remember anyway. His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench. It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Maes Luncheonette. Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball, Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates. Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
