MY WONDERFUL LOUSY POEM

When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem. My mother read the little poem and began to cry. “Buddy, you didn’t really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!” Shyly, proud bursting, I stammered that I did. My mother poured out her praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!  I glowed. “What time will Father be home?” I asked. I could hardly wait to show him what I had accomplished. My mother said she hoped he would be home around 7. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival. First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I used colored crayons to draw an elaborate border around it. Then I waited. As 7 o’clock drew near, I confidently placed it right on my father’s plate on the dining-room table.  But my father did not return at 7. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. I could hardly stand the suspense. I admired my father. He was head of Paramount Studios in Hollywood but he had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother.  This evening it was almost 8 o’clock when my father burst in. He was an hour late for dinner. His mood seemed thunderous. He could not sit down but circled the long dining-room table with a drink in his hand, calling down terrible oaths on his employees.  “Imagine, we would have finished the picture tonight,” my father was shouting. “Instead that moron suddenly gets it into her beautiful empty, little head that she can’t play the last scene. So the whole company has to stand there at $1,000 a minute while this silly little blank walks off the set! And now I have to beg her to come back!”  He wheeled in his pacing, paused and glared at his plate. There was a suspenseful silence. “What is this?” He was reaching for my poem.  “Ben, a wonderful thing has happened,” my mother began. “Buddy has written his first poem! And it’s beautiful, absolutely amaz-- ”  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to decide for myself,” Father said.  I kept my face lowered to my plate as he read that poem. It was only ten lines. But it seemed to take hours. I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision.  “I think it’s lousy,” he said.  I couldn’t look up. My eyes were getting wet.  “Ben, sometimes I don’t understand you,” my mother was saying. “This is just a little boy. You’re not in your studio now. These are the first lines of poetry he’s ever written. He needs encouragement.”  “I don’t know why,” my father held his ground. “Isn’t there enough lousy poetry in the world already? No law says Buddy has to become a poet.”  I couldn’t stand it another second. I ran from the dining-room up to my room, threw myself on the bed and sobbed. When I had cried the worst of the disappointment out of me, I could hear my parents still quarreling over my first poem at the dinner table.  That may have been the end of the anecdote—but not of its significance for me. A few years later I took a second look at the first poem, and reluctantly I had to agree with my father’s harsh judgment. It was a pretty lousy poem. After a while, I worked up the courage to show him something new, a short story. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless. I was learning to rewrite. And my mother was learning that she could criticize me without crushing me. You might say we were all learning. I was going on 12.  As I worked my way into other books and plays and films, it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been. I had a mother who said, “Buddy, did you really write this? I think it’s wonderful!” and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with, “I think it’s lousy.” A writer—in fact every one of us in life—needs that mother force, the loving force from which all creation flows; and yet the mother force alone is incomplete, even misleading, finally destructive. It needs the balance of the force that cautions, “Watch. Listen. Review. Improve.”  Those conflicting but complementary voices of my childhood echo down through the years—wonderful…lousy…wonderful…lousy—like two opposing winds battering  me. I try to steer my small boat so as not to turn over before either. Between the two poles of affirmation and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course. Choose the best answer to each of the following questions: When the mother cried, “Buddy, you didn’t really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!” she didn’t believe that her son had really written this beautiful poem she was not sure whether her son had written this poem she meant that an eight-or –nine-year-old boy could not have written such a wonderful poem she wanted to let her son know she was amazed that he had written such a beautiful poem That afternoon the author spent a great deal of time rewriting his poem drawing pictures around the poem carefully copying and decorating the poem Both a and b. Which of the following statements is NOT true according to the text? The author was confident that his father would like the poem better than his mother did. The author’s father had once worked as a film script writer and was then working as a film director The father returned home late and was very angry that evening They did not finish the film because the movie star refused to play the last scene We may infer from the context that the word “lousy” means very bad childish meaningless overwritten “my father held his ground” could best be replaced by “my father was shouting loudly” “my father was very angry.” “my father refused to give in.” All of the above. On hearing his father’s judgment the author felt pained hurt disappointed all of the above. Which of the following conclusions do you think the author might agree with? a. This childhood event changed the author’s course of life. b. This event made the author all the more determined the become a writer.  c. Looking back on the event in his childhood, the author sees it in a new light and comes to realize its great significance d. From his “first poem” experience the author knew that he could never become a poet, so he started to work his way into stories, plays and films. The author owes his success as a professional writer to his own courage and confidence more to his mother’s praise than to his father’s criticism more to his father’s caution than to his mother’s encouragement to both his mother’s warm encouragement and his father’s harsh judgement. Quite a few figurative expressions are used in the story. Two of them that appear in the last paragraph: “ I try to steer my small boat…” and “I try to follow my true course” are both metaphors similes personifications symbols Another good title for this passage might be An Anecdote in My Childhood. Two Conflicting but Complementary Voices A scene to Remember An Important Lesson.

我是8或9岁的时候，我写了我的第一首诗。我的母亲读了一首小诗，并哭了起来。 “老弟，你没有真正写这个美丽的，美丽的诗！”羞答答地，骄傲的破灭，我结结巴巴地说，我没有。我的母亲倒出了她的赞美。为什么，这首诗是什么天才！  我闪着。我问：“爸爸什么时候回家？”我迫不及待地告诉他我已经完成。我的母亲说，她希望他会是7家左右。我度过了他的到来，下午准备的最好的部分。首先，我写的诗，在我最好的蓬勃发展。然后，我用彩色蜡笔它周围画上精致的花边。然后，我等待着。 7点钟临近，我有信心把它放在我父亲的用餐室的桌子上板。  但我的父亲没有返回7。 7-15。七三。我几乎都站不住了悬念。我很佩服我的父亲。他在好莱坞派拉蒙影城头，但作为一个作家，他开始了他的运动画面生涯。他将能体会到我的这个美好的诗甚至超过了我的母亲。  今天晚上将近8点的时候，我的父亲冲了进来，他迟到了一个小时的晚餐。他的心情似乎雷鸣。他无法坐下，但盘旋在他的手喝一杯，饭厅表调用了可怕的誓言，在他的员工。  “想想看，我们已经完成了图片今晚，”我父亲喊。 “可是那个白痴突然冒出了她美丽的空，小脑袋，她演不了最后一个场景。所以整个公司站在那里，一分钟1000美元，而这个愚蠢的小空白走开集！现在，我不得不求她回来！“  他在他的起搏轮式，停了停，瞪着他的盘子。有悬念的沉默。 “这是什么？”他伸手去拿我的诗。  “奔，一个奇妙的事情发生了，”我的母亲就开始了。 “巴迪写了他的第一首诗！它的美丽，绝对AMAZ - “  ，“父亲说：”如果你不介意，我想自己决定。  我一直在我的脸下调至我的盘子里，他读了这首诗。这是只有十行。但它似乎需要花费数小时。我能听到他把诗放回桌子上。现在来决定的那一刻。  “我认为这是糟糕的，”他说。  我可以不看。我的眼睛湿了。  “奔，有时我不理解你，”我的母亲说。 “这仅仅是一个小男孩。你不是在你的工作室。这些都是他曾经写的第一首诗。他需要鼓励。“  “我不知道为什么，”我的父亲举行了他的地。 “是不是有在全球已经足够糟糕的诗歌？没有法律说，巴迪已经成为一个诗人。“  我再也无法忍受另一个第二。餐室我跑我的房间，扑倒在床上抽泣起来。当我哭了最坏的出我的失望，我能听到我的父母仍然争吵在饭桌上我的第一首诗。  这可能已经结束的轶事，但不是对我来说意义。几年后，我采取了第二个看的第一首诗，我不得不勉强同意与我父亲的严苛的评判。这是一个相当糟糕的诗。一段时间后，我鼓足勇气向他出示了一些新的东西，一个简短的故事。我的父亲以为是覆盖的，但不绝望。我是学重写。和我的母亲得知她可以批评我我没有破碎。你可能会说，我们所有的学习。我本来打算12。  由于我的工作我的方式进入其他书籍，戏剧和电影，它变得越来越清晰，我是多么幸运，我一直。我有一个母亲，他说，“老弟，真是你写的吗？我认为这是美妙的！“和一个父亲，谁摇摇他的头没有和开车送我的眼泪，”我认为这是糟糕的。“à作家，其实每1，我们在生活中的需要，母力，爱好力从所有的创造流量，但母亲的力量是不完整的，甚至是误导，终于破坏性。它需要告诫说，“关注力的平衡。听。检阅。提高“。  通过这些相互矛盾的，但互补的声音，我的童年回声年精彩...糟糕...精彩......糟糕的殴打我的两个对立的风一样。我尝试让我的小船，以免翻身之前要么。肯定与怀疑的两极之间，无论是在爱的名义，我尝试按照我的正确途径。 选择最好的回答以下问题： 当母亲哭了，“老弟，你没有真正写这个美丽的，美丽的诗！” 她不相信她的儿子真的写了这首美丽的诗 她不知道是否她的儿子写了这首诗 她的意思是八或九一年岁的男孩可能不会写这样一个美妙的诗 她希望让儿子知道她很惊讶，他写了这样一个美丽的诗 那天下午，笔者花了大量的时间 重写他的诗 画画各地的诗 仔细复制和装饰的诗 a和b。 下面的语句根据文本，是不是真的？ 笔者相信，父亲会喜欢的诗比他的母亲做的更好。 笔者的父亲曾经担任电影剧本作家，作为一个电影导演工作 父亲回到家很晚了，而且很生气，晚上 他们没有完成的电影，因为电影明星拒绝扮演的最后一个场景 我们可以从上下文中推断出这个词“烂”是指 太差 幼稚 无意义 覆盖 “我的父亲举行了自己的立场”最可能被替换 “我的父亲大声喊” “我的父亲非常生气。” “我的父亲不肯让步。” 上述所有。 笔者觉得听到他父亲的判断 苦涩 伤 失望的 上述所有的。 你认为以下哪个结论笔者可能会同意吗？ 了。这童年的事件改变了作者的生命过程中。 二。这个事件让笔者更坚定了成为一名作家。  三。回首他的童年中的事件，笔者看到它在一个新的光来实现伟大意义 四。从他的第一首诗“的经验，笔者知道，他永远不可能成为一个诗人，所以他开始工作，他的故事，戏剧和电影的方式进入。 笔者作为一个专业的作家，他的成功归功于 自己的勇气和信心 他母亲的赞美，而不是他父亲的批评 父亲的谨慎，而不是他的母亲的鼓励下 他母亲的热情鼓励和他父亲的严苛的评判。 不少比喻表达的故事。他们两个人出现在最后一段：“我尽量避开我的小船......”，“我尝试按照我的正确途径” 隐喻 比喻 人格化 符号 这段经文的另一个好标题可能 在我的童年轶事。 两个冲突而互补的音色 要记住的场景 一个重要的教训。