On this page:

• Guidelines
• My own prelude sample
• Worksheet for brainstorming ideas

"My Prelude" Guidelines

Prelude: 1. a preliminary part; a preface 2. a piece or movement serving as an introductory part to a musical composition.

Every day – every minute -- you are composing the song that is the music of your life. Though you may feel “old enough” in this time of turbulent adolescence, you are actually just beginning the rest of your life. This means that the past 14 or so years have been a prelude for what is to come – the introduction to what life will really be for you.

What are the notes of your prelude, the elements of your preface? How do they serve as the introduction to your life?

Your task is to write your prelude, recording the elements that will always be unique to your childhood. Consider the sights, sounds, smells . . . fashions and fads . . . current events . . . pieces of pop culture . . . special memories . . . All should come through clearly in your writing. Draw inspiration from Evangeline’s prelude and the sample of my own childhood “song” on the reverse.

Preludes will be assessed on:

•  thoughtfulness

•  creativity

•  vivid verb choice (no more than three “to be” words allowed: is, are, was, were, be, being, been, am, become)

•  use of literary devices (alliteration, simile, metaphor, personification, hyperbole, onomatopoeia).

• correct format (see sample on reverse and in “Evangeline” regarding line breaks) length of piece (no shorter than sample on reverse; use 12 pt. type)
• adherence to guidelines above, including typing. Pieces not typed will lose points; therefore, plan to use the school’s computers during lunch or study halls, if necessary.

This assignment is due on Thursday, June 5

I look forward to hearing your “songs”!

Mrs. Curran's Prelude Sample

Note:  The format is not correct -- I had difficulty transferring it to the web page. 

See paper handout and/or Evangeline for proper line break format.

My Prelude

Nestled in a privileged county, the town of Trumbull boasts scores of picturesque neighborhoods that stand proudly against a brilliant Polaroid sky.

At dusk, children pour from the white colonial homes spilling across the crab-grass speckled lawns to play kick-the can far into the evening.

Exploring Ersham’s Field, wandering at will without worry,

Throwing rocks in a pond that will not claim its visitors,

Shuffling through autumn’s brittle leaves, safe and secure against the future headlines,

Zigging and zagging amidst the raindrops that plop purposefully on the summer asphalt,

Two ragamuffin girls fly freely.

Fashion’s fond farewells to tresses and dresses see Pageboys yielding to the Hamill bob,

Shags singing their prelude to Farah Fawcett wings, and

Culottes giving way to bellbottoms and hip huggers –originators of the copycat pants that will emerge decades later.

We savor frozen T.V. dinners in front of Mom’s brand new color Zenith, whose seven channels whisk “I Love Lucy,” “Dark Shadows,” and “Speed Racer” in front of the eyes of children who hope Daddy will not watch the Vietnam “conflict” tonight.

Shiny vinyl discs bring David Cassidy and Bobby Sherman to life in a tiny bedroom adorned with a shag carpet and day-glo orange walls,

While the monotonous static of the skipping needle on the finished record soothes us to sleep.

Here, the world is a neighborhood wide

And the news breathes free of sports-star scandals and immoral politicians.

Here, the only mailbox is the black metal container perched atop a splintering wooden post,

And the single improvement to the black rotary dial phone is its availability in beige.

Here, the worst “I’m-going-to-die” times will transform into the best “remember-back-when” times,

The carefree times

Of the prelude of my life.

“Mrs. Curran, I can’t write poetry.”

a writing worksheet inspired by Ryan Onorato,

with graphic organizing techniques by Anna Morrow

First, jot down ideas about your childhood: fashions, fads, current events, musical tastes, hair styles, common phrases, gadgets, TV shows...

Next, record special memories you hold dear from friends, family, school, sports . . .

Family : vacations at the shore, the time Joey split his lip on the Big Toy, your mom surprising you with Dairy Queen, Dad’s special pancakes on Sunday mornings

Friends : walking downtown, going to the Surf Club, shopping at the mall, hiking at Chatfield Hollow

School : fear of starting middle school, ruling the back of the bus, feeling like the kings of 8 th grade

Sports : road trips with the soccer travel team, getting psyched to beat Guilford , pre-game rituals

Now, turn those ideas into sentences. Focus on the five senses: sight, sound, smell, touch, taste

I remember the long, hot, bus ride to the soccer tournament in Rhode Island . We stuck to the seats of the bus, and the bus driver played loud Reggae music. We laughed constantly, especially when Susie lost her hat out the window.

It was fun when Dad made his famous chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday morning. Mom never knew how messy the kitchen got and how he let us sit on the counter to help, eating the chocolate chips out of the bag.

I remember all those days on the boat with Grandpa in the scorching sun, with the salt from Long Island Sound making faint white traces on my skin. I wished I would catch a fish but my little sister always had all the luck.

Finally, take away the “I remembers” and “It was fun when” type of phrases to yield snapshots of images. Replace average verbs with more vivid actions. Play around with line breaks.

Laughter reigned during the long, hot bus rides to Rhode Island ,

our tanned legs sticking to the seats like lollipops left in the sun.

8 th grade girlish giggles echoing off the yellow walls.

But not even our screeches and squeals could overpower

the clamorous Reggae of our soulful driver.

Calmly he stood amidst the batter and bowls, while butter sizzled in the pan.

Eagerly, we awaited Dad’s special chocolate chip pancakes,

though more chocolate drops landed on our tongues than in the batter.

What mom never knew as she slumbered on those lazy summer Sunday mornings.

Just one bite, I pleaded to God. Just one.

Please don’t let them nibble at Janie’s bait.

But they did.

They always did.

Only Grandpa could salvage those early morning fishing trips

sharing an endless supply of butterscotch candies

and telling familiar stories of his boyhood life in Booth Bay Harbor .

Again.