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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

National Day of Writing

Posted in Poetry, Teaching, Writing, tagged , , on October 23, 2012| 5 Comments »

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October 20th has been dedicated by the National Council of Teachers of English as the National Day of Writing. This year, the date fell on a Saturday, so my students and I celebrated on Friday, Oct. 19th. One of my favorite writing activities evolved from a workshop originated by artist Paul Schexnayder entitled, “Dancing with a Paintbrush.” Paul’s idea was to free up creativity by playing different selections of wordless music and having students paint whatever colors, lines, and shapes that come to mind. I borrowed this idea and added a writing element.

Dancing with a paintbrush

I selected some musical pieces. There is no magic in the selections I made, but basically I was looking for pieces that evoked different emotions. The ones I used were “Silent Moon” by Jia Peng, “A Day Without Rain” by Enya, “Tarantelle Styrienne” by Debussy, and “The Girl I Left Behind,” a Celtic selection.

With watercolor paints and drawing paper, the students and I painted while the music played. Then at the end of each piece, I asked them to write 4 words and a title for their painting. After all selections were played and they had a collection of 3 paintings with words and titles, I asked them to select one to write about. Make the title of the painting your title and use the 4 words in some way within the poem. The results were all different and creative.

Focused and listening leads to creative expression.

Here are some sample poems from this exercise:

Beauty
it comes with amazing colors
of red,
green,
blue,
and even yellow too
All the colors
could be a rainbow
just waiting for you
for beauty is true
telling of mood,
majesty,
and imagery.
Pure beauty comes from heart,
The Rightful Beauty.

by Kendall, 5th grade


The Chinese Gates
I am a girl
I live In China
Every day I paint swirls
Ah,so beautiful
I paint the sun and water
I paint the moon and rivers
Even some Chinese words
I learn new paintings every day
And maybe some day you could visit me in China by the Chinese Gates.

by Emily, 2nd grade

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Fall Poetry

Posted in Poetry, Teaching, Writing, tagged , on October 16, 2012| 4 Comments »

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Teaching gifted students means I teach multiple grade levels at the same time. This can be both a joy and a challenge. Some of my students come to me for their language arts block, some for math. My two second graders come to me at the very end of the day. They usually come in to an already active classroom.

One day last week when the second-graders came in, I had all the other students seated at the table writing fall poetry. On the projection screen was a collage of fall pictures for inspiration. We had collected words and were in the writing process. Tobie sat right down to write, but couldn’t find his journal, so someone found him a loose leaf page to use. Emily, however, was intrigued by the projector and started making finger puppets in the light. I sent her away to a desk in the classroom. I wanted to make sure she was behaving herself and that she wasn’t too upset about being punished, but when I looked up, I saw her perched on the edge of the farthest desk in the room quietly writing. I left her alone. Later after our lively sharing session, I encouraged the students to post their poems on our kidblog. Emily posted her poem. The next day I got an email from her mother praising me for inspiring Emily’s poem.

As I reflect on my classroom, I often worry about the constant activity and many levels going on at the same time. Sometimes, I have so many balls in the air, I just know one will clobber me in the head at any time. What I realize about writing workshop is that even when it doesn’t seem to be working, it is working. It’s about making writing an integral part of any day. It’s about safety. And it’s about providing the space for creativity to happen. And ultimately, it is about the students themselves.

I am posting Emily’s fall poem today. Originally, there were few periods and no line breaks, but I took the opportunity to have a little mini-lesson with her about this, so you are seeing the revised version.

Fall Leaves

I walk down the path.
It’s morning. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.
I watch the wind carry the leaves across the valley.
I see pumpkins in the pumpkin patch.
I love the colors falling from the trees.
I smell the sweet smell of sugarcane.
The sun is rising and getting warmer.
I feel the breeze. I find some leaves.
I pile up the leaves, and I jump in!
I love the fall,
the best season in October.

Massachusetts in October where leaves turn golden. Courtesy of my friend, Leon, who is traveling and posting beautiful pictures of real fall.

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Advice

Posted in Poetry, Slice of Life, tagged , on October 2, 2012| 13 Comments »

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That undeniable feeling of defeat I haven’t been able
to tell anyone about, not in words anyway

despite hearing the advice of my daughter
who studies this kind of thing;

She warns me of the dangers of depression:
don’t let this go on for too long

I can feel it pulse like my eyelids under my fingers
which average 10 blinks a minute varying quite

a bit based on the individual,
and things like medication and nervous disorders.

So am I normal? I listened to the weatherman’s advice.
I trusted the image of storm clouds.

Trust your inner self, says Oprah,
in this month’s O magazine advertising 101 best pieces of advice—

ever! The right words at the right time
will direct my path.

Not today–today the path

is covered in acorns that pop when I step on them.
Pop! Pop! Something satisfying in the act of

stepping on this winter squirrel snack. Hear me
stomping, making rhythm by destroying.

Bake the Best Chocolate Chip Cookie
or How to Have a Conversation: Things I need to know

to be the perfect O-mag reader, but what about
this day when I can’t focus on the words? My eyes

flutter while I hold back the tears.
I am imperfect and annoyed that this is so.

First, get a drink. Seriously, she says that, get a drink.
Something to hold on to when all else fails.

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Borrow a Line

Posted in Poetry, Slice of Life, Teaching, Writing, tagged , , , on July 17, 2012| 13 Comments »

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A writing exercise that is often successful for me is to borrow a line. I have done this a number of times to jump start a poem. See The Day, Fallen Oak and also in the poem from the 30 Day Challenge Blackberry Time.

Last week my writing partner, Stephanie, led a writing camp. She used this exercise with the students. I joined them on Wednesday for their writing marathon. It turned into a virtual writing marathon due to rain, but we managed to spend time visiting different places (through pictures) and responding with writing. Stephanie posted pictures on the kidblog she set up for the camp. For one of the pictures, her prompt was an Emily Dickinson poem and a picture of a mountain waterfall with the sun bursting over the hillside. For some, the picture led the poem. For others, Emily Dickinson’s words. Later in the week, the students were asked to find a favorite poem and “steal a line.” While we instruct them on plagiarism and the correct way to credit the original author, this activity is often successful. Somehow it breaks through the barrier of “I can’t write,” and leads to deeper creativity.

Here are a few samples from the writers at Write Your Way Camp 2012:

From Sophia with a borrowed line from Emily Dickinson

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
and stories of this place.
Its beauty just lights up my eyes,
and fills the land with grace.
I see the mountains, puffy clouds,
and greatly blinding sun.
But in some time,
I will realize,
That my journey’s just begun.

From Matthew with Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers,
hope is the thing with fur,
hope is the thing that rises the sun,
hope is the thing that purrs.

Kaylie with a borrowed title by Joe Fazio.
This is… Our Life

This is the game we play,
start at the beginning of the day,
run in circles, having fun in the sunny rays.
Lie down in the dewy grass,
wait for the day to pass.
Go back home and start again.
I know you’ll be there tomorrow, my friend.

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Morning Walk

Posted in Poetry, Writing, tagged , on July 13, 2012| 2 Comments »

The poetry prompt this week from Poets and Writers The Time is Now asked me to collect six images and to use two to create a poem. I collected images on my morning walk using my iPhone.

Then I read the prompt from Teachers Write. Using two lenses, examine your landscape, panoramic and monocular, and write a description of the two views.

The sun rises over the oak trees,
a spotlight on the landscape.
Shadows painted on scaly trunks
guard my path like silent soldiers.
The distant bayou draws a border
on this land, this soft, soggy space
softened by the glowing rays of morning sun.

My companion trots like he belongs here,
black fur saturated and slinky after a romp
across an empty field.
He doesn’t pull or tug,
keeping the rhythm of his step in time with mine.
Never mind the cawing crow;
never mind the passing car.
We are happily walking, enjoying the morning,
drinking in new light and life.

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The Day

Posted in Poetry, Writing, tagged , , , on July 6, 2012| 1 Comment »

In the Teacher’s Write Online Writing Camp, I wrote a poem. The prompt came from guest author D. Dina Friedman, whose titles include ESCAPING INTO THE NIGHT and PLAYING DAD’S SONG. Dina grew up in New York City and can be found online at http://ddinafriedman.com/.

Her prompt was one I use often to jump start my own writing and my students’ writing. I call it “stealing a line.” Thumbing through a book of poetry, you find a line that jumps out and wants you to write about it. My post Fallen Oak came about when I borrowed a Mary Oliver line. The line I used today was Richard Hugo’s ” The day is a woman who loves you.” Here’s my poem.

The day is a woman who loves you.
Like the grandmother oak who
stretches her arms wide
offering a rope swing
for your very own pleasure.

Jump on and sway
or pump your legs until they ache.

This day offers you this kind of joy,
the joy of an open blossom–
morning glory blue
as deep as the Aegean Sea, the color
of your mother’s eyes.

She looks at you now,
hoping you will notice
her loving glance
and embrace this new day
as a gift.

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The Dovekeepers

Posted in Poetry, Slice of Life on July 3, 2012| 4 Comments »

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Here it is Tuesday again. I committed to writing a blog every Tuesday for the Two Writing Teachers’ Slice of Life Tuesdays. Last week we were on our family trip to Chicago, so I skipped writing. All week I have tried to start a new post about our trip. Why is a family vacation so hard to write about? A lot happened. We had a great time. We made up a few new family sayings like “Get on the train,” and “He’s right off the Pirate Float,” but it’s a kind of woulda-hadto-been-there situation. Not easy to convey, you know.

Inspired by other slicers today (one was inspired by a billboard, the other by Hallmark magnets), I decided to write about a book I am reading. The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman is a beautiful novel set on Masada two thousand years ago. Written from the point of view of 4 women, it is rich in historical and mystical details. One of the exercises I enjoy doing with my students when they are reading a novel is a “found” poem. Using the text of the book, the writer finds a poem. Using Alice Hoffman’s beautiful language, I found this poem:

The Dovekeepers

People say our mother walked on water.
She traded rubies for a boat.
Pure, elemental, hot to the touch
given by your father’s blood.

A storm rose like stones
set out to block our way.
Our mother saw our destiny
saying water will heal
and protect us.

Mountains became our vision.
Our journey scented with fire and metal,
I could hear the beating
heart of the world,
the center of creation.

Our mother released the doves.
Those winged creatures
rise upward.

(Borrowed words from pages 293-294 of The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman)

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Fallen Oak

Posted in Poetry, Slice of Life, Writing, tagged , , , on June 19, 2012| 14 Comments »

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Ever since this old oak fell more than a week ago, I knew it had a poem to give me. I have learned and continue to learn to wait for writing. First, I walked down to the empty lot where it lay and took pictures. I played with Instagram for the one here. Then I sat with a favorite poet, Mary Oliver. Mary doesn’t fail me. I felt like we were writing side by side. I opened her book, Red Bird, to the poem Night Herons, and one line jumped off the page, “what do we know/ except that death/ is so everywhere and so entire–” Using her form of four lines per stanza and borrowing this line, I wrote a poem about the tree.

An oak tree
fell in the night
while we were sleeping,
unknowing.

Its body broken
by invisible flames,
trunk separated
from leaves, from life.

Happy resurrection fern
clings, even as
clouds form
rain again.

This keeper of stories,
survivor of hurricanes,
fell in a summer storm,
just tired, I guess.

That was the end of growing
as we know it, yet
what do we know
except that death

is so everywhere and so entire–
culling and clearing,
sometimes taking
an old friend.

One strike, one boom,
and the lot fills up
with sprawling branches.
How long

will we walk by
and watch the decomposing?
How long until the chainsaw
destroys?

Until then, I will stay
pray to this sacred sculpture
and to its sculptor:
Rise and sow again.

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On the Lake

Posted in Poetry, Slice of Life, Writing, tagged , , , on June 12, 2012| 7 Comments »

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I spent the weekend on New Castle Lake with my parents. I never get tired of this place. Every night the sun set is new and beautiful. There is a great blue heron that hangs out on the peer fishing and guarding. Canada Geese, an unwelcome invasion, litter the far side of the lake while a mother duck swims by with her brood of five in a perfect line behind her. This place is inspiration for relaxing, reading, sleeping, and writing.

Because I was at home for a book signing at Jackson’s landmark independent bookstore Lemuria, conversation often turned to writing.

At lunch on Sunday, my father offered this wisdom, “When you don’t know what to write, WRITE.”

Mom echoed that Hemingway said there is no such thing as writer’s block.

Minka, their friend and priest, said, “I sometimes have to write, ‘Stay, Minka.'”

We all value the time and commitment writing takes.

At church, I was asked by a former high school classmate, “What possessed you to write a book?” I had to laugh out loud at the question. As though to be a writer one must be possessed.

I am possessed by a love of language.
I am possessed by the belief that a teacher of writing should be a writer.
I am possessed by the story, the poem, the words that want to be written.
So, yes, I guess I am possessed.

The great blue heron guards this lake
standing on wrought-iron legs firm and tall
while his blue-grey wings fan the breeze.

Mother mallard leads her paddling through
the canal, picking at the grassy border,
feeding class for the day.

At sunset, I fish with my brother.
His casts are smooth and long,
Mine awkward and clumsy.

Cast on this side
Don’t release your thumb until you swing,
Fishing class on the dockside.

In the distance, a boat anchored with a father and son
creates a silhouette on the horizon.
We cast and draw in silence.

It has taken this long life to learn
fishing is not about catching fish.

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Poetic Walk

Posted in Poetry, Writing, tagged , , on June 7, 2012| Leave a Comment »

On my early morning walk today, I was alone. My cell phone came along to track my mileage and pace, but it ended up recording my poem. Later when I checked the text, I discovered some funny misinterpretations. “High in the sky” became “Pie-in-the-sky.” “Workday” became “birthday.” The words didn’t really work with the poem I was trying to speak-write, but I had to smile at the idiosyncrasies of language.
After I worked on it, the poem became a grossblank, 12 lines with 12 syllables.

If you want to study the skeletons of frogs,
take a walk after the storm when the sun comes up.
Listen to the mockingbird song, high-pitched grating
like fingernails on the chalkboard. I walk the path
of the fallen limbs and clustered puddles of leaves.
We are washed yet still unclean. New day sun breaks
deepening the green, solid, and strong earth. Red spots
glitter after I glance at the spotlight. God’s eyes
peak through the ghost of a waning moon. Wren gathers
twigs for nesting, flutters off like a thief with goods.
No need for imagination here; all life breathes.
The beat of my footsteps become my prayer.

After a storm, resurrection fern fluffs up and becomes a green blanket on the live oaks.

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