Every week I am delighted to visit The Poem Farm. Amy Ludwig VanDerwater posts a poem and a student writing activity. A few weeks ago, I borrowed this post, The Real Me, and wrote I am poems with my students.
My students loved the activity. Many of them chose to post their poems on our kidblog site. I invited Amy to write comments. You should have heard them reading aloud their personalized comments; the pride in their voices made my heart sing. Amy has a talent for connecting to kids and finding just the right words to say. Thanks, Amy.
I wrote alongside my students. I put together my favorite lines to create this poem:
I am a lionness set in the stars, that drumbeat around a warm campfire.
I am a longing look from a silent child, a melody strummed on his guitar.
I am a secret scratched on a yellow sticky note. Don’t tell anyone who I am.
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Nature and beauty is pretty. The trees, the wind, and everything you know. Beauty in the diamonds and when I look inside, I see the face I love.
Annie, 4 years old
I was asked to teach a writing workshop for kids at the Hilliard Museum’s Play Day. “You have to be flexible because we’re never really sure who will show up.”
Annie came in with her father. I’ve met Annie a few times because our paths have crossed. I’m friends with her grandmother, and her mother is a journalist who has connected me with writing opportunities. So when she walked in, I greeted her, “Hi Annie. We are writing poems today. Would you like to write a poem?”
She began… “Yes. Nature and beauty is nice because…” and she continued. “Wait,” I said pulling out a clean piece of paper and a pen. “I wasn’t ready. Now slow down, and I’ll write what you say.”
Me with “Princess” Annie posing for a picture to send to Nanna B.
She is already a poet. I didn’t read one of my poems. I didn’t talk to her about forms. I didn’t give her any suggestions. She already knows how to write a poem.
Then we made a zine, a small foldable from a single sheet of paper. “Now,” I explained. “I could write the words for you, and you can draw the pictures.”
“No, I can write the words.” And she could! She copied the words she had dictated to me into the book. This took her at least 30 minutes. I was amazed at her focus and her determination. I was also amazed at her father’s patience. He sat comfortably while she meticulously copied each word.
The gifted teacher in me noted signs of perfectionism. When she messed up a letter, she got upset and rubbed it as if to erase it. I said, “Don’t worry. You can just make that a picture.”
Her letter a with the too long tail became what looked to me like a bug. I asked her, “Is this a butterfly?”
“No, it’s Diamond. Daddy, does it look like Diamond?”
“Yes, it does,” Daddy promptly said.
I looked at him and whispered, “Who’s Diamond?”
“Her imaginary friend” His whispered reply.
Annie continued writing word for word. An i placed in the wrong place became a tree.
When she finished, I said, “You need to sign it ‘by Annie’.”
She asked, “On the back?”
I showed her my book, Bayou Song. “On my book, my name is on the front. It says ‘Poetry by Margaret Simon.'”
Of course, Annie wrote on the front “Poetry by Annie.”
She is the youngest poet I’ve ever met, yet I have no doubts she is a writer. Just like her mom.
Waiting for the Harvest, by Mickey Delcambre. First place in the Sugarcane Festival Photography Contest
Ralph Fletcher’s new book, Focus Lessons, is coming out, so I took advantage of Heinemann’s offer to read a sample.
There are strong links between photography and writing. This is true in substance and process, as well as language. The world of photography provides a visual, concrete language (angle, focus, point of view, close-up, panorama) that is enormously helpful in teaching writing.
Ralph Fletcher, Focus Lessons
When I saw Mickey Delcambre’s photo on my Facebook page, I was compelled to write a haiku.
Equinox harvest– Slow down days, long resting nights Autumn changes time.
Margaret Simon, draft, 2019
On Monday, I talked with my students about the Fall Equinox. I was surprised how well they know the solstices, but they were less familiar with the meaning of equinox.
In New Iberia this weekend, there is the annual Sugarcane Festival, celebrated on the last weekend of September as harvesting begins. We only have to look out of the window to see the tall cane waving in the fields.
One of the Craft Lessons included in the book sample focuses on Mood. Ralph explains how mood can be expressed in a photograph as well as in writing. I look forward to finding more crossovers between photography and writing Ralph says, “Photography is writing with light.”
I put Mickey’s photograph up and ask my students to do a quick write about it. Our quickwrites are typically 5 minutes. Then we share. Sometimes (it’s always a choice), a quickwrite will become a poem.
Seeing the Days Change
I see the days changing around me, going from day to night and night to day the marks of tires only from the day before seeing the sun go down getting ready for the night, goodnight sun.
Breighlynn, 4th grade
Sugar
Sugar in the fields, still as a cane. Growing, oh so tall, ready for the harvest. Burning leaves make the sweet smelling smoke.
Can you smell the sugar? Smelling, oh so sweet. Have you ever eaten the cane? As pure as sugar comes.
A.J., 6th grade
This morning on my morning walk I smelled the sweet air that A. J. wrote about. One of the gifts of fall.
Poetry Friday round-up is with Linda at Teacher Dance
My students this year look forward to Poetry Friday when we read a poem and talk about what we notice, then try the form on. A few weeks ago we read Jane Yolen’s poem, “A Word is Not a Poem” that I had saved from her daily email poems. Having the form of her poem in hand, my students created interesting poem responses.
A Laugh is Not a Smile
A laugh is not a smile but it is a feeling inside you. You can laugh once but it’s best to laugh twice. laugh laugh
A smile is not a frown but it is a feeling inside you. used in several ways, to express love, and happiness. smile smile
Jamison, 4th grade
A Book is not a Word
A book is not a word , but a forest in a tree . Used in many ways , it can even be funny .
A book is not a poem You can only read it once , but best to read it twice . Book , Book .
A book is not a song , the words you cannot spin . Won’t know it going in you will though coming out . Tone , Note .
One of our favorite days of the year is Dot Day. Created to celebrate the publication of The Dot by Peter Reynolds, Dot Day encourages creativity and playful art.
My students and I drew dots and wrote Zeno poems. The Zeno form was invented by J. Patrick Lewis. The form uses a syllable count of 8, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1, 4, 2, 1 with each 1 syllable line rhyming. This is a playful form. We folded paper into a zine. To see how to make a zine, go to this post from last year.
Imagining the brightest knot
see the colors
of the dot
colors of the
rainbow
spot
Brightest of the
ones I’ve
got
Breighlynn, 4th grade
It is true that you have talent you are so high in the sky you should always attempt try you are in clouds try to fly
Our Sunday Night Swagger Writers Group has decided to post poems from a prompt on the first Friday of the month. Last month Heidi Mordhorst challenged us to definito poems. This month Catherine Flynn prompted us to write about a box:
Who was the owner of the box?
How did what is inside the box transform him or her?
Having acquired some things from my parents’ home this summer, I knew what box I would write about. My grandmother whom I called Nene died when I was young, between 8 and 10. I remember so much about her, her white-white hair, how she sewed beautiful Barbie clothes and even made doll furniture from cardboard, and how she loved butterflies. She had a pinned collection in a shadow box. But that isn’t the box of this poem. I had never seen this box before. It was tucked inside a cardboard box of mementos from my father’s childhood.
This is Her Box
that touched her hands so many years ago. A small brass box that fits in the palm of my hand. What did these things mean to her?
a tarnished silver spoon, jeweled pin, wire-framed butterfly, silver post earrings–
I put on the charm bracelet; Grands’ names in birth order become my connection to her.
All tucked into her box for me to find fifty years later and remember her touch.
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new baby blanket waiting
My middle daughter, Katherine, is waiting. We are all waiting for her baby to be born. His due date is Sept. 5th, so he will be here soon.
Last summer in August, Katherine had a miscarriage. It was tragic, yet her doctor told her then that she expected she would be holding a baby within a year. The day after the procedure, I took Katherine to a little yarn shop to pick out yarn for a blanket. I have been crocheting prayer shawls and blankets for the last few years. She said, “I’ll pick out the colors, but I don’t want you to make a baby blanket.” That was her sorrow talking. The blanket above is complete and waiting.
One method I often use for finding my way into a poem is to observe outside, then go inside, and back outside. Driving home a few weekends ago following the Mississippi Book Festival, I looked outside and inside and outside for this poem.
So We Must Daily Keep Things Wound (title from a Madeleine L’Engle quote)
I love how the raindrops glisten on glass dotting the landscape green and awake.
I keep the cell phone charged ready for her call when cramps turn to contractions. I wait, want, worry.
I read somewhere that the egg for this child was planted in her womb from my womb– this curious circle of life.
I keep my eyes on the clouds fluffed up and pregnant with rain, more rain. It keeps on coming.
(draft) Margaret Simon
NCTE Note: I’ve registered for NCTE 2019 to be held in Baltimore Nov. 21st-24th. I am looking for a roommate. Let me know by email if you are interested.
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Last week I read my teacher-blogger-writer-friend Molly Hogan’s Slice of Life post. It touched the poet in me. Molly wakes early and goes on photography quests. When we’re lucky, she takes us along on her Facebook posts or blog. Last week she wrote this post entitled A Generous Morning.
Inspired, I copied her words into a found poem. Her generous morning became my generous morning. That’s how it works with creativity; it’s all big magic.
A Generous Morning
Lightening sky in the east as surely as the birds were migrating south, I missed the swallows.
The sky seemed lonely. Then a couple of swallows dart and dive through the air currents, and a bird approaching in the distance-
a heron
Sun rose higher, lit the mist. Cedar waxwings flittered. I watched it all, the generosity of morning.
a found poem by Margaret Simon using Molly Hogan’s words.
The children’s poetry community lost a friend and a mentor when Lee Bennett Hopkins died on August 8th. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but in everything I’ve read about him, he was a gentle leader and proud father of poetry.
Among his many anthologies, I have Amazing Places on my classroom shelf. In it, Lee Bennett Hopkins collected poems about places around our country. His contribution was a poem titled Langston.
Though his professional writing was successful, it was the death of poet Langston Hughes in 1967 that proved to be a spark for Hopkins’s career of anthologizing poetry for children.
By Shannon Maughan | Aug 13, 2019
Amazing Places: Poems selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins, Lee & Low Books, 2015.
While borrowing a few lines as well as the form of this poem and reading his obituary on Publishers Weekly, I wrote this poem for Lee.
His Dusts of Dreams after Lee Bennett Hopkins “Langston” for Lee Bennett Hopkins, 1938-2019
Who would have known a young boy of divorce, a poor student inspired by a teacher would find his footing in education–
from student to teacher to collector of poems, With greetings to all Dear Ones, he left his dusts of dreams.
Christie Wyman has invited the Poetry Friday community to write about trees this week. I am back in school and have so missed the days of writing alongside my students. Because I am itinerant and teach at three schools, I have three opportunities to write during the day. That gave me time to write, read aloud, revise, write. Not to mention the joy my students felt to be back in the saddle of writing.
We used “That was Summer” by Marci Ridlon as a mentor text. The repetition makes this form an easy one to mimic. I chose to write about the different trees we see each season.
Seasons of Trees after Marci Ridlon “That was Summer”
Remember that time when the rope swing hung from the old oak tree the knot round and rough? You wrapped your skinny legs on tight let someone give you a push your head leaned back tongue out, tasting the breeze. That was summer.
Remember that time you gathered pecans plopping one by one into grandfather’s tin bucket? You held the brown nut to the metal cracker, and turned the handle until Crack! Tasting hickory butter sweetness. That was autumn.
Remember when the wind turned cold, Flakes fell softly on the trees, and you bundled up and walked with your sisters through rows and rows of Christmas spruce, playing hide and seek and searching for the just-right one. That was winter.
Remember how the warm sun rose on the Japanese magnolia prompting firm blossoms to open like helium-filled party balloons? Remember how you walked near to smell the strong rosy scent that could make you sneeze? That was spring.
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She is a retired elementary gifted teacher who writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 