Poetry Friday round up is hosted by Kimberley.
This week I have had the privilege to host a writing camp for kids. I have a small group ranging in age from 10 to 17. I have taught many writing camps over the years, but this is the first time that everyone there is truly a writer. I feel like my job this week has been to open up a faucet and watch the water flow. They just know how to do it.
Since I am holding the camp at a school within my church on Main Street, I decided that each day we would venture out to places close by to write. We have written in a bakery/gelato shop, an art gallery, a museum,a church, a bookstore, and a cafe.
One activity I enjoy doing with young writers is ekphrasis, writing to art. We are holding our meetings in the fine arts building. The art teacher is a folk art collector. She has left parts of her collection in the building for art inspiration. We used it for writing inspiration. Emery wrote this piece to a painting of a woman holding paint brushes fanned out over her face. The insight of this 13 year old is amazing.
George said that he could paint anything. He said that he could even paint me. I protested, but he insisted. I put my dirty blonde hair into a messy ponytail, my bangs fell to the left side of my face. I asked if there was any way to hide my face. He said,”Hold these paintbrushes in front of your face.” He handed me his extra brushes and I fanned them out. I put my hand to my cheek, for I could feel myself blushing. When he told me he was done, I took a look. I found a beautiful girl in black and white. She had two sides of her face, one light and one dark. The darker side showed where I hid my blush. The lighter side showed my blemish free skin. I saw a beautiful girl with insecurities, hiding behind paintbrushes. George had shown me the way that I see myself, and the way other people see me. He told me to take it home and hang it on a wall. I hung it in my living room. Every time I saw it, I remembered my insecurities and the man who painted me. He showed me how beautiful I really am.
–Emery
In the gallery, Kaylie focused not on the art but the building itself. She found an old door to write about.
Tall wooden door.
Antique. Riddled with
cracks. Green vine,
hello, creeping up
the wall. Brick
covered by thin
layer of paint, chipping,
like the floor,
patterns of red and
gray. Ancient hinges
on door, probably
can’t even open.
Doesn’t matter–blocked
by drying racks, a
hat stand and a
dusty flowerpot. Not
to be opened, nailed
shut by a rusty bar.
Why? What are you
keeping out? Or
what are you locking in?
–Kaylie
I hope you will come back over the next few days as I publish more of their work. This has been a pure pleasure to be with such wonderful writers.
Reflections on the Teche 