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.
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 .
In early August, Molly Hogan wrote a post about titles and suggested that we use a title of a poem to spark a new poem. I took it one step further. I read the poem of the intriguing title and wrote a response poem. From Molly’s post, I clicked on A Poem for Pulse.
After reading the poem, my writing went on a roller coaster ride of response. It just flowed out. Here’s the draft with little revision. I’m not sure if it reads as a poem on its own, without the original poem.
A Poem for Pulse
Digging deep into the dirt of a poem about guns and death and people judging people was a line that caught my breath, made me gasp
for air because I thought at first the air was too thick to breathe through. I thought I knew the end.
This poem took me for a fool and made me question myself. Am I the shooter or the lover?
We must love one another whether or not we die.
The poet’s directive pointed to love, away from judgement, or criticism which is really only fear. Not giving in, an act of resistance.
In the end, there was kissing.
Margaret Simon, draft, response to A Poem for Pulse by Jamison Fitzpatrick
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.
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.
One of the joys of summer is participating in Tabatha Yeatts’ Summer Poetry Swap. Tabatha creates the matchups, and we enjoy sending and receiving poetic gifts.
This week I received a gift from Jone MacCulloch. Jone took an amazing trip this summer to Page, Arizona where she took photos in Secret Canyon. She wrote a beautiful poem capturing the feeling of being there. She had the image printed onto a plaque that has a stand, so it all becomes a piece of art to display.
I took a quick trip to the beach in Florida last week with my daughter. I posted an interesting image on Instagram and invited friends to write a haiku to it. I had a few takers. The catch was they couldn’t use the word “sun”.
Beach reflection, photo by Margaret Simon
reflective water meets the blinding summer’s jewel they kiss in between
Kaylie Bonin ( a former student, now college freshman)
day’s ending water ignites one final moment
Linda Baie
yellow and white light drawn together by nature reflects the divine
Evelyn Migues
my eyes catch the light bright reflection from above I need sunglasses
Gloria McKenzie
If you want to play along, leave a haiku response in the comments.
Today my Sunday Poetry Swagger writing group is celebrating a new form invented by our colleague Heidi Mordhorst, who is hosting the PF link up.
Heidi’s definition of a definito is “a free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which always ends the poem.” A few weeks ago during one of our Sunday night critique meetings, she asked us each to try writing our own definito.
I’ve been following Teach Write on Facebook and each day they post a word to jump start writing. In the month of July, they posted “voracious vocabulary”. One day the word was “zephyr.” This was a new to me word that I thoroughly enjoyed learning about. A definito is a great way to explore a word’s meaning through writing. I will be using this activity with my students this year.
Zephyr
Zero in. Feel the wind blow oh, so, slow, lightly feathering the sleepy moss, slightly rippling the shore. Not a gale or hefty gust, blustery bora or frigid buster. This Greek god is a gentle one waving from the western sky… easy-breezy zephyr. (draft) Margaret Simon
Poetry Friday round-up is here! Scroll down to link up.
Laura Purdie Salas started a sharing group on Facebook around the journal companion to Steal Like An Artistby Austin Kleon. One of the exercises asks you to steal a title to create your own story.
I recently attended an art show for my friend and SCBWI colleague, Denise Gallagher. The title of her show was “A Teaspoon and a Bit of String.” She is currently involved in an ArtSpark grant for her upcoming middle grade fairy tale. This is her title illustration.
A Teaspoon and a Bit of String by Denise Gallagher
I stole (like an artist) this title to write a poem. For a few weeks this summer I was cleaning out my parents’ home. They moved to a retirement home. I found treasures as I whittled through drawers and closets. A teaspoon and a bit of string fit just right.
A Teaspoon and a Bit of String*
We live in shared spaces thirty years or more storing things away for someday when you need a bit of string.
Tie it to your shoelace or round a simple gift. Hand it to your lover to remember you with.
Down in the abyss of the silverware drawer, a teaspoon speaks of years of sugar measured, perhaps the purple medicine to calm a cough.
I tuck this teaspoon into days-old news tie with a bit of string and carry it with me into next time.
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 