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Silence of the first snow by John Gibson

Silence of the first snow by John Gibson

This never happens in South Louisiana, a snow day. Yesterday, the weather man predicted a wintry mix. All schools in Acadiana were canceled for Friday.

Like an excited child, I have been up since 5:30 AM checking for snow…no. There is some ice accumulating on the deck, so I suppose it is a good thing little southern children are not having to stand outside and wait for buses that do not handle ice on roads well. Hey, I’m not complaining. I get a free day. But as I look at my father’s drawing of this beautiful silent scene of snow, I can’t help but wish I could see this in my own yard, if only for a few moments. There is something silent and magical about the first snow.

Snow Day
Snow fell silently through the night,
Tufts of a fluffy cotton-ball sweater.
I wake to a field of white.

White-topped limbs reach out for light.
No one predicted this wondrous weather.
Snow fell silently through the night.

Come to the window to see the fresh sight.
Cancel school. Let’s play together.
I wake to a field of white.

Smooth pure canvas, all is right.
Each leaf a glass-encased feather,
Snow fell silently through the night.

–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

This poem is featured in my book Illuminate. Enjoy more Poetry Friday over at Tara Smith’s Site, A Teaching Life.

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Another and another…
This week my students and I wrote word association poems after a movement exercise I learned from Bonny McDonald. See the post about that activity here.

I found it interesting (and so did they) where their original word led them. I wanted to make word clouds with them but am having some technical difficulty.

apple

Apple
A fruit
Has cousins
like banana,
orange and
pear
which bloom
in Spring
with cousins
like Fall,
Winter and
Summer
Fall has
red, yellow
orange and
brown leaves
falling everywhere
Winter has
ice and
is cold
Summer is
hot and
dry with
people swimming
at the
beach with
sand flying
everywhere
people surfing
and having
fun all
from the
word apple.
by Tyler

Brooklyn chose a word that she didn’t like.

Storm
rain
thunder
lightning

Storm
crash
loud
dark
scary

Storm
cold
wet
shelter

Storm
watch
alone
together

Storm
afraid
lose

Storm
don’t
continue
won’t
stop

Storm

Join the Poetry Friday Round up at Keri Recommends.  Happy Birthday to Keri!

Join the Poetry Friday Round up at Keri Recommends. Happy Birthday to Keri!

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Join the Poetry Friday Round up at I think in Poems hosted by Betsy.

Join the Poetry Friday Round up at I think in Poems hosted by Betsy.

My handmade book of poems

My handmade book of poems

One thing I enjoy about a long break is the time to be creative. I learned how to make a book recently and tried it out on Christmas Day using some paper my daughter gave me as a gift, covering mat-board, sewing pages together, and binding with colorful duct tape. Inside, I have glued copies of the poems I have written this winter break.

I challenged myself to write 10 poems over 2 weeks. I’m up to seven and have 3 more days. This challenge makes me look at life as a poet, finding poems everywhere. I wish I could live like this everyday, but most days the stresses of life get in the way.

Between Christmas and New Year’s Day, I spent some time with my family in Mississippi. My sister took some pictures of the lake. I borrowed this one of two white egrets wading and wrote a poem to the image. I cannot seem to write a poem about nature without mentioning the Great Creator. I also grabbed some inspiration from this site, The Heron and Egret Society, that includes Mary Oliver poems about egrets. I borrowed the word scumbled and began, as Mary Oliver did, with the phrase, “Where the”

Photo by Beth Saxena

Photo by Beth Saxena

Egrets

Where the shoreline turns
hiding among the scumbled weeds,
two white egrets
take stealthy steps on stick-like legs.

The wind passes them by.
The canopy of orange maple leaves
ignore this lightning flash of beauty.

I observe them from a safe distance,
not sure if a prayer is waiting,
I release a breath: “Ah, me!”

I can pay attention, say grace,
and praise you,
twin brush strokes of God.

–Margaret Simon

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City Lights

See more of Poetry Friday at A Year of Reading with Mary Lee Hahn

See more of Poetry Friday at A Year of Reading with Mary Lee Hahn

Before the Christmas break, I sat down with my students and asked them to set a goal for reading and writing over the break. I set one along with them and challenged myself to write 10 poems over the break. So far I have written four. And since we have a week to go, I may be able to meet my goal.

Images tend to send me into a more creative mood. My friend, Michelle Zimmerman, is a great photographer. I often take her photos from Facebook (with her permission) to use for writing prompts. On Christmas Day, she posted this image.

If you would like to write a poem to this image, you can post it in the comments or email it to me, and I’ll add it to the post. (margaretsmn at gmail dot com)

Photo by Michelle Zimmerman

Downtown Seattle. Photo by Michelle Zimmerman

City lights
climb the trees,
sit atop lampposts,
shine in the shape of a star.
Wherever you are,
darkness surrounds you
while the lights
of the city streets
tell you the time,
stop cars and buses,
send out the message:
You are not alone.
We are here to
light your way.

Dec. 25, 2013
Margaret Simon

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2013 poetry swap with stamp included
Tabatha Yeatts connects poets all year long. I signed up for her winter poetry swap and received a package from Diane Mayr this week. Diane doesn’t know me in person. We’ve never spoken on the phone, but she took the time to read my blog and even researched Louisiana. I was so delighted by her poem for me that I wanted to share it with you. She also sent a copy of her book Littlebat’s Halloween Story. It’s a precious children’s book told from the point of view of Littlebat as he looks in at a library from the attic. This bat loves stories and wants to stay awake to hear them. Clever story and amazing illustrations. Thanks so much, Diane, for your generous, creative spirit. Diane writes a blog at Random Noodling.

reflections on the teche copy

See more of Poetry Friday at Buffy's Blog.

See more of Poetry Friday at Buffy’s Blog.

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As much of the country experiences cold temperatures, freezing ice and snow, I am thinking about this Christmas song. In the Bleak Midwinter is a poem by Christina Rossetti written prior to 1872.

My poetry book Illuminate, features the following poem, Outside Salzburg to my father’s first Christmas card drawing. My brother recorded a CD to accompany our book. Following my reading of this poem, he sings “In the Bleak Midwinter.”

Take a moment to focus on the season of Christmas.
Slow down.
Pray for peace.
As we feel the cold chill of the winter air and remember the tragedy of Sandy Hook, may we embrace each other a little longer
and find special ways to show kindness to one another and to our world.

Outside Salzburg

From the train, snow-covered hills beckon
outside Salzburg. The whistle echoes.
Trees stand tall and barren.
Weary travelers stare in wonder.

Somewhere in the distance,
a child is torn from his mother’s arms,
a beggar reaches out with empty hands,
Somewhere, a woman grieves for her lost lover.

But here—on the road to Innsbruck—
a church glistens on the smooth,
unblemished snow, calling out
Let
there
be
peace.
–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

In the Bleak Midwinter
by Christina Rossetti

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

To order a copy of Illuminate with CD by Hunter Gibson, click here. To order on Amazon, click here. I’ll give away a copy with CD to a randomly selected commenter.

For more great poems, join Poetry Friday over at Tabatha Yeatts’ place, The Opposite of Indifference.

poetry friday button

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Crows on the Playground

See more Poetry Friday with Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge.

See more Poetry Friday with Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons. Click on image for link to original image.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons. Click on image for link to original image.

One early morning this week when I sat down at my desk, I became aware of a murder of crows on the playground outside my window, so I wrote a poem about it. Poetry is everywhere.

A flock of crows in the school yard
perched on the basketball goal,
side by side on the swing set,
cluttering the picnic table.

Like children who will come out later,
they chatter, peck, and flit.
Tag, you’re it. Hide-and-seek,
Treasure hunt.

Some are flying alone.

Some are gathered together.
Crows on the playground.
–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

A Poetry Friday friend, Donna Smith, posted this video in response to my crow poem. Funny and clever, a crow snowboarding.

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See more Poetry Friday at Carol's Corner.

See more Poetry Friday at Carol’s Corner.

Bradford pear tree

Yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, Betsy Hubbard of Two Writing Teachers asked us to take a moment to be still and write a poem. I actually wrote this poem by speaking into my phone on the way to Walgreens to get some decongestant. (My sinuses do not like the cold.) While I was shopping, a young woman, girl actually, asked if she could help me find something. Then she commented that I smelled. “It’s not a bad smell.” I had carried the roasting turkey smell with me. Anything can make its way into a poem.

Thanksgiving Day

Fire orange blazes from the tops of the trees
announcing the season’s change,
so I drive to my parents’ home by the lake
through the woods, tall pines, draping oaks.

Mama puts the turkey on early in the morning
while I still lounge in pajamas.
That Thanksgiving smell fills the air,
a scent I cannot emulate,
a scent I hold here

in my clothes, in my hair, my heart.
My mind does not wander to times before;
I do not miss the sound of children.
No, I am just here with this now,

This turkey roasting, the warmth of the fire,
this place where I am always loved.

–Margaret Simon

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See more Poetry Friday with Katya at Write. Sketch. Repeat.

See more Poetry Friday with Katya at Write. Sketch. Repeat.

How do you write a poem? Where do you begin? I learned long ago from working with children writers that they are full of ideas. I wrote an article for the National Writing Project journal The Quarterly in 2005 when it was still in print titled “Writing with William.” (I was pleased to find it on a Google search.) In the article, I described a tutoring experience that led me to understand young writers need tools, not ideas, structures, not prompts. When I was talking with Ava Haymon, our state poet laureate, last weekend about writing ideas for students, she said a technique that she likes to use is repetition.

Using Ava’s poems as models, I introduced this structure to 6th graders at our monthly enrichment day we call WOW (Way out Wednesday.) “The Child Born” begins each line with the same three words, “The child who.” I asked the students to listen for the details. Following the reading, we did a memory test. “What did you remember?” While they didn’t quite understand the poem, they did remember almost every line, especially “The child who bites cuticles instead of fingernails,” and “The child who sucks her hair at night.” Details are memorable. Another model I used was Betsy Franco’s “Fourths of Me” from The Poetry Friday Anthology for Middle School.

Then I gave them the assignment: Write about whatever you want to, but begin each line or each stanza in the same way. Examples: Before, Everybody, As long as, The child who, Anyone, Who, Why, I am. The students also added beginnings to the list.

This was a successful lesson because everyone wrote a poem. Even the kid who said he hates writing poems. Even the one who said she has never written a poem before. After writing, we shared and did a memory test for each other’s poems. They realized the importance of using specificity and original ideas to draw a reader’s attention.

What Do You See?

When you see the stars, you see the sky
But when I see the stars, I see the days passing by.
When you see the beach, you see grains of sand.
But when I see the beach, I see a place untouched of man.
When you see the ocean, you see fish and pearls.
But when I see the ocean, I see an underwater world.
When you see a child, you see a small man.
But when I see a child, I see a gift from God’s hands.

–Kaley

Before and After

After the sun sets at night,
After the bud blooms,
After the plane takes off in flight,
I’ll go home to my room.

Before the sun rises at dawn,
Before dew forms on the flower,
Before the bird lands in its nest,
The king will give up his power.

This time I will not stay silent,
This time I will speak.
This time I will not be shy,
This time I’ll be bold.

–Ethan

My Dream

I am the frail one.
I am the fragile one.
I am the annoying one.
I am the one in the back of the classroom.
I am the new student.
I am the one no one wants around.
I am the dumb one.
I am the one nobody talks to.
I am the runt of the litter.
I am the timid one
Only in my dreams.

–Jack

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See more Poetry Friday at Jama's Alphabet Soup.

See more Poetry Friday at Jama’s Alphabet Soup.

Most students in the middle grades know the name Lemony Snicket, so when I introduced his article from Poetry magazine, they were primed to listen. In this article, Lemony Snicket introduced adult poetry to children. He says, “Poetry is like a curvy slide in a playground — an odd object, available to the public — and, as I keep explaining to my local police force, everyone should be able to use it, not just those of a certain age.”

We read aloud the whole article. My instructions for writing were simple, “Steal a line that you like and write from there.”

The poem I wrote is a Cento, in which I took a line from each of the poems in the article.

An open door says, “Come in.”
The room I entered was a dream of this room.
I’m in the house.
I’m still here?
There is no need for you to come and visit me.
You are food. You are here for me to eat.
There will never be enough.
Nothing anyone could do to stop it coming.
The next obvious question:
“Does anyone want to be my sack of potatoes?”
Think of a big pink horse.
There are monsters everywhere.
What is it the sign of?
It is what it is.
That’s Poetry to me.
Thank you, I have enjoyed imagining all this.

Some student samples:

If I would be walking
down the road that
you told me to imagine,
would it be full of gumdrops,
and rainbows covered
in sprinkles and chocolate
fudge on a marshmallow
cloud that tastes like
strawberry icing or maybe
chocolate ice cream on the
hottest day of the year,
or would the road be
full of dark nights, but no stars
and gravestones, with lost kids,
and a grey, lonely path with
cracks in the middle
that can swallow
me up in one bite, with
eyes looking at me in
every direction?

If I would be walking
down the road you told
me to imagine,
which road would I be walking?
If I would be walking
the road you told me
to imagine, would my road
include you?

–Brooklyn

Electric green and red tears
reflected like rainbows over water in the daylight
right before rain
a warning of good fortune
telling us it’s okay
–Kendall

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