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)
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.
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.
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, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
See more Poetry Friday with Diane Mayr at Random Noodling
Ava Leavell Haymon, Louisiana Poet Laureate
“Somewhere, out beyond ideas
of wrongdoing and right-doing,
there is a field.
I will meet you there.” –Rumi
Thus is the epigraph that opens Ava Leavell Haymon’s latest work of poetry, Eldest Daughter. Ava is the most recently appointed Louisiana Poet Laureate, and she is coming to New Iberia next weekend to a Fall Poetry Night. (Fist-arm pump) Yes! If you met Ava, the thing you would remember about her is her laugh, and she laughs often.
Ava’s poetry is masterly crafted, yet easily accessible. Lemony Snicket selected one of Ava’s poems, The Witch has Told You a Story, to feature in his article, All Good Slides Are Slipperyfor Poetry Magazine. Mr. Snicket says that “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.” I shared this article with my students this week. We wrote our own poems by stealing a line from one or more of the poems in the article. This was a great activity and produced some funny poems. Stay tuned.
Ava has given me permission to share two of her poems with you. This first is from the collection Why the House is Made of Gingerbread. I love this collection. Who would have thought that the classic Hansel and Gretel would have yielded such moving and thoughtful poetry?
THE WITCH HAS TOLD YOU A STORY
You are food, she said.
You are here for me to eat.
Fatten up, and I will
like you better. Your brother will
be first. You must wait your turn.
You must feed him yourself.
You must learn to do it. Take him
eggs with yellow sauce, and muffins,
butter leaking out the crooked break
in the sides. Fried meats
later in the morning and sweets
in a heady parade from the oven.
His vigilance, an ice pick of hunger
pricking his sides, will melt
in the unctuous cream fillings.
He will forget. He will thank you
for it. His little finger stuck every day
through the cracks in the bars
will grow sleek and round,
his hollow face swell
like the moon. He will stop dreaming
the fear in the woods without food.
He will lean toward the mouth
of the oven, the door
that yawns wide every afternoon
to better and better smells.
–Ava Leavell Haymon, all rights reserved
The second poem comes from Ava’s latest work Eldest Daughter. I haven’t read them all yet, but the ones I have are so full! Full of childhood fears, sensibilities, and humor. LSU Press says “she combines the sensory and the spiritual in wild verbal fireworks.” And to hear her read them, you see the fireworks glow in her eyes. She is a delight, and I can’t wait to introduce her to my town.
THE CHILD BORN
with a caul
the child who eats the skin that forms on scalded milk
the child who bites cuticles instead of fingernails
the child who sucks her hair at night
the child who sings in her sleep
the child who does not mind the squeak of blackboard chalk
the child who swallowed a blue bead
the child who will not throw up
the child who refuses to listen
the child with the gristle knob at the arch of her ribs
the child who knows where the matches are
the child who looks too long at her father
the child who likes to spit
the child who looks in the eyes of the dog
the child who sits for hours
the child who sometimes laughs when she’s by herself
the child whose cold hands
the child who eats clay
the child who can look cross-eyed
the child who starts fires
the child who hides in a chinaberry tree
the child who listens
the child who grows quieter and quieter
the child who can be trusted with knives and scissors
the child who never reaches under her bed
the child who goes where no one is
the child who cuts things out
the child who hums little songs no one can recognize
Ava Leavell Haymon, all rights reserved
Fall Poetry Night will be Saturday, November 16th at 6:00 PM at A&E Gallery. Other poets reading will be Mickey Delcambre, Suzi Thornton, Diane Moore, and Margaret Gibson Simon.
Ava reading from Eldest Daughter on YouTube (This one is for adults only despite what Lemony Snicket may say.):
See more Poetry Friday with Linda at Teacher Dance.
The Festival of Words is around the corner (next weekend!). Naomi Shihab Nye is coming to the small town of Grand Coteau, Louisiana to be a part of this great celebration of poetry. Naomi is a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, and she is coming to see us and share poetry with us. I have signed up for her workshop next Saturday and have gotten special permission to bring a student with me.
The Festival of Words was organized six years ago by a small group who believed that Poetry is for Everybody. With drive-by poetry and open air readings, the festival brings the power of poetry to the streets.
The Festival also holds a student writing contest. The contest is open to 6th-12th graders. The highest level I teach is 6th grade. My student, Brooklyn, entered her poem about sugarcane and placed FIRST in the Jr. High Division. I have been teaching Brooklyn since she was in 4th grade, and it delights me to see her writing develop to contest-winning level. I am so proud of her. Her winning poem is here:
I’m home
A green line of cane,
above the tan dirt,
under the bright blue
Louisiana sky.
Colorful, like a
shining rainbow after
a harsh rain,
like a path full of
roses and daisies.
There is a hushing noise,
made by the stalks slowly
and gently rubbing together,
hush, hush, hush.
With the touch of the angel’s wing
so delicate and free, reassuring
you that anything is possible.
Always giving off the soft,
welcoming, harmless,
I’m home feeling.
I’m home,
I’m home,
I’m home.
Brooklyn, all rights reserved
From the Festival of Words Kickstarter Site on Why it Matters: “Writing poems and stories gives people of all ages a positive means to communicate, share, and respect each other’s words and individuality. • Creative writing raises student literacy levels • Creative writing teaches problem-solving, analysis, and creative thinking • Students who participate in the arts are more likely to excel academically and professionally.”
Finally in the deep south the temperatures are cooling off. Everyone is putting out their decorated pumpkins and synthetic spider webs. Halloween is around the corner. Time to write some fall poetry. I introduced fall poetry by posting Amy Ludwig Vanderwater’s poem “Preserving Fall” on our kidblog site. Her poem is about pressing leaves in waxed paper. I remember doing this as a child and with my own kids, but my students have never done this. We are going on a field trip today to Natchez, Mississippi where there may be more colorful leaves to collect. I promised we could press leaves next week.
In the meantime, I shared Amy’s book Forest Has a Song. We picked out favorites to read aloud. From JoAnn Early Macken’s book Write a Poem Step by Step, I asked the writers to use a cluster method for gathering ideas when pre-writing. I like how clustering can bring forth words you may not find otherwise.
One of my clusters turned to my backyard satsuma tree, full of ripening fruit.
Satsuma Time
Look outside the kitchen window;
First sign of fall,
peeks of yellow,
sparkle like diamonds
ripening in the sun.
Heavy hanging on the tree,
Abundance gathered one by one.
Satsuma sweet,
Autumn citrus treat.
–Margaret Simon
See more Poetry Friday at Live your poem with Irene Latham.
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.
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Reflections on the Teche 