ish

With apologies to Peter Reynolds, here is a first week of school poem.

Monday
startish
English German
Spanish
beamish teamish
done

Tuesday
begin again
togetherish
hot and sticky meish
becomes a ragged weish

Wednesday
tiredish
tearish clingish screamish
ac busted steamish
oops a trigger:
nothing ish
about this fit!
this afternoon feels
endlish
I love you please go home

Thursday
freshish
ac fixed relaxish
cryish calmish
routine is a balmish
hey an anchor:
nothing ish
about this song!
listen to us sing

first day feast

This amazing and delicious school-supply buffet by Jamie from Setting the Mood.  Suddenly I'm starving...

It's that time again.  In large part because of a course I took which required me to log 100 hours of "Preparing Effective Curriculum,"  I've been thinking about school all summer, and I knew because of the pattern of our family activities that this summer would feel particularly short.  But here we are on the morning of my first day back (yes, one ahead of the general schedule for special staff development) and I could say:  my summer's over.

As Daisy reminded me, Summer itself is not over, not by a long shot, but it's hard to remember that in the perennially pleasurable flurry of newness.  I participated in the exit interview for that course yesterday and sat with three other teachers who appreciate, as I do, the chance to Begin Anew each year, to rethink and improve and correct and refresh and embark and attempt.  We also appreciate the break that allows us to do this each summer.  I don't have to tell most of you that teachers have summer breaks because they NEED them to recover and regroup--ours is one of the most continuously intense kinds of work there is. 

[I believe in this annual New Beginning even though I also believe that we here in the US need to rethink our whole school schedule and move to the European one of just-about year-round school.*  It's the only thing that makes sense in our modern culture, and it's better for children and working families as well as teachers.]

So here's a Begin Anew poem.

First Day Feast

"Fresh" is a word I hear about food,
like "crisp" and "juicy" and "ripe."
But things feel fresh on the first day of school:
my new clothes are crisp,
my markers are juicy,
my brain feels ready and ripe.
All the stuff I learned last year
has sunk in deep and wet,
like feet in the sand and me in the pool.
Now I'm hungry!  Now I'm set
for a feast of the first-day type!

HM 2013
draft

The round-up today is over at steps and staircases on tumblr, with our new host Lisa.  I hope I'm doing the right thing to post my link...

*In England, where I taught for 5 years, there are three terms of 12 weeks.  Each term is broken into two 6-week chunks by an entire week of half-term break, and there are 2-week breaks between terms.  School thus finishes around Wimbledon time each year, mid-July, and the summer break is "only" 6 weeks or so, but since teachers have not been driven sniveling into the ground by endless weeks of school punctuated only by the occasional Monday off, they don't need quite so much time to recover and regroup--that process is more ongoing.

[OIK] Tuesday: the best part of the day

I'm working on my vow to write for kids, little ones, for a while...I have no kindergarten voices to draw on right now, so I'll be the 5-year-old for now. (This chart is not from my classroom, but it's nice, right?)

 

A Reason to Rejoice

 

Some of my friends are scared to choose-

all they can think of is what they'll lose.

But being the boss makes me rejoice:

My favorite time of day is Choice.

 

HM 2013

draft

a roller coaster called kindergarten

As I return to "real" life after a long and fantastic trip to the France and Italy of our extended family, I'm grateful to Mary Lee for wisely reminding me that control is my favorite illusion:

A Teacher Turns the Calendar Page From July to August

It's the same feeling you get

just after you've nudged the sled

over the shoulder

of the hill.

Movement becomes momentum

and quickly shifts

to catapulting and careening.

You relinquish control

and hold on

for the ride.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2013

I'm also grateful to my father for sending me this poem that he found in the pages of the always stimulating Christian Century magazine.  It reminds me that it's not about the weight of the papers and planning and posters and pencils; the joy in this ride comes from the small mammals strapped in next to you on the roller coaster.

If I become like you, I will write about a roughed grouse | Brian Doyle

If I become like you I will write about a roughed grouse,
Says the boy, five years old, with a face like a chipmunk
Storing up winter browse. We are at his school, where he
And the other small mammals have written things for me
On bright scraps of paper. He hands me his paper and I’ll
Carry it in my wallet the rest of my life. Mister Brian, the
Sun is raining all around, another child says to me. It is up
And down sun, she says. I want to be a cookie when I’m
Your age, says another child. Once we were all monkeys
In skirts made from the skins of trees, says a boy with an
Icicle tattoo. It’s templorary, he says, explaining it to me.
I laugh and he laughs and every kid there starts laughing.
I think I am going to fly up gently into the air over a tree
From joy, as saints used to float when gripped by ecstasy.
That happened to Saint Joseph Cupertino, you remember,
Seventy times, it is said, and now I know why: no gravity.

----------------------------
I hope to make this the last poem written for adults for a good while and challenge myself to do that thing I like best, which is write for kids.  I thank Margaret over at the round-up at Reflections on the Teche for reminding me what a supportive community this is; I think I'm going to need it.

For now, I will lower my expectations a bit.  The title is for the grown-ups, but the poem works for little ones.


On Rearranging the Classroom, Again

It really matters where you sit,
whichever way you look at it.
Choose the middle of the middle;
that way you see it all a little.

Heidi Mordhorst 2013

                                  And here's a photo I came across that I just need to share...

http://s205.photobucket.com/user/elbowsandknuckles/media/monks_roller_coaster.jpg.html?

 

 

 

summer sounds or summer silence?

 

May the long light of the sun shine on us all this Summer Solstice day!  It's been a whole month since my last lame post--an unintended hiatus brought on by my first taste of the Sandwich Generation.

 

In the last four weeks, with one hand I juggled the usual teacher's end-of-year obligations (including a program for parents at which my kiddos explained, announced and sang nine songs both enthusiastically and beautifully--very gratifying for all the adults);  with the other I scheduled and propped and permitted and prepared and attended the projects, plays, trips, tryouts, presentations and promotions of my own children; and with the occasional free left foot or right hip, helped my parents (rather fit at 73 but under duress) sort and pack 28 years' worth of important stuff from their Baltimore house during a move that was achieved, between "Maybe we should put the house on the market" and "We're on the road with the moving van right behind us," in 5 weeks flat.

Meanwhile, my adult partner in all this was as helpful and supportive as possible given that she was logging hours and miles in preparation for a successful 545-mile AIDS Lifecycle from San Francisco to L.A. This left only my right big toe free to think about and write poetry--and since my right big toe is not a skilled typist, I didn't log a single poetic thought between May 24 and this Wednesday morning, when I prepared to catch up with three (count 'em, THREE!) poetry meetings in one day.  It is perhaps no surprise that what I found in my files to work on was a blank page with nothing but a title:  "Experiment in the Silence Lab."

It's not ready to share yet, so instead I offer you this rumination from Billy Collins.  The round-up today is with Carol at Carol's Corner.


Silence | Billy Collins

There is the sudden silence of the crowd

above a player not moving on the field,

and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase

before it strikes the floor,

the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,

the silence of the moon

and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,

the silence of the window above us,

and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning

which I have broken with my pen...

Read the rest here, or listen to Billy read it.

out of time

I don't really have a post today, and it's not about poetry.  I've been reading, you see, and watching, and there's only so much time in a person's last month of the school year.

A while back I read  A Wrinkle in Time to Duncan (which turns out not to be such a great read-aloud, but we made it work; any thoughts on that assertion?); then we did Percy Jackson 4 (my favorite so far) and most recently we read, quite slowly, When You Reach Me. 

Simultaneously, and after working to get into it for some weeks, I was reading The Time Traveller's Wife, which has been Daisy's favorite book since the middle of 7th grade.  (We'll go back some time to how I felt when I realized that my barely 13 yo was reading and rereading this adult work of fiction; it felt the same as when I realized she had watched six seasons of "How I Met Your Mother" before I even knew that show existed. Oy.)  Alongside THAT, I've been watching "HIMYM" with Daisy, which is essentially a time-travel experience, and the modern "Doctor Who" with Duncan.

So I have no poetry post today, only a report about how I can't stop thinking about diamond chips on a gold ring and the broccoli patch, Aunt Beast and the Laughing Man and Henry, and whether Rebecca Stead and Audrey Niffenegger have ever exchanged emails, and what it is exactly that Daisy is learning about the art of narrative from Ted (and I hope NOTHING from Barney), and how this whole two-Marcuses or two-Henrys-in-the-same-place-in-time is a slippery concept for me in the same way that subtraction is really slippery for some kindergarteners (including the 5-year-old me).

In the meantime I do have an OIK poem brewing, about the kangaroo's porch...but Calef Brown has probably already written it.

Enjoy Poetry Friday with Jama today!

OIK Tuesday: backpacks in love

It's been a while since I took up the challenge of writing poems based on the things I hear in the classroom, but as our year is coming to a close I have to slow down, pay attention and grab a few more bon-mots from the mouths of kindergarteners.

It just so happens that the two girls beginning with K in my class sit side by side at the moment.  The other morning they came to me to untangle their backpacks.  In the course of unpacking, in a way that you could never achieve even if you made it your day's work, the zipper tab of one backpack had hooked itself through the mesh pocket of the other.  I separated the backpacks and we went to work trying to formulate Big Questions about The Little Red Hen.  (My favorite this year was Indi's:  "Why didn't the Little Red Hen get angry?")

That afternoon at packing-up time, the two K's came to me from the closet where their backpacks hang side-by-side.  They held up their backpacks, again connected by zipper and pocket, and one K said,  "We think our backpacks are in love!"  The other K added, "Maybe it's because they both begin with K."

Gosh, I love kindergarteners!

*************************
Backpacks in Love

zip on over close to me--
               I'll hold your heart capaciously
pop into my pocket
              I'll never ever drop it
pack your hopes and dreams in me
              I'll carry all you ever need
wear me out and wear me down
              I'll always hang around


Heidi Mordhorst 2013
draft

sunday morning slam

Last month I shared poems written during Religious Education classes at my UU congregation; last week you got poems in the key of kindergarten.  This week I can leap off from both those points to share a piece from a couple of Sundays ago at the annual Youth Service, where high-schoolers take the whole service and the seniors leave us something of themselves and then cross over into young adulthood.

There are always impressive performances of various kinds at the Youth Service:  musical offerings, reflections, skits, dance numbers, and yes, poetry.  But I was surprised this year when senior Alek Zherka stepped away from the lectern and delivered a subtly powerful performance of his piece, "Strive to Be Me."  I wish I could share with you a video of his moment--it was brief, since he didn't include the long last section--but it sure sounded like a poem to me, and that's what Alek calls it. You'll see that it doesn't look on paper [or on screen] the way I expected it to when I wrote to ask for a copy.  Still, while Alek's delivery wasn't showy or stagey, he moved to the composed music of his words and created, for me anyway, an experience that was Louder Than a Bomb.

Strive to Be Me | Alek Zherka

Where is home? Home is where your heart is. The size of one's fist, yet it has so many parts that very few can list. The wrist up, seems pretty small, but it answers the call when you call on it to keep you living; breathing the same air that Lincoln breathed while thinking how to bring two halves to make a whole. One plus one is two, or so I've been told. Are we different, him and I? His goals aren’t mine, because his are his and mine are mine. Mine are for me and me only. That’s why I strive to be me.

Why can’t addicts stop? Why do kids want to be cops? Why do people destroy one another just to reach the top? Because that’s life, no meaning, just meanness; madness yes, but seamlessly so. The to and fro, the ying and yo, of the daily life we live. Living is seeing, and seeing is believing. Therefore people live to believe. That’s why I strive to be me.

How does one define the value of a life? Is it what one can give to a wife? He buys a diamond, stained with blood. Every kiss begins with slave. Taken away, over the waves, to a cave. Mining them, cutting them. Cutting fingers. The children’s screams linger. It's daunting, forever haunting those who know. But the feelings go, when one sees the bright shine of a diamond. So we say never forget, but we never do anything, something we say we will forever regret. But in reality we barely care. Girls will always want a reason to do up their hair. So a diamond is bought without a thought, it is always sought by those who ought to know not. So the small kids rot away, day by day. That’s the value of a life. The couple is forever happy under the sun. The kids can’t remember the last time they had fun, or even saw the sun. Does the ring fit? The closest thing is a candle once lit. If it doesn’t fit don’t fret, a new one only costs four kids. Next time you see one, a diamond that is, think of me, think of this. I hope I have made some difference today, talking about those not yet free. That’s why I strive to be me.

*****************
I'm thinking a lot about slam poetry this week because I've organized the annual visit of Gayle Danley to Daisy's school for a performance and workshops, and then Teacher Appreciation Week isn't complete without another viewing of Taylor Mali performing "What Do Teachers Make?"

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is at Booktalking with Anastasia, I think...

OIK Tuesday returns! kindergarten poetry

Today Overheard in Kindergarten Tuesday extends into Poetry Friday!  My eighteen Mighty Minnows spent the week of April 15 meeting poems by Langston Hughes, Lilian Moore, Arnold Adoff and Beatrice Schenk de Regniers to learn what poets do.  On the Friday they worked to compose their own poems.  I'm excited to share this work from children at varying stages of independent writing ability.

My proudest accomplishment as a teacher is that EVERY child knew what they wanted to write and felt competent to write a poem, and that EVERY child chose a different small thing to write about (with one exception, and that was my fault; I gave homework the night before to write a little poem about pockets). How's that for Thinking and Academic Success Skills? 

Animals 

I found a cat

I found another cat

I found three cats

by Nadja

 

Mosquitoes

 

I hate

mosquitoes

They bite

people

They give me

rashes 

by Bertrand

 

Flowers

 

I like flowers
You do too 

They can be colors

Well, you can like them

too   

Everybody can

by Karina

I Am Pretty 

I walk

to a big butterfly

I wear

my green dress
I go

to my castle

by Janie

 

Pockets

I really like pockets

and what you can put
inside 

you can take it out

and show it

or you can keep it in

and hide
 

by Briella 

unleashing the undead
 

the night unleashes

the dead: vampires,

zombies, ghosts, ghouls

ripping your throat.

by Beck
[Beck and I mutually agreed that while this is a cracking poem,
it isn't quite appropriate for a kindergarten anthology.  He's written
a new one about shoes, but I wanted to post his original creation here.]

Scaring Carrie
 

BOO!

I’m a giant.

and she goes

away!

by Santiago 
 

Dominoes
 

dominoes

put them in a row

flick really soft

flick with your finger

watch them tumble

see them tumble!

by Mikael

 

 Fast 
 

Fast brings

  speed.  fire

  brings

super
            speed!

     super super

   super speed!

    speed   That’s what

I call it!
 

     by Arden

 

Popcorn

 

popcorn

in my pocket
popcorn

in my pocket

then my popcorn

pops away! 

by Antonio 

Why 
 

Why do you think

you’re going to

bed?   I don’t think

I am going to bed.

Ohhhh!
 

by Tonya
 

To the Sun 
 

I flew to the sun
and was gone

forever and

I said   NOOO 

by Tiago 

Sing
 

Sing me

and everybody

sing and

the world

can sing

too

by Henderson 

A Horse

the wind is going fast

when the horse goes fast
the wind goes blowing

through her hair

when the grass blows

the horse goes away fast
the horse stops
to get a drink 

by Le’Ann

[Can you see the influence of Christina Rossetti here?  One of our
anthology poems was "Clouds," with the white sheep walking away
slow.]

Paul’s Pockets

 
pocket skirts and

pocket shirts and

pants and pretty dresses

all have pockets
but I like Paul’s pockets

best

by Cora



 

Cats

 

cats are furry

cats are cuddly

cats are friendly

cats are hairy

cats are mean sometimes.

by Merrilee 

The Pockets

the pockets

are very important

why?  they help you

carry things when you

need them 

by Indi 

My Shiny Bow

Shiny shiny!
Shiny bow

I like it
I like it

It’s very low

Very very

Very very

Very very

Very low

by Susye

***************
 

30days30words--word 30: a poem is born!

birthday  

secret wishes,
     fiery code…

                    nothing.
happy wrapping
hides the empty

             cage.  

something whispers:

      furry coat,

                 thumping,

sniffing whiskers.  

subtle whistles,
      buried hope…
                 surprise!

         eyesearspaws
         leap—
finally
found. 

***************************

Crowd-sourced, collaborative, cumulative poem by

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Andromeda Jazmon Sibley

April Halprin Wayland

Bridget Magee

Buffy Silverman

Daisy Grant

Diane Mayr

Doraine Bennett

Gail Aldous

Irene Latham

Janet Fagal

Janet Wong

Joanne

Joy Acey

Julie Larios

Kate Coombs

Laura Purdie Salas

Laura Shovan

Linda Baie

Liz Steinglass

Margaret Simon

Mary Lee Hahn

Matt Forrest Esenwine

Michelle Heidenrich Barnes

Penny Klostermann

Petrina Hollingsworth

Renee LaTulippe

Robyn Hood Black

Ruth at TINSTAAGFT

Serena at Savvy Wit and Verse

Tabatha Yeatts

Tara at a Teaching Life

*********************************

Whoo-hoo!  Ladies and gentleman, I thank you for a most satisfactory experiment!  Even I'm surprised when I see how many of you helped this baby be born (and forgive me if I have left anyone out).  My time is scant this morning and I spent most of it incorporating your revision suggestions and exercising my editorial license, and I think that this birthday poem is now as good as it can be without messing with the fundamental collaborative, one-word-a-day premise.

 

And look--if I felt a little uncomfortable after suggesting that I had already preemptively selected the last word, I got my comeuppance.  My thoughts of a leaping, happy lap are replaced by a finer "finally/found."  (I did consider Irene's wish to have a serious surprise at the end by choosing, as in an unpromising Broadway musical, "Finally Ferret!")

 

As Buffy says, "Rules, schmules," and the lesson is perhaps "Tell creatives what to do at your peril."  I hope you all enjoyed the process and much as I did, and for all whose own awesome NPM projects I couldn't keep up with because of 30d30w, forgive me.  Next year I'll make my project to participate in yours!

30d30w: word 29

birthday  

secret whistles,
fiery code…

                     nothing.
happy wrapping
hides the empty

         cage.

something whispers:

furry coat

                thumping

sniffing whiskers  

subtle wishes,

buried hope…
                surprise!

eyes paws ears   leap

finally

Golly.  When I first cut and pasted this from my worksheet doc, I had added lick from both Buffy and Laura S. as word 29--I'm a sucker for alliteration (and who among us ain't?).  But then, as Laura notes, that does rather limit the critter, since I can't picture anything leaping and licking except a dog. 

This became suddenly problematic, for I am not a dog person.  Now, I know that many (most?) people are dog people, but for the purposes of this poem--and bearing in mind that there are really VERY many dog poems--I suddenly decided that finally works better.  It captures all that whistling and whispering and wishing and hoping, and while typically one whistles for a dog, I can see someone whistling for a lost mouse or ferret or rabbit as well.

Early yesterday both Mary Lee and Daisy independently wondered the same way about "fiery code," and it's coming up in other comments too.  Let me tell you why that worked (and is still working) for me, although I may yet see the need to revise.  To me, the peak birthday moment is that moment when the candles are all lit and everyone is singing and you're gathering breath and putting your face right next to the undeniably dangerous flames and making your wish and knowing that a) you must not tell your wish and b) you must blow all the candles out at once and c) if there are those rules then there might be other rules, like how you encode your wish might actually matter.

For me, the poem begins in that moment, when the birthday child can think of nothing but the cage that has stood empty for days, and how the special whistle has not worked, and how encoding the wish exactly right in the blowing of that fiery, dramatic moment might do the trick...and then nothing.  The moment is over and the presents received, and no amount of happy wrapping can overcome the sadness of that empty cage.  Maybe "hides" is the problem?

I'd be very curious about how that first stanza reads to everyone else--I was sure that you'd be suggesting changes to "subtle wishes,/buried hope," since for me the energy seems to drop there and I'm not sure we're getting enough out of those words.  Last call for revisions!

And just one more time, may I say how much I'm loving this deep work at the word level?  And one more time, how much I appreciate those who have dropped in to play along? 

30d30w: word 28

birthday  

secret whistles,
fiery code…

                   nothing.
happy wrapping
hides the empty

        cage.

something whispers:

furry coat

                thumping

sniffing whiskers

subtle wishes,

buried hope…
                 surprise!

eyespawsears leap

Here's our patient little poem without the questions marks, just to try that out...and Margaret's suggestion yesterday narrows down the animal, so to speak.  With only two words left, its species will be left unspecified (which is all right by me--ambiguity in a poem is, I think, often what allows it to speak directly to a wide range of listeners).  However, I'll admit I'd been thinking bunny or smaller, and "leap" is more of a cat or dog word.  I also liked Janet's bound, but that would be an even bigger beast, I believe, and harder to lose.  Or hide.  : )

Here's an interesting question:  must word 29 be an adverb now?  Or, if we accept that Word 30 is "lap," what else might work?