What happens in Middle School that kids stop being readers? What happens in High School that makes them want to turn their backs on poetry forever? I am trying to win readers back. They are silent in class, but when I read what they write they do know what they refuse to say in front of their peers. Every once in awhile, I see a twinkle in an eye, and know that at least someone has felt a poem speaking.
Make much of time.
Amy
Define "Essential"
I'm working to finish up my plan for my non-majors Intro to Lit. for the fall semester. When it comes right down to it, I have about 10 days to teach poetry without skimping on other genres which too must be taught. Ten days. If I can teach 3 poems a day, that's 30 poems with less than 20 minutes to talk about any given poem. If I teach 50 poems, that's 10 minutes a poem. I have an anthology selected, so I'm trying to pick a wide range from what is in the book.
It boils down to 400+ years of poetry in 10 days or less than one poem per decade. I can name at least 40 poems from the last 40 years that must be read. How do you decide on poems that will make students become readers? How can I make them fall in love with words?
---
The poetry reading was quite lovely. We all crowded into the coffeeshop and drank lemonaide and chatted with conference attendees from all over the world and those from a bit closer to home. It was lovely to hear the poets' voices, the inflection they choose as they read their own work. We read in alphabetical order, which meant I was last, and was responsible for saying goodnight. When the poet before me stood up to read, my hands began to shake. I brought my youngest son out of necessity. I heard his every shuffle, wiggle, sneeze, whisper. Before I read, he asked if we were almost done. Yes, yes, after I go. I read my poems, I looked over my own shoulder and questioned if I was reading loud enough, if I was reading slowly enough, if I was making eye-contact. When I finished, the crowd clapped as they do, and my son cheered loudly. You Rock Mom! I think he cheered because we were finished and I'd promised him a cheeseburger on the way home. I couldn't stop smiling.
It boils down to 400+ years of poetry in 10 days or less than one poem per decade. I can name at least 40 poems from the last 40 years that must be read. How do you decide on poems that will make students become readers? How can I make them fall in love with words?
---
The poetry reading was quite lovely. We all crowded into the coffeeshop and drank lemonaide and chatted with conference attendees from all over the world and those from a bit closer to home. It was lovely to hear the poets' voices, the inflection they choose as they read their own work. We read in alphabetical order, which meant I was last, and was responsible for saying goodnight. When the poet before me stood up to read, my hands began to shake. I brought my youngest son out of necessity. I heard his every shuffle, wiggle, sneeze, whisper. Before I read, he asked if we were almost done. Yes, yes, after I go. I read my poems, I looked over my own shoulder and questioned if I was reading loud enough, if I was reading slowly enough, if I was making eye-contact. When I finished, the crowd clapped as they do, and my son cheered loudly. You Rock Mom! I think he cheered because we were finished and I'd promised him a cheeseburger on the way home. I couldn't stop smiling.
Drawing In
The summer is reaching its height of broiling temperatures. The pots of herbs are baking in the sun; caterpillars have eaten the rue down to just stems. Still, a weed or two pops up from some seed blown in by the wind or gathered unknowingly in the handfuls of soil.
In the heat, the mob of kangaroos bathes in dust and watches without concern as we tread through their exhibit. At the sheep station, the tank is filled with cool water and my sons splash their faces and hands. The sheep doze in the shadow of the barn. The native art shows a waterhole and the tracks of many creatures that drink. It is a different way of seeing, all of our footsteps mingling, creatures of the light, of the dark, and of the half-light of dusk and dawn.
I am gathering in-- plans, perfect cherry tomatoes, the lazy laughter echoing through the house-- before the routine of the school year is upon us again.
In the heat, the mob of kangaroos bathes in dust and watches without concern as we tread through their exhibit. At the sheep station, the tank is filled with cool water and my sons splash their faces and hands. The sheep doze in the shadow of the barn. The native art shows a waterhole and the tracks of many creatures that drink. It is a different way of seeing, all of our footsteps mingling, creatures of the light, of the dark, and of the half-light of dusk and dawn.
I am gathering in-- plans, perfect cherry tomatoes, the lazy laughter echoing through the house-- before the routine of the school year is upon us again.
Celebrating Kansas
There's a poetry reading Friday at Radina's Coffeehouse to celebrate the opening of the conference of "Nation, Region, and Frontiers." I'll be reading, along with 10 other Kansas poets, some of which I know and others I'm looking forward to meeting.
Freecyle, Hometown Parades, and other wonders of the Modern World
I've just recently discovered Free-cycle. It's a system where you can find new homes for items you no longer need or want. Or find items you might need or want. It's a way to keep used, yet still useful, goods out of the landfill. There's over a thousand participants in my area alone. It's a good sign, I think.
We went to the parade tonight. We have lived in one place for awhile now it would seem. I actually knew people who were on the sidewalk with me. My neighbors drove by with a flat-bed of 4Hers all chanting and screaming and waving. I saw children I recognized from my sons' school and they've grown into teens while I've watched. These are tendrils, roots, fine as cornsilk.
I've been assigned an office which must make it official that I'm going to be teaching here in the fall. A small place, but mine, for now. I can move my books in on Monday.
We went to the parade tonight. We have lived in one place for awhile now it would seem. I actually knew people who were on the sidewalk with me. My neighbors drove by with a flat-bed of 4Hers all chanting and screaming and waving. I saw children I recognized from my sons' school and they've grown into teens while I've watched. These are tendrils, roots, fine as cornsilk.
I've been assigned an office which must make it official that I'm going to be teaching here in the fall. A small place, but mine, for now. I can move my books in on Monday.
Rain, Vines, and "The Wild Iris"
This is the summer for vines. The summer squash and the watermelon are racing to fill their spaces before the other invades. The rain has fallen enough that the garden is growing without help from the water hose: lupines, oregano, flat italian parsley, short stocky sunflowers, coral bells, redbell peppers, russian sage.
There is something satisfying about finishing all the little projects that I had left undone out of necessity: putting the closets to order, tidying the bookshelves, pulling weed, and harvesting my herbs.
We are playing chess. The pieces march across, are knocked down, and set up again. My son is learning strategy. It no longer matters who wins. This is success.
I am reading Louise Glück's "The Wild Iris." It is cool water from a spring-fed well.
Do we choose the world we live in?
***
There is something satisfying about finishing all the little projects that I had left undone out of necessity: putting the closets to order, tidying the bookshelves, pulling weed, and harvesting my herbs.
We are playing chess. The pieces march across, are knocked down, and set up again. My son is learning strategy. It no longer matters who wins. This is success.
I am reading Louise Glück's "The Wild Iris." It is cool water from a spring-fed well.
Do we choose the world we live in?
***
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