Week 14 (or 15) - Revised Poem

Lov*

Here, in this now-after, I think of my family dogs with their Turkish names,

the guns that hung in my father’s glass case,

and how we honored the Samurai mounted on stones

above my head. Knives, in my family, were like vodka:

expensive and chilled. I’d like to think I’m not that cold

and simple, yet, as I stare at this plot of ground to which I’ve been summoned

I admit I’ve always been wary of my superiors,
in particular, my parents.

It began when I was small, this uncertainty, with my father’s large hands

instructing me to find the hidden truths among the leaves

of the Grimm Brothers and Homer with the moderation

of a skinner lurching over a fresh kill.

Always hunt for the purpose, my son, no matter what task you perform.

As I grew, he delivered Nietzsche, Sun Tzu, Adolf,

and Nabokov. I was commanded to learn

from the white spaces of the text: That is where the true life

of a man is lived, my son. You must never forget.

My father’s voice continues to track my path of flight,

his shadow rising from Tartaros melding

with the slung rocks of my youth.

Occasionally, he would ignore my education

to sit with my mother and toast the clear distillation

of their shared life. He would call her Catherine, and she would laugh

each time the freshly bound tobacco tinged her favored

leather chair. Her hair and skin glowed around him, the pale fire

of an ancient Nordic goddess.

On those nights she hummed, a song unlike herself,

but on nights without his presence, she could dismantle a palace

with her Thomas Mann handshake.

She reveled in her fights with the Northern Wind,

proclaiming him to be the true warrior of her soul.

It was a passion I never understood.

Even now, as I stand before their two statues,

remnants of ash frozen in time, plaster castings of a Herculaneum disaster

I can still hear her scraping cough. Love, she used to say, my son

love is like a steel wire.

It will hold a beautiful painting just as easily as it will slice through a man’s neck.

* In Croatian, Czech, and Slovakian the word lov means “hunt.”

New Draft - Week 13 (I think)

*This draft evolved from a long forgotten calisthenics we did at the beginning of the semester. I wanted to write something new. I was becoming frustrated with the other drafts I have been working on. And, yes, the title is supposed to be spelled that way. I was experimenting with another language. I thought it was interesting that the title sounds like our word "love" but in a few Eastern European languages it means "hunt."*

Lov

I sprawl myself across the roof’s slope

stare at the Saturn,

the one I was told to monitor.

“Oi, you need to hurry the fuck up you know!”

and so I did, and so I sit, and so I watch, and so I wait.

Thinking of my family’s dogs and their Turkish names,

and, the guns that spoke Korean,

and how the Samurai were honored in silent bows.

Knives, in my family, were like vodka. Best served expensive and chilled.

I’d like to think I’m not that simple

but I’ve always been wary, constantly, of my superiors.

Including my parents. They are to be trusted

the least. Particularly, my mother.

With an insatiable appetite and scraping cough,

she could dismantle a palace 

with a Thomas Mann handshake.

The road below me drizzles as some tourists

pull fruit from their pockets,

meager rations for the already tipsy.

They stumble and slide, unprotected

indexes and thumbs galvanizing skins

and I find I can see the seeds

clinging to the white spaces of their texts.

Nabokov and my father would be proud.

Week 13 - Poem

This is the third revision. Not sure what to do with it anymore.

Gabriel
Despicably handsome he dimples,
illuminates when she’s around.
The young American woman
with whom he swaps innocuous smiles.
Droplets of snow in her honey hair
pause the roving wind
of his cerulean eyes – typical.
And so…he tempts with a smooth Rauchbier voice
promising discos and drinks,
a night of vacationing fun.
Until…she catches a flash
of momentary gold on his right ring finger.
Ignoring the darkening grin
she points to the halo
wrapped around a long ago forgotten vow,
left on the shores of some distant flussufer:
“In my country that means something,” she tells him.
Shouldering his eyebrows,
he moves the ring.
Right. Left.
Then right again,
and settles it on his left to rest.
Ambered sincerity drips with perfection:
“It’s just a ring.”

Week 12 - Rewrite of Week 11

Taking everyone's commentary into consideration, this is what I came up with. ~ Laura

When I was fifteen, she slurred,

a withering smile was all I could supply

to a world where two hills –

the last lumps of terrain –

started and stopped in the courts

of Madame Alexander, Ashton Drake, and Franklin Mint.

With their genteel faces painted,

organized by height and expense,

they ruled in a land

where flypaper horses stung

propelling steers across rivers of asphalt and creosote.

Before I could be reported a phony

by 358 pairs of marble spies,

I chose the pasture beyond the main house.

The stale incense of manure

on a frayed bridle and leather bound hay

offered the only escape

to the annual week of expected resignation.

Duty obliged. Honor called.

Still,

allowing the heat to slither

through the irises and saran wrap the lungs

in dust was preferable

to the frozen image of porcelain

I knew I was never going to be.

I was too much my Brooklyn mother!

I wanted to careen through the bottled tourmaline

and, like a phone line

under duress...

snap.

Workshop Draft Rewrites - Week 11

* This is the initial rewrite after the poem workshop. I wanted to repost so the class could see where I went from here.*

The first night I considered love,
you dropped me
on a ring of campfire stones
your jester's hat tripping
across the 2 A.M. October.
I might have known then
but I was too busy listening
to the sound of laughter - ours –
breaking the night.
Nimblewill Creek defused
the alcohol as easily as we shivered
away from boots, jackets, and apologies.
On an air mattress,
the makeshift bed of your truck,
we traced the bony shadows of trees.
Reticence stopped all conversation,
eventual and blurred.
We pressed our eyes shut
warmed by flannel cocoons
and woke, I fear, to the smell
of trout, bulging filmstrips of rainbow
frying away the afternoon.



*After reviewing all the notes and inventories from class, this is the second rewrite (so, the third draft) of my workshop poem. I'm still not sure what to title the draft, and the form is bugging me. Any suggestions?*

You dropped me on a ring
of campfire stones
the first night I considered love.
As your jester’s hat tripped
across the 2 A.M. October,
I might have known then
but I was too busy listening.
to the sound of laughter – ours –
breaking the night.
Nimblewill Creek defused
the stale beer and cranberry vodka
easily as we shivered
away our boots, jackets, and apologies.
On the air mattress,
a makeshift bed of your truck,
we traced the bony shadows of trees.
Ash and elm, maple and pine,
stopped all conversation.
Reticence, eventual, blurred,
pressed our eyes shut.
Warmed by flannel cocoons,
we woke to the smell of trout
bulging filmstrips of rainbow
frying away the afternoon.

Poem - Week 11

When I was fifteen, she began 

a withering smile curling across her face,

the world started and stopped with a look.

A look at the two hills stationed

in a land where flypaper horses stung,

propelling steers to trample
through an asphalt river.

It's in that land that the plastic air

continues, as ever, to slither through the irises

and saran wrap the lungs in dust.

While ravens grapple on hay barrels 

in a pasture beyond the main house,

the stale smell of manure

on a frayed leather bridle

traces its incense to an annual week

of expected resignation.

When I was fifteen, she laughed idylically,

I wanted to careen

through the bottled tourmaline

and, like the phone line, snap.

I could not be the frozen image

of perfection they wanted to think I was going to be.

I was not her.
I was not you.

Or them.
With their genteel faces painted,

organized by height and expense.

I cried before exposing them,

those artificial convicts of my inheritance,

to the excuses of a maid-in-waiting.

Refusing to share their room,

I chose the bed,

a twin without its other half,

in the corner of a home office.

Better to stare blankly 

at the dotted piercings of a faded map

than to be reported a phony

by 358 pairs of porcelain marbles

from the courts of Madame Alexander, Franklin Mint,

and Ashton Drake.

*This is the very first draft of this poem. I'll take any and all the help I can get with it. I'm not sure where I'm going with it. ~ Laura 

Week 10 - Poem

This is from a contraction exercise I did. I'm not sure how I feel about it. This is the third draft of this poem. It needs something. I'm just not sure what. Any help would be appreciated! Thanks. ~ Laura

Moroccan Fantasy

The caravan of shoeless travelers waiting

for flights are no longer our concern.

We drift away on Royal Air Maroc

leaving our families to hire a doppelganger or two.

Dreaming of gazelle’s horns and green mint tea,   

dancing to the beat of a street vendor’s drums,

choosing our accents carefully, 

whirling with the dervishes and

spinning scribbled warnings

until all the creases of our origami lives come undone.

We split the eye of an oasis into peripheral blue with

a wave of your eyebrows and my elephant wink.

The Straits of Gibraltar appear on the horizon of a finger tip.

“Huckleberry,” I say, “we’re after the same rainbow’s end!”

Improv - Week 9

I am the first
by Paul Celan
Contemporary World Poetry

I am the first to drink of the blue that still looks for its eye.
I drink from your footprint and see:
you roll through my fingers, pearl, and you grow!
You grow, as do all the forgotten.
You roll: the black hailstone of sadness
is caught by a kerchief turned white with waving goodbye.

___________________________________________________

Mercury

I am the last to forge of the gold that canvases the feet.
I skip past the Fatum and fly:
Me running away, helmet and staff invisable.
Me running away, until its all a forgotten cloud blur.
I run: the air of Aeolus
carrying me across the velvet cover of Poesidon waving goodbye.

Junkyard Quotes 4 - Week 9

"I suppose you write poetry better on an empty stomach." ~ my mother

Junkyard Quotes 3 - Week 9

"Times aren't getting hard, words are getting soft." ~ my friend, Steve

Pedagogy - Week 9

I am very apathetic this year. I think most teachers are also. With budget cuts, furlough days, and more students in each class, it's hard not to be. Every teacher I have talked to has said something to the effect of, "If they would just let me teach.." Teaching is becoming a problem in schools. Actual teaching time is becoming regimented and isolated. At my school, the general impression of administration is that they want everyone on the same page, teaching and testing over the exact same material, fitting every child into a nice neat little box. The problem is that most children do not fit into this idealized box. It's becoming a very frustrating environment to work in, and I can't help but think, if the teachers are feeling this way then how are the students feeling? The general mood seems to be trickling down slowly. Administration is frustrated so the teachers are frustrated and then the students, sensing the frustration, react similarly. All I want to do is teach. I want to be able to decide to teach poetry before short stories and novels without getting emails and being asked to substantiate my reasoning. I am a Highly Qualified English teacher with a B.A. in English and a minor in Professional Writing. I've passed every test the state asked me to take. I have a Master's certification in Special Education. Why are my decisions being questioned? Why am I being scrutinized? Why can't I just be left alone to teach my students? I am teaching the curriculum. I just changed the order around. I hate having to conform. I hate being forced into a box, and I really hate that I am being asked to confine my student's education to a little box as well.

Junkyard Quotes 2 - Week 9

From a conversation at a friend's house: "You've gotta have 4-tap gonads kid, if you're going to wrestle with your cousin like that."

Free Write - Week 9

This is just a draft based on my notes from the conversation in class. I'll revise again after I get everyone's "official" commentary from Davidson:


The first night I considered love,
you dropped me
on a ring of campfire stones
your jester's hat tripping
across the 2 A.M. October.
I might have known then
but I was too busy listening
to the sound of laughter - ours -
breaking the night.
Nimblewill Creek defused
the alcohol as easily as we shivered
away from boots, jackets, and apologies.
On an air mattress,
the makeshift bed of your truck,
we traced the bony shadows of trees.
Reticence stopped all conversation,
eventual and blurred.
We pressed our eyes shut
warmed by flannel cocoons
and woke, I fear, to the smell
of trout, bulging filmstips of rainbow
frying away the afternoon.

Junkyard Quotes 1 - Week 9

Random signs I saw on the way home from class:

"My  granddaughter said ghost are just people who were never real." ~ driving through Carrolton

"Caution: Loaded with political promises." ~ on the back of a work truck

"Encouraging 'people' to experience and enjoy life in Christ." ~ sign in front of a church in Hiram/Dallas area.

Sign Inventory - Week 8

Sign Inventory
“The Feast of Stephen”
Anthony Hecht
Contemporary American Poetry

1. Use of foreign terminology
1. esprit de corps refers to the morale of a group, the belief in a goal/institution
2. mens sana refers to a healthy mind
3. pliés invokes the image of ballerinas, an odd contrast to the military terminology
4. Sturm-Abteilungs Kommandant is an allusion to a group closely associated with Hitler’s rise to power. The first commander was Ernst Rohm, who Hitler grew to dislike and wanted out of the picture. Sturmabteilungs is a German term for “storm troopers.”
2. The use of a pun in the line “mens sana in men’s sauna.”
3. The line “private and corporal glee” has varying degrees of interpretation:
1. private
1. From the Latin “privatus” meaning “to take away”
2.  In the military the term indicates someone of low rank.
3.  Also indicates a secret, something kept away from others
4.  A reference to the privates or genital area.
2.  corporal
1. Stems from Italian “capo corporale” meaning “head of a body”
2.  In the military the term indicates a leadership role and is ranked higher than a private.
3.  Represents the physical or material world
4.  Can also refer to a special cloth such as a communion cloth.
4. Combines clichés. For example, “in the flush / of health and toilets.” The word flush is used as an adjective and a verb simultaneously.  
5. “pliés and genuflections” – One is an artistic bend to the knee; the other is a bend in the knee as if worshipping or in reverence of something.
6.  Animal imagery
1.  “coltish” invokes the picture of a young horse: youthful, inexperienced, gangly, willingness to try anything, awkward.
2.  “salmon-leap” creates the image of fish responding to their biological urge to spawn. After salmon complete the journey and spawn, they die providing food and nutrients for the unborn generations they created.
7. Who is “Saint Stephen” in the poem? He could be the unknown person referenced in the lines “bloodied hair” and “unintelligible prayer.” They appear to indicate that someone has been sacrificed by a group of boys; however, looking at the text from a historical perspective “Saint Stephen” could also be the “Sturm-Abteilungs Kommandant” Hitler wanted to be rid of. Is it the person named "Saul"?
8. Images of water – moist, shower stalls, sweat, wet towels, flush, toilets, fleet, salmon-leap, leaping fountain, glistening, rippled, wet and salty garments, bodies brilliantly oiled.

Calisthenics - Week 8

I have to say, I wasn't that impressed with Billy Collins. He had some funny poems and some unique language. He is a good presenter and his voice had a nice tenor but, overall, my brain did not find what it was looking for. I like a challenge; and since there was no challenge to be had, my A.D.D kicked in. I spent most of my time trying to figure out the audience. Their reactions were much more interesting than some of Collins' poems.

When my attention was drawn back to Collins, I found myself thinking of other popular poets I've never really cared for. To name a few: Shel Silverstein and (dare I say it) Dr. Seuss. Yes, you read that correctly. I did just say Dr. Seuss. As a child, I was exposed to these poets and was never really interested in their simplistic outlook. That being said, as an adult, I have learned that even poets we don't like can teach unexpected and unintended lessons.

Silverstein and Seuss both taught me lessons much later in life, and now I find that Billy Collins has a lesson for me as well. That is: It is important, as a teacher, to expose students to a variety of poems whether you like them or not. Exposure allows students to discover literature they both like and dislike. It is our job to present literature to the students and supply them with the tools that allow them to come to their own conclusions. Just because we don't like a particular piece of literature does not mean it is invaluable. Often, you learn more from what you don't like than what you do like.


P.S. And in tribute to Mr. Collins, my Improv for this week is about dogs. 

Improv - Week 8

"A Four-Light Window"
Agnes Nemes Nagy
from Contemporary World Poetry

I.


the first is a park.
a garden path between bare boughs
path at one side, mass of a yew tree
flecked with winter fruit
the glass beads of art nouveau
and more
more - to what end?

the mark of the square picture
in the garden path, bird's neck path
as it turns, impossible in words
only in the hand's gesture,
and cranes its unwritable bird's head
into dull bushes.

II.
the second is clouded.

III.
the third is of concrete.
i mean a garage roof
(the window sill cuts in two, and below
the vintage-animals invisible
bespoke tarpaulin
retracting light
from varnish & polish & chrome
and the unheard four strokes
resound emptily in their cylinders
with the viscous chill of winter garages)

while outside the burning winter sunlight
and the mix of climates
and the mix of woodpecker overalls
as it cuts over the snow field
and turns the horizon
like a steering wheel,
noon spin through bright meridian.

IV.
the fourth is the sky,
drum-tight, without a line.
rare silence of earth's atmosphere
as it does not write, thick slate
its inextinguishable vapourings.
a few strokes only, broken signals,
broached interpretations,
remnant of prefix, an auspice.

_____________________________________________
Shepherds

I.
the first was named "Tea Lady."
her Arabic roots transplanted
to cold Mid-Western backyards.
wintering beside fireplaces,
children grew playing rag-tag
and sleeping against her soft side.

II.
the second, "Sugar Lady," died six hours later. parvo.

III.
the third, "Monster Man,"
was jovial and tired of being cramped
in pet store cages. freedom pulled
him this way and that, tearing him away
from children's delicate hands.
choking on the collar of life,
ignoring commands
he ran from his superiors
into the arms of river-front land.
a place to happily roam and explore.
with a veternarians's dad, or so they said.
at least it wasn't the farm.

IV.
the fourth is not like the others.
still a herder, but, masked by black
and white plumage. a ninny at heart
with dagger teeth bared to the outside
world only from within
the saftey of her castle.
the "Sweet Lady" who plays catch
with herself, and leaps over rivets
with grown-up children
who stop by only once-in-a-while.

Free Write - Week 8

The causal rain
and my Earl Gray are cold.
I find them easy to swallow.
The cigarette-bricked columns,
newly formed patrons of a memory
I never lost, split passing groups of people.
I resent their intrusion
and consider changing
my wrought-iron position.
Yet, I am held fast by the lingering ashes,
one of my grandma’s many smells.
It is almost her birthday.
I will celebrate later in the week
by opening a bottle of perfume
I can’t remember if she wore or not.
Strange how I miss her, evenly,
like a level.

Junkyard Quotes 4 - Week 8

A few of Oscar Wilde's thoughts on poetry and writing:

"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic."

"The work that seems to us the most natural and simple product of its time is probably the result of the most deliberate and self-conscious effort."

"A poet can survive everything but a misprint."

"Even prophets correct their proofs."

"No age borrows the slang of its predecessor."

"Everyone should keep someone else's diary."




from The Wit and Wisdom of Oscar Wilde by Ralph Keys

Response to Chris's Pedgaogy Entry - Week 8

Pedagogy Forum, Week 8

Studying a novel this week, I was finding it hard to get poetry involved in my lesson plans until today. We started with a simple task of writing a defining poem in the voice of a character in the book. This worked on a few levels, because it required the students to look at the point of view of that character and see what they might think about different subjects. Today we started very basic, but we are going to work on these poems to make them stronger after they get the first idea down on paper. This also works as a review, because they have to take things from the novel to justify their choices in the poem. I know it is not exactly what we have been working on, but it is a another chance for students to be creative.

______________________________________________________

I definitely think Chris is on the right track with this assignment. Using the novel as a jumping off point is beneficial because it offers those students, who otherwise would not know what to write about, a safety net for their poetry. By giving them a specific assignment related to a subject and setting they are already familiar with, students functioning on every level are relieved from some of the anxieties that often accompany a written assignment. Even the best writer in the class may struggle without being given any guidelines. Chris's in-class assignment harkens back to Hugo's Triggering Town, and is a fantastic way to incorporate a review. I may have to steal the idea later in the semester when I begin the novel study with my classes.

Junkyard Quotes 3 - Week 8

“The struggle of literature is in fact a struggle to escape from the confines of language; it stretches out from the utmost limits of what can be said; what stirs literature is the call and attraction of what is not in the dictionary.” ~ Italo Calvino

Junkyard Quotes 2 - Week 8

"I’m not superstitious, just a little stitious." ~ Michael, The Office

Junkyard Quotes 1 - Week 8

"Can I be like a ballistic and go now?" ~ Bones

Pedagogy - Week 8

In order to get my kids to focus on sensory details in poetry, I came up with a fun activity for them. I went to Google images, found a picture, and had my students create a visual inventory of the picture you see to the right. The first go-round I had them focus on basic description. Moving through the list we generated, I then asked for more specificity. After completing the visual inventory, they wrote a class poem. My 4th/5th block came up with the following:

The hot-sauce racer slices
down to the finish line
on its peperoni wheels.
The poor Umpalumpa boy,
dressed in his button-popping tan, 
chokes on his watermelon Pixie-Stix
and crashes onto the railed track
landing in loneliness.

This is the exact poem they came up with. They are my lunch class so excuse the food imagery. However, the images they came up with are definitely interesting. The only thing I did with the poem was determine the spacing; they did everything else. They really enjoyed the activity and wanted me to pull another picture for tomorrow. I found this one:

Calisthenics - Week 7

*Forgot to post this. I think that is because I don't really like the poem and it isn't finished. I need to keep working on it.



I am too tall for the overhang.
My head continuously butts against
the fringed awning and rams into the door frames.
I carry - daily - fragiles discs on a plate
to hungry travelers with the grace of Bacchus
on a pre-festival binge.
Smiling and bowing,
speaking in tongues I wish I had never heard.
If I had never heard them, I could be dead
and that would be a blessing.
I rather curse with Charon
or barter with Hades under Tantalis's tree
than ask:
"How many?"
"Cafe or tea?"
"Inside or patio?"
"Dessert?"
I want to tear them apart, these arachnids
masking as humans
Stomp them out with fire
and let my vultures carry away their flesh
while my dogs gnaw on their bones.
Humilation of the worst kind
comes from betting against Hera.

Improv - Week 7

Along Galeana Street by Octavio Paz

translated from the Spanish by Elizabeth Bishop

Contemporary World Poetry

Hammers pound there above
pulverized voices
From the top of the afternoon
the builders come straight down

We're between blue and good evening
here begin vacant lots
A pale puddle suddenly blazes
the shade of the hummingbird ignites it

Reaching the first houses
the summer oxidizes
Someone has closed the door......someone
speaks with his shadow

It darkens......There's no one in the street now
not even this dog
scared to walk through it alone
One's afraid to close one's eyes

 _________________________________

“Everyone in Venice is acting,” Count Cirolamo Marcello told me. “Everyone plays a role, and the role changes. The key to understanding Venitians is rhythm.” ~ The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt

Bridges

Water sighs with chipping stone

     sinking voices

from the crawl of the mainland.

     Actors busy the canals.

They’re between this world and reality

        progressing with the tidal rhythm.

Transitions must be crossed slowly

        or not at all.

Painting a tromp l’oeil.

            Life and art bound to a

reality that is once removed.

                       Sunlight on a canal reflects

from a ceiling to a vase then scatters across a glass bowl.

         Perception – twice removed –

with mirrored rhythm.

      Reality in Venice lasts as long as the tides.

The actors breathe deeply. Walking

       into Campo Manin

an air of finality spreads -

      the opposite of telling the truth.

Junkyard Quote 4 - Week 7

"I ain't agonna do that right now." ~ student in hallway

Junkyard Quote 3 - Week 7

When going over the vocabulary word astrology, a girl in class yelled: "I'm an aquarium!"

Pedagogy Piece - Week 7

I was feeling a little rebellious last week and decided to change the way I am teaching literature. Instead of waiting to teach poetry until later on in the semester (for block classes) and year (for traditional classes), I chose to introduce them to it now. It fit perfectly with what I wanted to do, and I was inspired by Davidson and Ellison's comments that poetry is easier to work with because it is smaller. I should mention I am only doing this experiment with my small group classes. My co-teacher has things pretty much planned and I don't want to rock the boat too much.

My first period, I have a class of five boys. Getting them to like poetry was going to be a struggle. I knew this as soon as I said the word "poetry." I might as well have said "candy and flowers and love, oh my!" I began the lesson with what they thought poetry was supposed to be about. This is the list they came up with:

falling in love
nature stuff (butterflies, flowers, trees, etc)
breaking up
being sad

After this interesting inventory, I presented them with "A Martian Sends a Postcard Home." We read it through twice before I offered any explanation. One of the guys looked at me and said, "Ms. Lindsay, this isn't a poem." When I asked why it wasn't, he said it was because it had nothing to do with what we'd listed on the board, and it didn't rhyme. From the back, another kid argued with him. He said it did rhyme in parts. So our discussion went from there. We talked about what they recognized (rhyme, alliteration, etc.) and then moved into a sign inventory. I got them actively involved by using the SmartBoard and had them mark the language they thought was the most interesting. The entire class period went really well, and my boys came up with something our class did not.

"In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger."

These lines sparked some debate. Right off the bat, all five boys thought the lines referred to a baby. They did not guess any mechanical object found in a home, even when I explained what an "apparatus" was. When I prodded for reasons why they thought the lines referred to a baby, they listed the following:

1. Babies might seem like an apparatus to a Martian. Especially if it has never seen one before because "babies are weird, man!"

2. Adults pick babies up and hold them when they cry. They kiss them a lot too.

3. In the last part of the poem, the Martian is talking about kids and adults. It is seeing how humans grow up, and we are babies first.


It was such a fantastic discussion. And for a group of 10th grade boys to come up with something like that was amazing. It is not that I didn't think my students could understand the poem, I just was not expecting the answers they gave me. It was probably one of the best classes I have had this year. I offer to every teacher: Never underestimate your students. Especially those who have disabilities.

Response to Darin's Pedagogy - Week 7

from Darin's Poetry Blog: Pedagogy Entry - Week 7

"I'm not sure what the solution to the problem is or even if there is one, but I have believed for a while now that education en-masse has the effect of de-sensitizing the student to the information. From the various subjects that I have taken, it seems that smaller forums and one-on-one time discussing the finer points of a subject are the best way to encourage critical or creative thought."
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As Darin's post was a lengthy one, I am choosing to respond to a particular piece that stuck out while I was reading. Darin brings up a good point here. Smaller classes and one-on-one are significant helps in the classroom. Being a special education teacher, I have been in both the small group and general (inclusion/co-taught) education settings. I can honestly say that enjoy my small group classes more. I am limited to twelve students tops, and even less if I have an Autistic or EBD kid in the mix. This setting allows me to interact with each student on a daily basis. I have more time to student-conference. I can focus on their individual needs, goals, and objectives. I can tier my daily assignments and activities to accommodate each learning style in my classroom. They might be a struggle in terms of depth of knowledge or curriculum pacing but the level of interaction is greater. Ultimately, I feel I am a better teacher to my small group students than when I am in a co-taught/inclusion class.

Currently, I teach with a wonderful general education teacher. We work very well together and the kids seem to enjoy our class. We have a great group of kids. Even the annoying ones aren't that bad. The problem stems from the fact that there are thirty-five 10th graders in a classroom with two teachers. Even with a block class (110 minutes) Anna and I cannot get to all the students. For example, we were working on memoir writing pieces this week. We went over the assignment, showed them some examples, and gave them time to work on their own writing. Anna started at one end of the classroom; I began at the other. As the desks have to be arranged in rows because space is limited, this meant we were each taking approximately three and a half rows a piece. We had spent about forty minutes on instruction, leaving us with over an hour for the kids to brainstorm and begin drafting their work. By the time the bell rang, Anna and I had each made it through only half of our students. The kids in the middle did not get any conference time with us and were forced to wait until the next day. This happens consistently, though we make a concerted effort to work with every kid every day. I hate having to tell a kid, "I'll get to you tomorrow." They shouldn't have to wait. They should be able to receive even five minutes of my time each class. I am only with my co-teacher one class a day; I teach small group the rest of the day. I cannot imagine how long it takes her to reach every student in her general education classes with no other teacher.

This is part of the reason I work in special education. I enjoy working with students with disabilities but I also like the fact that I can reach each student in my class on a daily basis. It's very difficult in a small group class of five students for someone to slip through the cracks. My sympathy goes out to the general education teachers. I.D.E.I.A and No Child Left Behind would have to be changed before my small group numbers changed.

Free Write - Week 7

Gabriel

 

Handsomely devilish,

he dimples.

Lights up when she’s around.

Stares with special attention

at the young American woman.

Shared innocuous smiles.

Droplets of snow in her honey hair.

Roving wind in his cerulean eyes.

His Rauchbier voice tempts

until...
She catches a flash of momentary gold.

Right ring finger.

Damn these European men.

She has to ask.

Through his darkening grin,

she points to the halo wrapped around his promise:

“In my country that means something.”

Shouldering his eyebrows,

he moves the ring

right,

left,

then right again,

settles it on his left to rest.

Sincerity drips with ambered perfection:

“Itz jest a ring”

Junkyard Quote 2 - Week 7

"everything they did was gourmet with 'presentation.'" ~ my friend Kim describing her the room service at a hotel in U.S. Virgin Islands

Junkyard Quote 1 - Week 7

"I'm not a kid, I'm a man. I have my wisdom teeth." ~ kid, I mean a man, in my class.

Improv - Week 6

Beginning
by James Wright
Contempary American Poetry


The moon drops one or two feathers into the fiels.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.

* * * * * * *

In Medias Res

The silcon fibers twist and spit
dropping the connection.
Blue flickering
scream.
An afternoon of thought and heart, broken
against electricity.
The strumming machine slips into heated dark
closing away a finger-typed world.
Sliding in the chair, the woman shadows
over the desk
her face disappearing in the wooden grains
of academic pursuits.
Molten fingers brush over mouse and keys,
marbles chasing the rolling sheen
of a whitening screen.

Response to Jeff and Rachel's Dialogue - Week 6

Thanks to Rachel for her writing and taking time to improve this little poem.

Revision with help from Rachel. Thanks!



New Moon Closet Case
The relentless moon wants rainbows,

but finds no bed with this gothic company.

a Blue Dog bites at his tween's cliffhanger.

Trite vampires recline against soggy old leather brains,

and werewolves are galvanic with the reinvention of a dark youth.

His smiling fantasy shape shifts the sphere into a fiery night light.

The father brushes of his intellect

opens the burning sheeting,

and reads witlessly.

He feels no guilt in this carnage, as all are at rest (in bed).

Here is a prime example of how a little peer revision can improve  our poems.

I am especially grateful when someone offers up advice by rearranging my lines.

as I learn best by example.   Rachel points out, with a few revised lines of her own, that the poem had too much passive language. Making the verses more active improves them greatly.

  It still is not finished  It lacks a strong sense of place, but it has begun to take on action.
Action is something I always enjoy in a poem. Thanks Rachel. I will take some time to look at your journal again to see how this exercise worked out for you, and give some response.

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I particularly like the dialogue Jeff and Rachel have begun. It is a great example of how our blogs can really serve us as writers and teachers of poetry. Seeing your writing with fresh eyes is often helpful. Editing and revision, in my opinion, are the most important steps of the writing process. Rachel's revision was helpful to Jeff because it was constructive and insightful. By modeling a rewrite, she was able to get Jeff to see her perspective without being seen as overly critical and harsh. Modeling is a great tool to use when assisting other writers, and especially young students.

Sign Inventory - Week 6

"Something Big" by Charles Sweetman
for Jonette's Poetry Workshop


1. Catalog of Dreams - Appear like a banking/auditing ledger. They are succinct like the accounting jobs described in the poem.

2. Of the five names mentioned, three are not typical "American" names: Leilany, Dorman, and Karmody. They are wholly different from Jones and Gracie. They could be a reflection of the changing population and incorporation of other cultures into the American culture.

3. Gracie promotes her own dreams through Dorma's failure.

4. The co-workers response to Dorma's failure is indicative of a funeral. They "jump into action, baking casseroles and pies" because "that was how sorry we were." Their actions are typical responses of co-workers when there is a sudden tragedy - baking food for someone you only know to a certain extent.

5. The whole poem is confined to one stanza. There are no pauses or stops. It is as if the events roll from one day to the next, one thing to the next.

6. All the lines in the poem are complete sentences with appropriate grammar and punctuation with the exception of "And waiting." This is the only fragment in the entire poem.

7. The tone of the poem is conversational as if the speaker is talking about any day at the office.

8. The inclusion of the "Mardi Gras King cake" is a strange image. The Mardi Gras King is typically someone who has "made it" who is considered important and, if they are not one already, becomes a celebrity. It is strange that Gracie would make this cake for Dorma's failure.

9. The individuals become one unit after Dorma's failure. The speaker's voice changes from the "I" to "we". Why do they feel the need to band together?

10. Transitional phrases, "then" and "One night," are used to separate the action in the poem instead of isolating each action in a stanza.

Junkyard Quote 4 - Week 6

"I'm a fountain of knowledge, drink from me." ~ from a random t.v. show I woke up to this evening.

Random - Obituary for the English Language

A friend sent me this:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/09/13/AR2010091304476.html

Jukyard Quote 3 - Week 6

"I escaped the Grim Reaper's bony grasp by mere inches yet again this morning. Oh, how I loathe the morning commute." ~ my friend, Alison

Junkyard Quote 2 - Week 6

"I've been put on post-grad meet 'n' greet tomorrow for fresherz crew. I'm on the look out for a replacement. Maybe someone a little more aerodynamic." ~ Quote on a friend's blog. (He's studying at Newcastle in the U.K.)

Free Write - Week 6

Café Temptation

I’m waiting on my wife, he says.

Smiling to the older lady wearing a

creamy cardigan against her dark skin

even though he peripherally peeks at a younger woman

sitting with coffee. She lounges attractively studying words

or reading the table. He isn’t sure which.

The lady is talking religion.

John 14 something. 

Rotating his silver band, he focuses on making small talk.

It helps him avoid temptation.

(Written after observing three strangers in Barnes & Noble.)

* * * * * * *

7th Grade

The teacher tried pacing

often beside their straggling microscopes.

Meeting resistance

noses up, they proudly defended the fermented

table. Lingering giggles

applauded their scalped cow-eye.

She paused

long enough to take the

yoked sample and paper-toweled their grade

with antipathy.

(Written from a memory of dissecting a cow eyeball in 7th grade.)