Big and Small, Happy, Sad, Opposite Poems to Make You Glad

Sun or snow?
Yes! Not no.
Fast or slow?
Stop. Then, go!

The Northfield third graders have been working on opposite poems. The full lesson is available here.

How do we get these emerging writers to think beyond writing a simple list of objects? Our model poem, "Swift Things Are Beautiful," was about fast and slow things in nature. Why didn't Elizabeth Coatsworth just put together her poem like this:

Swift Things Are Beautiful (List Version)

Swift Things Are Beautiful:          And Slow Things Are Beautiful:
Swallows, deer, lightning,             Sunset, waves, ember,
rivers, meteors, wind,                  opening flower, ox.
horses, runners.

This weekend, the Preakness is running in Baltimore.
Look for strong-withered horses!

We set up our brainstorming for this lesson much like the above -- a simple t-chart listing items for our poem. We think of three to four items (at least) for each stanza of our opposites poem. But how to take these lists and spin a poem from them?

Many of the students write animal poems: fast/slow, big/small, water/land all lend themselves to animals opposites. I ask these students to give each animal an action. I have an old student sample to read as a model. My favorite line in that poem is "crabs are pinching."

The Blue Crab is Maryland's State Crustacean.
Find a list of state symbols here.

Jeffrey took this advice to heart, extending the animal actions into descriptive lines for his animal opposites poem.

Jeffrey C.

Animals Big and Small Can Be Clever

Big animals can be clever:

Elephants picking up grass with their nose,

Whales squirting water out like a hose,

Giraffes picking leaves from tall trees.

Small animals can be clever:

Mice sneaking away with cheese,

Hummingbirds moving their wings

As fast as a cheetah in the grass,

Grasshoppers jumping around.

Visit BioKids online!

And, as I point out to the students, it's fine if two students write on the same topic. Each person's mind works in unique ways, so the resulting poems will be different. Here is Sam's take on big and small animals.

Samuel H.

Some Animals Are Big

Some animals are big:

Elephants stomping in the mud,

Whales swimming through the water,

Rhinos charging at each other,

Hippos diving into the water.

Some animals are small:

Mice running through the grass,

Beetles flying in the air,

Chipmunks digging into trees,

Turtles swimming

Peacefully in the water.

The Diamondback Terrapin is the Maryland State Reptile.

Ashlyn's Happy-Sad poem starts as a simple list of items. However, in stanza two, her poem moves beyond the list, taking a turn with the word "If."

Ashlyn B.

Happy Things Are Wonderful.

Happy things are wonderful:

When you get an A+ on a test

Or get a massage for your feet.

You win your soccer game

And you get a surprise treat.

None of these things are lame.

Sad things are despicable.

If you hurt yourself

Or lose a toy

And cry for help

Yet no one bothers to come.

If this ever happens

Or comes to your mind,

Just think of the good things

And you will be fine.

Tomorrow, the last group of opposites poems. Then we will build on two elements from this lesson -- brainstorming opposites and using action to describe -- for a workshop on portrait poems.

Portrait Poems Part 3

Last week, we looked at writing portrait poems with elementary schoolers.Part one of the lesson is here, where I introduce the concept of starting with "what I see" in a picture or newspaper photo, then adding "what I imagine" to extend the poem.

Part two of the lesson is here. It includes a model pairing of painting and poem by artist Shonto Begay.

Picasso is a great choice for the
portrait poem workshop. The image
invites storytelling.

In some schools, the art teacher will provide fine art portraits for the kids to choose from. I'll share some art-response portraits from fifth grade students tomorrow.

At Northfield Elementary, we like to display the portrait poems with their images. This means the children are asked to bring in newspaper or magazine clippings. Two rules: it has to be an image of a person, it should not be someone you know. We can bend this rule for celebrities. I don't like the students to write in response to photos of themselves or family. (See part one of the lesson for my reasoning.)

I recommend having extra photos. Newspaper clippings work best, because they often have a story built into the image. In finding good photos, look for expression in the face or body language, a person in action, or an interesting setting or "props" within the image.

When the students are ready to write, some like to use a T-chart for brainstorming: "I see" or "Facts" listed on one side, "I can't see" or "Imagination" on the other.

Kyle's portrait is also a narrative poem. I think he was inspired by our conversation about Shonto Begay's painting, "Down Highway 163." This poet has a natural sense of rhythm.

Run Away Slave

by Kyle S.

I've been working so hard

all day and night

but now I get to run

away from my king's sight.

I've been running through forests.

I've been running through fields.

I've been swimming through rivers.

Ouch, there's an eel.

And now I'm in a cave

with rocks and a boulder.

Oh NO! A dead end.

I must roll the rocks over.

Yay! Look, there's an exit

behind all of these rocks.

Out in the sun

and away from the locks.

Oh NO! It's my king

with the guards on his wing.

Now, the chase is on.

 

With a poet this advanced (even in third grade!) I feel comfortable making a comment on the eel line: "Does this funny line fit the tone of your poem?" Kyle will think that over when we revise.

Two students had the same photo -- a magazine ad showing a girl with a jar of fireflies. The class got to hear both poems. It was fascinating to see what different responses each poet came up with. Here is one (I added line breaks):

As She Sits

by Katie T.

As she sits on the stone fence,

her face gleams with light.

She held a jar

with rocks and plants plus light.

What is that glow in the jar?

Then fireflies shot out.

Her face lit up.

She watched them fly free.

In the darkness an owl hoots,

but she still watched.

The lid was in her hand.

A firefly landed on the lid.

The gold color shined bright

from the light.

The dark doesn't scare her.

animals.howstuffworks.com

The class talked about the owl -- an addition from Katie's imagination. There was no owl in the starting image.

Abby wrote in response to a post card I brought. It's a photo from a series of famous women. This one was of a statue of Sacagawea in Portland.

I See a Woman

by Abby Y.

I see a woman

reaching out

feeling her furry dress

with a stray coat

that's very gray.

The wind blowing

through her thick hair

with a baby on her back

standing there like she

is a frozen statue

not happy.

I read somewhere that Sacagawea is the subject of more U.S. statues than any other single person.

We'll look at some fifth grade portraits in response to fine art tomorrow.

National Poetry Month Issue 29

Happy last Poetry Friday of National Poetry Month 2011!

All this month, I've been featuring poets from my home state, Maryland.

We've been feeling at sea in my house lately. Both of my children are winding down at their schools and getting ready for their next adventures: high school and middle school.

It's meant ups and downs as frequent as the tides. My son auditioned for his future high school's band and was thrilled to be accepted, but is so over 8th grade projects.

My daughter can't wait to join her middle school TV studio and book club. But today, she was embarrassed when all the fifth grade girls were lectured about appropriate dress (if you have cleavage, keep it to yourself).

In Lalita Noronha's poetic hands, "At Sea," has a very different meaning from the one my family is experiencing. The ocean in her poem is real -- alien, but comforting in the sense of welcome the speaker feels.

AT SEA

by Lalita Noronha

Buoyed by memory,

we float a hundred feet beneath the sea,

arms spread wide to glide past years that

disappeared into a long good night.

Beating like soft hearts,

clouds of jelly fish rise.

Sea lions come to tickle our hands,

whiskers soft as hair.

Behind the kelp,

suspended like a question mark,

a sea horse stares

and dares us to forget.

And in this blue cosmos,

at least for one moment,

the skin of a sea-tulip blooms pink,

a hundred feet beneath the sea,

without corners,

without edges,

without ends.

Published with permission of the author.

This poem first appeared in JMWW, Winter 2008; http://jmww.150m.com/Noronha.html (A great journal to submit work to, by the way.) 

Writing Exercise (Upper Elementary - Adult):

Many of us have had these "without corners/without edges/without ends" moments when we connect with animals.

When the speaker in "At Sea" touches sea lions and comes face to face with sea horses, it gives him or her a sense of timelessness.

Write about a time when you connected with an animal (or other living creature -- a tree?) and felt this way. 

One of my favorite poems on this theme is "A Blessing" by James Wright. It's posted at the Poetry Foundation.

Another Maryland poet is hosting Poetry Friday today! I can hardly stand the serendipity. Please visit Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference for the last round-up of NPM 2011.

National Poetry Month Issue 27

National Poetry Month is almost over.

Before we write an elegy for NPM 2011, I have four more Maryland poets I'd like you to meet.

First is Eric Goodman. Eric says he's more of a  fiction writer than a poet. Tracks, Eric's novel in stories, comes out in June.

Eric keeps a writing and Baltimore literary events blog, Writeful and helps run a local readings series, Lit and Art at the Watermark.

A veteran of the slush pile, Eric sent me a group of poems with an acknowledgment that they might not make it past a first reading. All experience writers have been there.

In the poem I chose for today, Eric Goodman draws a contrast between how we feel when we're embarking on the writing life -- filled with exuberance and, hopeful confidence in our talent -- and how we feel when reality, or even just maturity, sets in. 

Finding an audience for our writing takes effort. Submitting work to journals, agents and publishers takes more faith than we have some days.

Do you feel lucky, poet?

Even if you don't, take a second, like the speaker in "Submission to a Student Journal" to remember that initial spark.

Submission to a Student Journal

(from a writer who’s burning out)

by Eric Goodman

You don’t know me

yet

but someday you will.

I know you

like the crow’s feet by my eyes—

You with your geyser talent

spewing young faithful words

that burn.

Inspired lines cool off,

dry up,

soak into the earth of age and detachment.

It gets harder.

Not the writing—holding on to the belief that your words matter in

a world with

one hundred thousand writers.

There used to be a show about old people

called Thirtysomething.

You’re too young to remember it

but I can’t get it out of my mind.

I attend the college reading

celebrating another literary journal that has

rejected me.

I try to mingle

but find apprehension in your eyes.

I’m out-of-place.

The young writer is suddenly not.

I shake your hand and want to cling to it, to

hold it until you understand,

until you can feel what I feel and know what it means to be one in

a hundred thousand writers.

On the way to my car

I see the man wearing his sign:

Will write for by-line.

The reflection fades.

I’m parked on the fifth floor.

I make twice as many circles as I descend,

words spinning in my head

as I search for

a poem

you’ll

take.

Published with permission of the author.

Writing Exercise (This one's for adults):

"Submission to a Student Journal" is a rant from an older, longtime writer who's feeling jaded. The student-editor he addresses in this poem seems like an earlier version of himself -- a geyser talent burning with words that have since cooled for our speaker.

In this exercise, let the twenty-something or teenage writer in you respond to the older author.

I am picturing myself in my NYU days. What if 40-something-poet me walked in to the student cabaret where we wrote, performed and directed short shows? What would 20-something me think of her and where she is in her writing life?

Funnily enough, I'm heading to the Blackbird Festival at Howard Community College today. HCC does have a student art/lit journal that takes outside submissions. If you're interested, check out The Muse.

National Poetry Month Issue 26

Do you haiku?

Haiku can be a half hour lesson in an elementary school classroom --

five beats in one line

second line has seven beats

last line -- five again

-- the kind of "technically, it follows the rules of haiku" spoofed in this great Get Fuzzy strip.

Or... you can spend a lifetime studying the intricacies of this short Japanese form poem.

Continuing with my National Poetry Month of Maryland poets, we are visiting with Tim Singleton today. Tim writes a poetry column, "Poet's Corner," for one of our local newspapers, Generations.

Here's Tim's take on the 5-7-5 vs. deceptively short/actually complex form debate:

Smugly, I once thought, haiku are short, I should be able to write those... if I have some success writing them, maybe, just maybe there is more to this writer side of me that I should pursue.

What a trap! I haven't been the same since.

Small and seemingly simple, they are so much more than the easy and mistaken math learned of the form in elementary school, the 5-7-5 march toward a seventeen syllable poem that has something to do with nature.

At the core of writing haiku is the practice of being aware and turning the connection of the senses and perception into the slightest of words so that another can share - from just those words - the same experience. Incorporate the tradition elements of the form, things like kireji and kigo, and the
practice deepens.

Not an easy task, but a task full of wonder and joy, one that influences not only other forms of writing, but the very way one participates in the world.

A Selection of Haiku
by Tim Singleton

cloudburst --
a peony blossom
bows and bows and bows

introductions --
the cocktail's cold
in her handshake

(The poem above is actually a senryu -- read the definition at the Haiku Society of  America.)

lunch hour --
brows glisten
at the pepper stand

Writing Exercise
Go beyond the 5-7-5! Haiku can operate like a photograph in words. They often contain two images that create a kind of conflict, motion or story when placed next to each other in the poem. The reader has to do a little bit of work.

Look at Tim's "lunch hour" haiku. What does the glistening brow tell you about what has just happened at the pepper stand?

Marylanders -- we have our own Haiku organization. The Haiku Poets of Central Maryland.

National Poetry Month Issue 24

Last night was the launch party/reading for my first book as editor -- Life in Me Like Grass on Fire: Love Poems. We had a crowd of 50 people at the Towson Library, part of the Towson Arts Collective's Cruelest Month/National Poetry month reading series.

Life in Me is a non-traditional love poetry anthology (looking at 7 different aspects of love), published by Maryland Writers Association Books

I've met some amazing folks working on this book. One of them is Dr. Tapendu Basu, who also goes by the name Gandharva Raja.

His poem "The Bridge" is in the Madness of Love section of the anthology. It's a short poem exploring the magical thinking that can happen when we are swept away by love. Tapendu read the poem last night -- powerful stuff.

Tapendu is also the author of Epic Mahabharata: A Twenty-fist Century Retelling. I chose a love poem from his book to share with you. It combines an enthralling narrative and beautiful descriptive details.

A related writing prompt follows.

Savitri and Yama
[A love story]

by Tapendu Basu

One night in the forest dreary,
Draupadi, lonely as the moon at night,
asked Vyasa to make the season light

with a story of love.
Said Vyasa, "Listen:
There lived a princess with wavy tresses

lovely as a heron in flight.
The princess wed a woodman
knowing her love would never wane,

never want more than his hand's caress.
Upright as the trees he felled,
strong as his axe,

the woodcutter was unaware
of his noble birth and royal line
and how in the forest he was lost.

One night Yama pounded on the gate
and let her know of his fate --
by the sword of time hung over his head

at year's end he was destined -- dead.
On the day death would claim
Savitri kept wakeful vigil, faithful that

the glow of death would certain thaw
death's unwelcome chill.
As darkness snail-paced covered

the chopped wood piled high,
the woodman fell in a faint
and would not stir his eye.

As shadowy silhouette cloaked in red --
his jet black hair bound in a net --
crouched over the lifeless form

and covered the death-paled face.
Saying, 'Prepare the funeral, O fair lady.
Satyaban's time is ended.

and Death has no time to spare,'
Yama plunged his hand
into the dead man's heart

and pulled out the thumbsized soul.
He spun a thread -- a web -- around it
and saved the soul in his net.

Savitri tugged on his flowing red robe
and begged that she be allowed
seven brief pace --

seven steps alongside her husband's departed soul
But she walked yet longer
keeping pace with the red robed Yama

till the evening light was spent.
Adamant, she refused to part.
'The thread you tied

when my husband died
has me in your snare,' she said.
Persuaded, with softness rare

Yama permitted one petition --
a single soulful plea and reason.
The moon burst through the cloud

and Savitri's face was aglow.
Pleaded Savitri, 'I wish for a son;
but, consider, a son ill becomes a widow.'

Savitri's wish was impossiblewise.
Yama was willing to compromise.
'If half your days you willingly sacrifice,

I will revive Satyaban for as many days --
death's count will not alter
and fate stays without fault.'

In each inflection of the story
Draupadi found comfort.
Easy it would be to spend

pensive placid days by the river's bend
where river Jamuna holds in holy embrace
the water that flows from Shiva's hair."

Posted with permission of the author.

Writing Exercise:
Sacred texts like the Mahabharata can be a wonderful source for fiction and poetry.

When I taught high school English, my students had an assignment to write a "side story" with its roots in a Biblical tale. One boy wrote a story that takes place after Lazarus is brought back to life. After Jesus commands Lazarus to awake, the man realizes he cannot sleep. I've never forgotten the story.

Choose a moment in a sacred text where you can tell a side story, a what-happened-next? or a point of view piece -- "how did this person feel about X."

National Poetry Month Issue 23

The spring holidays fall during National Poetry Month this year. They are a time for remembrance.

In my family, we celebrated Passover first with a brief Seder at my parents' home. The focus of the service is remembering the story of our ancestors' exodus from slavery.

Then, we celebrated Easter with my husband's parents. Remembrance again -- religious, yes, but also family traditions in the foods we make. Pizza rustica, spinach bread, a dish like a sweet kugel made with spaghetti, ricotta and raisins. And yes -- this guy:

Why stop and remember ancient stories and family traditions? It reminds us where we came from, who we are at our best and our worst.

Continuing my series of Maryland poets, Linda Joy Burke writes about loving our country enough to take a close look at where we are and where we hope to be.

OF THEE I SING III – AMERICA YOU DESERVE
by Linda Joy Burke

America
you deserve a love poem
not a sword,
you deserve to be elevated
by luminous utterances
rather than colored coded security alerts,

and even though I know
you don’t really trust
true declarations of love anymore

too many weak repetitions
of the greedy old words
have tainted your receptors

and too much making time
in the precincts of pretense
have stunted your growth,

.....I swear, I can see
what a good love poem
.....could do for you,
.....how it could make you over,
not artificially retouched,

I’m talking total transformation here,
transported into a pristine
wilderness for months or more,
with no mirror to check of your progress,

I want to help you open your big heart old again

Read the rest of the poem at Beltway: A Poetry Quarterly.

Writing Exercise:
"Of Thee I Sing III" reminds me of spring cleaning, getting deep in the drawers and cupboards, throwing out what you don't want or need, seeing the ideal through the dirt.

Let's do some spring cleaning in today's writing exercise. Except, don't clean your house. Make it something bigger or less concrete. How would you spring clean your relationship with your mother? What would spring cleaning a difficult childhood memory look like?

Linda Joy is an open-hearted person herself. She was my first poetry buddy when we moved to Maryland. She is a board member of Little Patuxent Review, the journal I edit, and was the first person who invited me to submit work to the publication, many years ago. I'm one of many who are grateful to Linda Joy for helping us make connections to the local literary scene.

You can read more at her blog, The Bird Talks, or follow Linda Joy's poetic observations on Twitter.

National Poetry Month Issue 20

Big Lots, Wal-Mart, the airport or amusement park -- all are great for people watching.

How often have you traveled home from shopping, shaping in your mind a report for your mother, sister, significant other: "You won't believe what I saw at the mall!"

We were at Busch Gardens in Tampa yesterday. While I was getting soaked on a river-rafting ride with the kids, my mother watched safely from a bridge. As soon as we were off the ride, she told us about a man she observed. He'd fed quarter after quarter into a water cannon, shooting bursts of spray at the people on the rafts.

My Maryland poet of the day is Kathleen Hellen. She also goes by the name Shiori, and has a new book out under that name: The Girl Who Loved Mothra.

Kathleen's poem, "Neither Can You Steal," begins with an observation -- people talking in a parking lot. How much of the poem is "real" doesn't matter. There is emotional truth in the experience Kathleen describes here.

Neither Shall You Steal

by Kathleen Hellen

After shopping at the Big Lots, headed for the car,
she sees the child has something in his fist.
“What’s this?” she asks, leaning in,
his small fingers locked around an artificial
flower. A silk gentian from China, so breathtakingly real
she has to feel it when he holds it up, and she says, “Joey,”
the shadow of a frown descending on a child’s right from wrong.
She knows she taught him better— “It’s for you,” he says,

Read the rest of the poem here.

Writing Exercise:
Next time you out and about and observe a conversation that catches your ear, think about what you found interesting. In Kathleen's poem, it's how the child and the mother's perceptions of the same event are wildly different.

Let's use "Neither Should You Steal" as a model and write in the third person this time. Keep yourself out of the poem, an omniscient observer. Let the dialogue and body language speak for itself, without allowing the narrator to act as judge.

National Poetry Month Issue 19

National Poetry Month spring break continues.

We've had an "Iced Latte" with Shirley Brewer, gone on a family outing with Sonia Linebaugh, and today we are at the beach with Barbara Westwood Diehl -- all Maryland poets. All three have work in the anthology, Life in Me Like Grass on Fire: Love Poems.

In today's poem, Barbara looks at something we often try to overlook: vacation traumas. My memories are filled with them -- my brother's hand closed in a hotel door (he still has the pins in his fingers), my friend Pam coming home from Ocean City with the worst black eye you've ever seen (her youngest daughter was the accidental culprit).

Even when the family in the poem moves their  beach towels away from an upsetting scene, and the poem moves on, the family -- and the reader -- can't forget what has been seen.

Migration

by Barbara Westwood Diehl

We are on vacation. We migrate every morning toward the shore,

scattered, at first, like kites pulled through the sky on taut strings,

then reeled in, an embroidery of beach umbrellas on sand.

Every morning, we pull toward the ocean. We are refugees

stumbling through sand, carrying babies and beach blankets.

Planes pull banners through the sky, telling us where to go.

There are boats, but not for us. We watch them far away,

the sailboats and fishing boats, the cruise ships and cargo ships.

They are our horizon. When boats come close, we wave at them.

We do this every day. We walk among the living and the dead

the ocean leaves for us. The waves have swept a sea turtle to shore,

fearsome even in death, like a long sunken ship raised from the deep.

We cannot look away. There are always the claws and shells,

the empty eyes of fish, but the turtle is whole. The great head

lolls like a grandfather's. The arms and legs dig like a child's.

Read the rest of the poem at Tarpaulin Sky.

Writing Exercise:

You know you have a vacation story. We all do.

The temptation is to put the surprise or turn -- in "Migration" it's spotting the dead turtle -- at the end of the poem. For today's poem, though, let's avoid ending with a bang. Put your dark moment closer to the middle of the poem. Let the people in the poem try to get on with their holiday. See what happens.

National Poetry Month Issue 17

It's day 17 of my National Poetry Month project.

That shimmering goddess of poetry, Shirley J. Brewer, is my Maryland poet of the day.

I'm headed for Florida this morning, where I'll be enjoying the hot sun, cool ocean water, and iced treats.

Your writing prompt for today is a food poem. Let's look at Shirley's model:

Iced Latte

by Shirley J. Brewer

Tall           Mt. Rainier           14.411 feet

Super       Mt. McKinley        20,320 feet

Grandė     Mt. Everest           29.035 feet

My massive mocha

comes with a mini-oxygen mask:

coffee with an altitude.

A scoop of sweet snow

captures the summit,

drizzles down the side.

Ice cubes glisten

like tiny glaciers.

I radio for chocolate sprinkles.

No Sherpa guides, I slurp alone

through a tall white straw.

Caffeine attacks my mental clouds.

My brain crackles with adrenaline,

a mountain of chores

disappears and a cold caloric wind

blows my doldrums away.

Posted with permission of the author.

Writing Exercise

Food odes are always fun -- especially when the ode is about a food we love. Shirley J. Brewer takes her poem a step further, though, by using metaphor. From the opening "elevation" list, the poem makes use of the caffeine = altitude concept by incorporating it into each stanza.

Come up with a metaphor for your favorite (or least favorite) food. In each stanza of your poem, find a way to build on the comparison.