Alchemy of Poetry

I don't know how it happens, but it does. When poets write (or read) in the same room, it's amazing how certain themes and strains wind their way through lines of poetry without purposeful intent. It's magic.

In class the other day, I assigned an e.e. cummings poem as inspiration to focus on form. We poets put our heads down to write. I write along with my students. Great opportunity to get some of my own poems written. Imagine my astonishment when circling the room, I leaned over one student's computer to see the same melancholy tone I had written in my own poem. I raced over to my computer to print. We read our poems and the class was blown away. How had this young poet and I had captured the same feelings... even using some of the same words to write our poems? We hadn't talked about it. And... what's even more weird? Our melancholy poems were radically different than the rest of the class's Spring-themed poems of hope, happiness and sunshine. We wrote about regret, shame, sadness. Our words were just so aligned. The feeling in-tune.

Last night, The Teen Howl Poetry rocked the mic. Again... without pre-planning, themes began to emerge. These poets don't even attend the same schools or even live in the same counties, yet... fireflies, carnivals, Kentucky culture, angst, magic linked the individual poems into one collective collage. Some nights, it's "ripping the Band-Aids off" nights. Last night was surreal. Like floating in a Miro painting. How does that happen?

I like to teach what I call "paired poetry". Today, I will practice it with my students. Two students are paired. Without discussion, the first poet writes a line and then folds the page over. The second poet writes a line. They go back and forth until each has written ten lines. Then... the magic. They open the poem to find one long poem collectively written and inevitably... it works. Somehow... some way... the poems become linked. Words are repeated. Ideas are echoed. How does that work?

The alchemy of poetry. The divine Muse that hovers over our shoulders and whispers into our ears. The magic of words.

April Showers

Some days, I must admit, I really wonder what I'm doing in an elementary/middle school. These children are just not my favorite age group. I don't have any experience (outside of raising my own son) with kids THIS young. Perhaps I made a mistake taking this gig. Even if it's only a long-term sub assignment. Maybe it's the wrong placement for me.

Yesterday, my little students groaned in protest about April Poetry Month. "You haven't taught us anything but poetry since you've been here." This particular class only comes to me once a week. Many of our meeting times have been cancelled due to very important Dance Performances and Choir Performances. Understandably... these performances are assessed. My once a week pop up creative writing class is only a chance for elementary students to float in my writing world. Much like an elective of sorts.

However, I felt dismayed. Certainly we haven't JUST written poetry? In fact, we haven't. We began writing letters. We moved to writing words to create our Writer's Toolbox. Those words can be used in any form of writing. Not just poetry. But, I persevered. Actually, I had to smirk. I wonder if this teacher has a copy of "Love that Dog" for me to give him? That would be the perfect book for this grumbly non-poetry writing kid.

And then, in the space of time during my very quiet, isolated lunch, my door opened. A tiny little dancer entered the room. "Ms. Beck? I wrote my Poem for My Pocket, but I don't understand it. Could you explain it to me?" I opened her folded pocket to find in careful little cursive writing one of the most beautiful poems I have ever read. A poem I had never even seen before. What delight.

After that lovely moment of poetry analysis she conluded, "And you know those poems you showed us yesterday? Well, I had never heard poetry like that before and you know what? It inspired me to write my very own poem... the first poem I've ever written. I wrote it last night."

At that moment, it started pouring. Both the spring shower outside my window and within my heart. After the little tiny dancer left my room, I cried.

Perhaps I am in the right place.

Poem In Your Pocket

In order to prepare for April Poetry Month, this week I asked fourth and fifth graders to research poetryfoundation.org to find "their" poem. Their task? To read, read, read poems until ONE magical poem jumps from the page and inserts itself into their pockets. What's worse? No copy/paste onto a word document to print... GASP! They had to write the poem exactly the way the poem appears on the page. That's right, folks. Write in in colored pencils or markers onto lined paper or index cards provided for the occassion.  And even more? To read a little background information on that poet. Learn about that poet. Love that poem.

Groans of agony. Torturous task. Horrible teacher. Read? Write? Is she mad? Mean? Why?

And then, this strange thing happened. A quiet settled over the room. Students immersed in words. Ahh! The big moment! That poem. That one poem that sings. Hits them in their solar plexus. That poem they just can't live without.

To see the delight in their eyes when they ended the class bell, inserting their poems into their pockets or slid into their boots or tucked under their hair ribbons. Little people's hands waving multi-colored, hand-written poems. "Look, Ms. Beck. Look at MY poem. My Poem in my Pocket!"

April is just going to be a great month.