Inspiration
Historical figure poetry. Inspiring figures from the past can just as easily inspire us today. Poetry provides the perfect medium for capturing voices from the past.
Process
I’ve seen more and more teachers reaching across the ELA and Social Studies curricula for lessons that fall under both umbrellas, and this is a great exercise is a great way to experiment with both.
If you have a historical figure who’s long fascinated you, take a moment from their life and imagine what they might have been thinking or feeling. While this is probably easiest using a well-known figure with plentiful information available, even a quick google search can yield enough basic information to create a snapshot.
Kip’s Poem
Marta Husemann, 1937
After acting for
Bertolt Brecht in
Kuhle Wampe
and for
my own sake under
Gestapo interrogation
once
twice
before being sent
to Moringen Concentration Camp
in 1937
I know I’ll have to perform
like I never have
before when I walk out of
here and into the
undercover
life
I’m even more
determined to lead now.
Kip Wilson is the author of White Rose, a YA novel-in-verse about anti-Nazi political activist Sophie Scholl. White Rose won the 2017 PEN New England Susan P. Bloom Children’s Book Discovery Award and is a 2019 Winter/Spring Indies Introduce and Spring Indies Next title. It ‘s debut was April 2, 2019 with HMH’s Versify imprint. Kip holds a Ph.D. in German Literature, is the poetry editor at YARN (Young Adult Review Network), and wrote her doctoral dissertation about the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. She’s lived in Germany, Austria, and Spain, and currently calls Boston home.
I’ve been reading Ghost Boys, by the amazing Jewell Parker Rhodes, with my 8th graders. The conversations we’ve been having inspired this poem.
August 19, 1955
Tomorrow is the big day!
I can’t believe Mom
is allowing me to
take the train down to
Money, Mississippi
to see my cousins.
Man, we are going to have some fun!
We’re going to fish
in the Tallahatchie River.
I’ve never been there before,
but that place is seriously country!
Mom says I must really watch my manners down south,
but there aren’t many people in Money
so I’m sure there won’t be any problems.
The white people down there
are the same as the white people in Chicago,
right?
Anyway, Wheeler and I are going to be
running around those cotton fields
like nobody’s business.
This is going to be a summer
to remember
for the rest of my life!
Aren’t great books truly inspiring? That, and then discussing them with kids. It definitely worked, because you really captured the voice here.
Kip, you did it again! Made me think of something I didn’t want to think about. But, now you’re challenging me to think and write. Where here you are.
This is about Phillis Wheatley who was born in Gambia or Senegal, Africa and in 17 She was captured in Africa and transported to America in the slave ship. She was sold to John Wheatley from Boston, Massachusetts to work as a maid for his wife Susanna. Phillis was taught to read and write by Susanna and her daughter Mary Wheatley. In 1772, Phillis was challenged in court for her writing during the Revolutionary War. Here’s what she told me.
“When they challenge your intellect,
Girl, fight back.
When they said, ‘You didn’t write that?’
I said, “Really, what does it lack?
“They shouted right back
‘It’s because you’re black.
Blacks can’t write like that!’
‘Oh yeah!’ I said.
(Maybe not just like that.)
‘Watch my smoke
You better stay woke
Cause I’m not through
With you or with you!’
“I kept on writing as I hope you do, too.
They’ll believe when that see
Your intellect shine through
That melanin is only a color of skin
Not indicative at all of what you can do.
So keep on writing
And when you’re through.
They’ll have to acknowledge
What you truly did do.
Anna
Fabulous last lines –
So keep on writing
And when you’re through.
They’ll have to acknowledge
What you truly did do
I love to imagine the unbelieving faces in that moment of truth!
Anna, those opening lines challenging the girl to “fight back” but in current vernacular are wonderful. I like that you channel Wheatley’s ideas into twenty-first century vernacular.
Whoa, Anna. This is a fierce, powerful poem. The dialogue brings us close, right in to listen and learn. Writing to learn. Writing to teach. Writing to resist and persist “when they challenge your intellect.”
Anna-The stubborn determination in this poem is inspiring. Don’t you wonder what Phillis Wheatley would say if she were reading over your shoulder? The line “They’ll believe when they see your intellect shine through” suggests her response. The rhyme scheme really worked with this poem, too. Thanks for sharing!
Haha, sorry for the hard work, but look what you did with it! Gosh, I love this. That voice! Amazing.
Birding with Roger and Rachel
[A Morning Walk with Roger Tory Peterson and Rachel Carson]
In my dream I was a child,
walked the ecocline out at the farm
then to the marsh that drained off to the sea;
he held my hand and showed me how to sashay
through the cordgrass and joe-pye weeds,
then along the black gums and red maples
where he knew we’d find legions
of life.
He was the birdman,
the researcher,
the naturalist,
the artist,
but best of all he was the teacher,
who knew how to be still enough to notice details
and walk with bird feet into the living room
of northern flickers, eastern phoebes, thrushes, and jays
so I could see those bursts of color, energy,
hear the chick-a-dee-dee-dee, the fee-bee-fee-bee-fee-bee,
and find the grace in those
whose place we share.
He brought with him his friend Rachel;
they jabbered in grownup tongues,
vowing to protect,
to conserve,
to act, lobby, legislate,
as guardians to all that Mother Nature birthed
and against our hubris, the silent spring
of our misdeeds.
Her words held certainty,
that we were part of something bigger,
something more important,
we, with our specious responsibility, our disquieting capacity
to soil our own nest.
And in my dream,
I worried all my life
that we would forget
Roger and Rachel.
by Susie Morice
My favorite parts of your poem are the metaphor of walking with bird feet into the living room…….and the overarching message that “we were part of something bigger,
something more important,
we, with our specious responsibility, our disquieting capacity
to soil our own nest. ”
I love how you brought two people into your poem and not just one! Thank you for the walk today – I needed that!
I’m imagining that with your love of ecology that you are a fan of Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac and Delia Owens’ Where the Crawdads sing?
Thanks, Kim. I have Aldo L’s book bit not Delia O’s. I do love all that ecology study, birdies, critters. Initiated early running loose on a farm (my first 12 years). Susie
Susie–The grasses, the weeds, the trees, the bird calls all created such pictures in my mind. It made me feel wistful like I had missed out by not walking along beside “Roger and Rachel”. Hopefully, the world won’t forget their message!
This is beautiful–what lovely details. But I have to say that what I love best of all is that it begins and ends with a dream. <3
Susie, so beautiful. I am just so struck by your word choice. I feel like I am visiting a place with life so very different from the brick, mortar, and concrete our my window. I want to be, see, and hear these: “of northern flickers, eastern phoebes, thrushes, and jays/so I could see those bursts of color, energy,/hear the chick-a-dee-dee-dee, the fee-bee-fee-bee-fee-bee..” Thank you for my nature walk.
Susie, the image of “disquieting capacity to soil our own nest” is such a strong metaphor and so true. Like you, I worry about this, about our capacity to forget all Rachel and Roger taught us. Your poem whispers w/ quiet /s/ sounds and lovely nature replicating onomatopoeic words, but the point you’re making is so important. And your poem brings memories of time at the creek and plucking blackberries w/ my father.
Villanelle for Her
Given an explanation—she resisted;
she was determined to have her say.
She was warned—nevertheless she persisted.
She was bound—ultimately she was lifted;
she had endured the whip and the grey.
Given an explanation—she resisted.
Given an interdiction—she enlisted;
she was eager to enter the fray.
She was warned—nevertheless she persisted.
She was slighted—against the wind she tilted;
she had spoken with reason and sway.
Given an explanation—she resisted.
Given an ultimatum—she committed;
she was steadfast and seated to stay.
She was warned—nevertheless she persisted.
She was oppressed—refusing what was scripted;
she had survived to study her way.
Given an explanation—she resisted.
She was warned—nevertheless she persisted.
Steve, this poem is wonderful. I’ve never written a villanelle but want to try. I love the repetition of “nevertheless she persisted.” I love the strength of “her” you capture. I love the vagueness in making this about women and not a specific woman. Thank you!
Oh yes! The villanelle is perfect for this!
Steve, I love the power of this poem. It illustrates grit and steel will. The line “she endured the whip and the grey” stuck with me for some reason.
Steve – How cool is that?! I so appreciate this poem, both for the effective repetitions of the Villanelle form and for the tribute to “her/she.” I particularly like the line “against the winds she tilted” — fun to read. Thanks, Susie
steve, This villanelle reminds me of last week’s pantoum and how I was surprised by how the form moved me with its repetition. I feel that here with your She — the repeated lines emphasize and illuminate.
Love the form, the repetition, and the message! I like that this could be any woman! And yet is certainly many.
My poem today honors Simone de Beauvoir and her prescient contribution to feminist rhetoric. In parts I’m channeling de Beauvoir’s words and juxtaposing them w/ yesterday’s news. In part this is my thinking and what I imagine de Beauvoir would say if she were writing about our world.
“Still the Second Sex”
I’m thinking about…
The way the past is still the present .
It’s a fool’s errand,
This tipping the hour glass over
Each time sand sifts through
Translucent ovals.
Decades pass with yet another “wait.”
Uttered:
Promises of equality
Where does equality exists?
Here we are decades later
“Still volumes of idiocy being
Churned out daily.”
Another old man awaits a
Federal appointment.
Tells women to wear a halter top or
Have chimpanzees officiate women’s
Basketball for all he cares.
Must we be defined
Always by our uteruses?
Must we sit like the elf on a shelf
Granting Christmas wishes for men
Who tell us to look pretty?
Must we aspire to careers as
YouTube fashion influencers to have worth?
Why must women still
Submit to this foreign point of view?
Humanity is not defined by the
Term “man” alone, is it?
This situation stitched over time can
Unravel if we pull the thread &
Render it obsolete fabric.
Women who view women as inessential in
Public spaces of power & influence
Rather than essential tighten the knot,
Binding her sisters to the oppressor.
#NastyWoman & pink pussy hats
Offered Hope we’d march with
Time into the future.
“Women’s actions have
never been more than
Symbolic agitation.”
Women win only what
Men grant as victory.
No past
No present
No history
To call our own.
We stand
Cemented in concrete ideology
Sands on the beach of time
Erode only our misplaced
Faith in progress for the second sex.
The two parts that resonate most boldly with me are: “Must we sit like the elf on a shelf
Granting Christmas wishes for men Who tell us to look pretty?” and “Women win only what
Men grant as victory. ” You certainly captured the essence of the struggle through one champion’s eyes. I also read it with other oppressed spirits and feel the struggle of all who have been there throughout history – not just women, yet the message is the same. We are all strong. We all belong. We all matter in big ways.
As the mother of two daughters, this poem struck a cord. I want so much more for all women than to be told they are pretty by men. And it does seem that progress for our gender is at a standstill. Way to make me think!
Glenda — Oh, baby, you have spilled some serious blood here … that I LOVE! The tone just screams in a voice that needs to be heard. You have captured line after line of the “idiocy” of a time/place that continues to deny that women are full-on PEOPLE. Our acts are mere “symbolic agitation” — something that just makes my blood boil. But the thing that really sends this home is the responsibility that women have to other women… to stand up for each other and to see ourselves and our sisters as the solvers in the big decisions that affect ALL our lives and the lives of our children who will take humanity (we need a new word) forward with grace and grit. The really pretty line: “situation stitched over time/can unravel….render it an obsolete fabric” — nice image! The title is perfect…”second”… ugh! Just love this poem! Ol’ Simone and Glenda know what they’re talking about! You go, girl! I will be standing right beside you. Susie
The way you’ve woven the past and present together here is so gripping. And I absolutely love this line: “It’s a fool’s errand / This tipping the hour glass over / Each time sand sifts through / Translucent ovals.”
Glenda, I bet this was cathartic to write. I am inspired and love how you have situated history alongside current events while attending to the movement literally and figuratively in the last stanza — “cemented in concrete ideology/Sands on the beach of time/Erode only our misplaces/Faith in progress for the second sex.” I have my faith in you, friend!
Christa McAuliffe, 1986
You touch the future;
You dare
to leave the classroom behind,
to reach for the stars.
Students eyes are upon you.
With wonder
we follow your course.
Through Scholastic magazines,
Your dream becomes
our dream.
You board the shuttle
with an intrepid spirit,
and the faith of school children
at your side–
embarking on
the field trip of a lifetime . . .
Final preparations;
Time starts to tick away.
The engines roar to life.
The boosters spit flame.
With an explosion,
You are thrust
Into the sky
We hold our breaths.
. . . 73 seconds . . .
You and six others
are immortalized
in the heavens.
You did touch the future.
My two favorite parts – –
“and the faith of school children
at your side–” and “You did touch the future.”
What a day – – we will never forget. I had just come in from the parking lot. I had thrown up from pregnancy nausea and then got inside and heard the news and had nothing left to throw up though I felt like it. I love that you memorialized Christa McAuliffe. I’m loving all the different people we all chose.
beautiful tribute. “the field trip of a lifetime . . .”, very well composed. also love the repetition of touch the future.
Yes, “the ultimate field trip” is what we all expected in 1986 when the Challenger exploded. I had a t-shirt captioned: “I touch the future. I teach.” Teaching feels so far removed from that time. I love that you used an apostrophe for the poem. It feels like a note to CM and to all teachers. Brings back memories.
Oh wow, what a powerful poem. Love the POV here. I remember this moment like it was yesterday …
Gail, There is something so stunning about your use of ellipses. They are like little weeks alongside the 73 seconds — angelic and tragic moments. I never thought about punctuation quite in that way. Thank you.
Gail — You sure brought this day back to me with a punch. The countdown, anticipation of children, “faith of school children,” all make it the more poignant. I remember the day too well and was there watching with you. It’s hard to believe it was so long ago…your vivid details (those Scholastic magazines that featured the Challenger) bring it back for one more gasp at how instantly Christa was taken, and yet left to touch the hearts now so many years later. Susie
Washington’s Other Monument
Mom and Grandma died same day
One upstairs, one down
Two days after she was born
A controversial clown
Defied T.R. and Edith, too
Told not to smoke inside
She hopped upon the White House roof
Lit up and danced to chide
Emily Spinach slithered in her purse
She slunk with men in cars
Bookie bets were well disbursed
Bought beer in all the bars
Jumped in ship’s pool, fully clothed
Followed by Longworth
Lost the clothes, wed her betrothed
But to Borah’s child gave birth
Wedded a Republican
Learned that wasn’t wise
She herself a Democrat
Campaigned for other guys
Gossip pillow welcomer
Buried voodoo doll of Taft
Despised FDR and Eleanor
Thought them both quite daft
Alice Blue Gown, Where Art Thou?
We miss your witty tricks.
Currently inside the House
…..More sinister antics.
-Kim Johnson
*My poem was not written from Alice Roosevelt Longworth’s perspective but from my own – If I could have lunch with anyone alive or dead, it would be Alice – and we’d sit with that famous pillow between us!
Kim, I love the rhythm of this poem and the way you memorialize Alice. Love the image of her on the roof, lighting up. That’s downright biblical in its rebellion. Your poem is a lovely celebration of a woman who walked her own path. I can’t help but think about all the women who’s stories we don’t know.
Love it! I didn’t know that much about her, so this made me want to look her up. I just love how you worked in all the details. <3
Kim–I had to research Longworth after reading your poem. She sounds so interesting and may require more than a quick Google search. It seems that you have captured her spirit. I am fascinated by the stories to which you alluded. Thanks for expanding my historical perspective!
A mountain of socks stands between me and the TV —
eleven kids by two feet by seven days of cotton static cling.
Cross-legged on the carpet I go to work —
matching, wondering “is this the only purpose I serve.”
“Sarah,” I hear echoing from the tube.
“Sarah, it’s me Mohandas Gandhi.”
I look around,
but there’s no other sound.
None of the eleven
is helping me in the den.
A Hindu, Gujarat, Indian man
draped in spun cotton langoti
sits cross-legged, bare-limbed
on the black and white screen.
“There is no shame in serving others in this way,” he says.
“Purpose, service, happiness
is beyond what you do with your hands.
Happiness is when
what you think,
what you say,
what you do are in
harmony.
Serve others lovingly, Sarah.
Be the change you wish to see, Sarah.”
“Sunday, Monday, Happy Days.”
The Fonz winks at me through the screen.
I blink in disbelief.
“Indeed, he is a symbol of peace, sovereignty,”
says the Fonz,
“but we cannot deny his past of slurs, hateful words–
Static fills the screen.
A cotton tube sock rests on my knee.
I return to work on my mountain, and
I wonder how to tend to my purpose
with the flaws of humanity
within me.
Gandhi to Fonzie Fonzarelli and a symbolic mountain (of socks and service to mankind) to climb. You rocked this out of the park! I love your use of the theme song as a reminder to be happy in what we do to serve other people in our pursuit of happiness. Clever technique!
Love the story within the story here, along with the atmospheric details! Great historical slice.
i can relate to the philosophy. you took this prompt to another level, “I wonder how to tend to my purpose
with the flaws of humanity within me,” very insightful way of asking THE question.
i’m teaching my kids about multiple perspectives in a social issues theme right now and your poem has just inspired a creative writing challenge for my students.
Sarah — your details had me sitting right there with you and the tv and the socks (dang socks…always one missing). In the end, those flawed pieces of even our most admired…so true that no person is without those moments that don’t spell out so well in the history. Mostly, I had fun thinking about doing something so pedestrian as pairing up socks and having a Gandhi moment… and a Fonz moment (LOL!). That just made this fun. Again, another fun poem! Thanks, Susie
Sarah, I love the way your poem celebrates service and the juxtaposition of the Fonz w/ Gandhi. “There is no shame in serving others in this way.” Reminds me: “We make a living out of what we get. We make a life out of what we give.”