Inspiration: A Poem to a Student
Hannah.
James.
Kenny.
May.
I recently wrote a sonnet about meeting a past student in the grocery store and forgetting her name. Like many of you, I have taught thousands of students over the years, and I cannot hold them all firmly in my memory while making the necessary space for my current (needy!) students.
But we also have students or student-moments that have left indelible memory marks. Today I invite you to write a poem about a student, past or present.
Consider this brilliant poem by Dorianne Laux:
The Student
She never spoke, which made her obvious,
the way death makes the air obvious
in an empty chair, the way sky compressed
between bare branches is more gray or blue,
the way a window is more apparent than a wall.
She held her silence to her breast like a worn coat,
smoke, an armful of roses. Her silence
colored the smaller silences that came and went,
that other students stood up and filled in.
I leaned near the window in my office. She sat
on the edge of a chair. Hips rigid, fidgeting
while I made my little speech…
Process
This website is a public space. Please bear this in mind as you write, to respect students’ privacy by changing names or identifying details. You may also choose to write about students/teaching/school in a larger sense.
When I taught Creative Writing workshop-style three years ago, I gave myself the task of writing a poem to/for each of my students. This is one.
Poem for Austin (student in Creative Writing) Nov. 2018
Count syllables (3)
Astronomy (4)
He drums out each beat
Then counts it once more.
He picks up his pen
And he gives it a shot
His words are his rocket
He’s their astronaut.
The lines that he writes
Are electric, bizarre
They flash through the sky
Like his own shooting star.
So Austin, keep writing
Put black upon white.
The universe needs you
Keep writing tonight.
Your Turn
Use Laux’s poem as a mentor text for a free verse poem, or use my ABCB ditty to write something light. Or, of course, write what ever is in your head and heart at the moment. <3
Our Open Write Host
Allison Berryhill lives in Iowa where she advises the journalism program and teaches freshman English at Atlantic High School. She is active on boards for the Iowa Council of Teachers of English, the Iowa High School Press Association, and the Iowa Poetry Association where she serves as teacher liaison. She is also a member of the NCTE’s Public Language Awards Committee. Allison is also an accordion player and a wedding officiant. Follow her at @allisonberryhil for photos of #IowaSky and schoolblazing.blogspot.com for random musings.
Schooled by second period
DAY ONE
Starbucks again, Ms??
What a shame,
starting your week off rocky.
Thanks, y’all.
Ms. Like you said –
change the plan,
not your goal.
Well, well, well.
You do listen..
DAY TWO
Again?! You
have a problem.
An addiction.
You’re not wrong.
DAY THREE
Morning, Ms.
Which cup today –
Starbucks or home?
NEITHER.
Woke up late.
Bad mood.
“Nah, Ms. That’s a
choice. You’ve made
yourself believe ya need
coffee to have a good day.
Don’t be tricked; change ya
mindset.”
I definitely relate to the coffee and feeling like it’s a need not a want. AND definitely relate to those unexpected moments when a student, maybe one you didn’t think was listening, surprises you like this. Thanks for sharing!
Britt, I enjoy the conversation of your writing – –
you use italics and attitude and truth here in the verse today, and it’s so real.
I love this – – “You’re not wrong.”
DAY TWO
Again?! You
have a problem.
An addiction.
You’re not wrong.
Britt,
Years ago I had a student ask if I had my “happy juice” that morning. I had tho think about what the were asking, it was my coffee. The name has stuck. I will be honest I don’t honestly need coffee, I just love a nice mug or two of coffee in the morning.
Dear Bear,
A grizzly who roared and fought every step of the way
A grizzly found a book he couldn’t put down
Even telling not to grade his test, until I finished reading the book
Caring not to spoil the big twist
Finally letting his gentle side show
A teddy bear
Tragedy struck and you had to move
I wonder which Bear your new teachers met
I wonder if you graduated
I wonder if you even remember me
A roaring grizzly or cuddly teddy bear you left an impression
DeAnna,
I remember Bear well. He tested us for so long until he realized we weren’t going to give up on him. I, too, wonder how it went after he moved. You told his story well.
DeAnna—I was thinking about writing a poem to a student who left suddenly. Definitely one of the aches of teaching I never realized before getting into the profession ❤️
What a sweet remembrance. I would bet he does remember you!
M
By: Emily Yamasaki
I learned
that the letter h
is not pronounced
in French
He came
toothy grin
beautiful dark skin
and
mother tongue
He made
friends
grades
poems
progress
community
without a single English word
His joy
infectious
and
lasting
Emily, what a beautiful story you tell of this boy speaking French. With just a few words, I feel I can see him and the joy he brought to you and your classroom.
Emily,
Great poem about a student who speaks French and is still able to connect with those around him.
Good morning, Emily! I want to be his teacher so I can learn to love him without any English words! Such a fun and loving poem!
My favorite lines speak to the value of ACTION not words!
This makes me think of all the newly immigrated students coming into my area. So many do not know any English. They come with “their beautiful dark skin and mother tongue.” Thanks goodness for Google Translate!
I’ve been needing to write this (and share with my former student) for almost five years now. Thanks for the prompt today, Allison!
For *****:
Your tears and cold shoulder
echo across the basketball gym—
louder than the squealing rubber soles.
The space gaping between us
in these bleachers
stretches miles beyond the fifteen separating this private school from
the county school where we met
three years ago.
We were both freshmen in our roles:
you, my high school student
me, your first-year, English teacher.
My intention, last May,
was to not ruin your summer,
to preserve what we still were:
you, my student
me, your teacher.
The reality:
I was being avoidant.
I was exhausted
and defeated
and lost
and those aren’t good reasons
but they are the reasons I couldn’t stay.
Now, in January, I see so clearly
that intentions aren’t worth shit.
It wasn’t my job to protect you
from the pain of my departure
but it was my job to respect you
to protect the trust that I earned
to treat you like the young adult
whose growth I had the privilege to bear witness.
It was my job to do the hard thing
to say “Good bye.”
I chose the easy thing:
“See you in August!”
I should have known
you’d infer my secret.
You were always so good
at close reading.
But your gift to me,
your doorway-hesitation,
that May afternoon,
your invitation to do the right thing
I avoided it. I smothered it
with a smile of all things.
And I am so sorry I did.
Oh, Laura, thank you for writing this brave piece. Your honesty will beget honesty for others. Perhaps for me, in the students I could have written to yesterday, but chose not to this time.
Wow!
Laura, your admission is so clearly defined in these lines
It wasn’t my job to protect you
from the pain of my departure
but it was my job to respect you
to protect the trust that I earned
to treat you like the young adult
whose growth I had the privilege to bear witness.
You got to the place of self-understanding by saying what the job was and what it wasn’t. I like that technique for seeing a situation for what it is. And I admire you for your confession.
Self-forgiveness, now, and onward with new truths.
Thank you for this prompt, Allison! As such, my poem is a throwback to my second year of teaching 🙂
Kyle, you won’t believe this,
but I still tell people about the time
when we were studying Macbeth
and, with ten minutes left of class,
everyone was *finally* quiet
The silence was so, so sweet.
This was after our little disagreement
regarding where your phone should be
(I suggested on my desk,
to which you argued for a bit).
But, with eight minutes left of class,
you even stopped whispering
to your unruly neighbors
and the silence was so, so much sweeter,
With five minutes left, I finally felt
unchained from your desk.
At this point, the silence was coated in sugar
And then with four minutes to the bell,
And the unbridled students were
still focused on the assignment,
(my hopes were we could
finish in class)
I see your wrist move to your ear
out of the corner of my eye
Don’t you dare.
And, with the Apple watch
and your mother on the other side,
you spoiled the sweetness
with a simple, yet piercing,
(and hilarious, but I couldn’t
laugh because I’m the teacher)
Hello?
Rachelle,
Wow! I really connected to your poem . This line really spoke to me “I finally felt
unchained from your desk,” maybe because I have had the chained to a student’s desk moment more than I care to count or maybe it image of it.
Thankyou for sharing.
Rachelle,
Oh goodness–this is just perfect! So many naughty children sneaking their phones, but there are always those who are just a bit entertaining despite everything. I love the suspense and your countdown of determination. Awesome!
The countdown of minutes and the final lines here are so juicy. I now live for those moments that I’m “not supposed to laugh as their teacher.” This is such a relatable, frustratingly sweet moment.
Rachelle, I love the story of your poem, especially of all the sweetness you describe in the quiet ten minutes. Kyle sounds like a character! 🙂
Rachelle, you laid this out well, using suspense to move us eagerly through the poem. Hilarious! Thank you, I enjoyed this!
Andre was twelve and couldn’t read
He could come in, put his head on the desk,
Swear at me on occasion
Argue constantly, refuse to do anything,
But he couldn’t read
When I asked Grandma why he was always so tired
She sucked in her breath and shared his story—
Andre didn’t sleep
He was on medication for the nightmares
He could only fall asleep in her bed
“You see”, she offered, “My daughter was killed
In a drive-by meant for his father.
Andre’s dad was in the car and watched her die.”
It was all I could do not to cry, but she persisted.
“Andre’s dad took revenge on the shooter
And is serving time for his crime.
I’m doing the best I can.
I’m sorry he falls asleep in class.”
I wanted to hug her. Hug him.
My heart broke a little bit for that seven-year-old who lost both parents
I couldn’t give up on him
I wouldn’t give up on him
I think we eventually wore each other down
And found a way to coexist
But the day he heard my daughter-in-law didn’t finish The Crossover
Was one I won’t forget.
“Get out your camera, Mrs. Daley. We gotta make a video.”
Looking at the camera in disbelief, he proselytized,
“AMY! Listen to me. The Crossover is the best book I ever read.
It’s got everything- basketball, family drama, love, rhymes—
You gotta give it another chance and finish it.
I give it five stars.”
I don’t exactly know how or when it happened,
But Andre became a reader
A reader who encouraged others to read
And he became my favorite person, too
Mo, Your poem is a beautiful story. The honesty in “I think we eventually wore each other down
And found a way to coexist” told me (reader) that I could trust your story.
I love “a reader who encouraged others to read”–yes! That is an uber-reader!
Mo. What a wonderful story. We never know the burdens our kids carry unless we ask. And care. And look what happened!
Mo,
This is such a beautiful story and a testament to your love and determination as a teacher. Clearly, you’re in the right profession.
I love his enthusiasm for The Crossover!The dialogue is spot on. Your story’s juxtaposition of the pain and excitement is so raw and necessary and true.
Oh, Mo, I woke up reading poems this morning, and now I’m blubbering over Andre and his video book report. And that last line. Wow.
That moment a reader understands the role of engagement in the passion of the sport…..and you, the torch bearer of light in his discovery. What a fabulous day. I think children learn to read twice – the first time, they learn the process; the second time, they learn the passion. You did it!!!
Been a busy day. I got as far and thinking of this student and wondering whatever became of him.
Alejandro
Then there was Alejandro.
Lived in the barrio
with a chip on his shoulder.
He was gifted – a lot of smarts
that got him a scholarship
to a mostly all white school
in an effluent neighborhood.
What an opportunity
They knew he could do it.
So he had to give up the dress of the”hood”
and put on the required white shirt and tie.
Ridiculed by his friends
because he had “sold out.”
“Hey Preppy” they called
and giggled as he waited for the trolley
that would take him over twenty five miles away
to the white prep school.
It took over an hour each way.
Time to do homework as he bounced along the tracks.
He never spoke to me about his feelings
but his silence said a lot
about doing the right thing whether he liked it or not.
Someone must have told him about the benefits.
“A good education
will get you out of the barrio.”
He got the needed grades
and graduation day came.
His family was proud
even without special awards
but when Alejando’s name was read
to come forward for his diploma
he was absent.
His family frantically looked for him
where had he gone?
We searched and I found him
sitting on a rock at the beach
staring at the ocean
wearing his graduation gown
cap in his hand.
Was he thinking about the obligations
he had just finished?
About the future?
What dreams did he have?
I will never know.
The last I saw of him was at that beach
wrapped in his sobbing mother’s arms.
Oh wow. This is so moving. I wish we could know more.
What seems like such a wonderful opportunity is clearly a multilayered and complex issue. I wonder how things could have been different for Alejandro. I just started reading New Kid with my 6th graders. Your poem makes me think of the same things Craft’s book does. No easy answers.
Oh, my, Susan. Thank you for finding time in the busy day to reflect on Alejandro and share his story in this space. Beautiful and heartwrenching. Hard truths here.
Whew.
I have been at my school for nearly 26 years. That’s a lot of former students. There isn’t just one I wanted to write about, so I wrote about the nine who are now working here at the school where they graduated.
This didn’t quite come out like I wanted, but I’m going to let it go the way it is. I did forty syllables in each stanza–in honor of how my last name is pronounced and what my students call me. It is a lovely prompt that I will squirrel away to return to.
Nine Alumni
Karli was a small, quiet girl
Who took Film as Literature one semester.
She married, had three very blond children
And is now our nursing assistant.
Leah was there one of my first years.
A sweet, musical girl who took me two times.
I remember her for her singing and kindness.
She’s our speech pathologist.
Koleka was a quiet, bright student.
Daughter of a math teacher, but strong in lit.
Her Hawaiian roots were her hallmark.
Now a math teacher like her father was.
Justin was so quiet that when I saw him again,
I wasn’t sure if I remembered.
A gentle man with endless patience.
He is the kindest Life Skills teacher.
Rachel was a late add to my class,
unhappy in IB for her senior year.
She was an AVID tutor, student teacher
And now she’s an ELD co-teacher.
Aaron, the son of a colleague.
He took College Writing the year I taught it.
His passion is being a basketball referee.
Like his father, he teaches health.
Josh was a three season athlete–football,
Basketball, and baseball, courted for scholarships.
For three years he took my classes.
He’s a behavior special ed teacher.
Chris took me for three years,
He was a favorite of mine, with a deep, strong reading voice.
The kind of kid you wish you could keep forever.
A behavior specialist.
Matt was also a three year Fortey-kid,
His deep baritone voice there at the start.
He hated English but loved me. It was mutual.
A behavior specialist, too.
Nine students who were in my classes
Have come back full circle to teach and serve
Where they honed their enthusiasm for sharing
Their knowledge and hope for the future.
I like how you decided who to write about. The hallway where I teach is almost all former students so I should do the same. Rather than just rambling like I did, I appreciate how you forced yourself into some structure by using the syllables based on your name.
Cara, this is amazing! I love how you made each stanza so thoughtful and with such syllabic detail. As your colleague, it’s fun to picture these colleagues of mine as students.
Cara, I love how you honored each of these educators with 40 syllables! Will you share this with them? It’s a lovely cycle theme.
Cara,
I live your take on this prompt today. Thanks for sharing.
This was fun the read! I knew some of these folks had been your students, but didn’t realize all of them. This is very sweet, and I do think the structure you added works very well.
To Every Scholar I Have Ever Taught…
I LOVE YOU!
Nailed it!
Oh, Donnetta, we DO love them, don’t we? On rough days I have to remind myself it’s my JOB to love them…I am PAID to love them. But most days the loving comes easy. I think as we teachers pour a bit of ourselves into the young people in our care, we make an investment cries out for love. Thank you.
Where are They Now?
By Nancy White
I feel far away from my students today
All have gone on, some found their way
Some didn’t and I think there are some
Who chose drugs and sex; this one boy chose guns
Why did I get the hard ones, the lost, the fray?
I think they may have needed more
But I gave them my heart and an open door
A few thanked me later but went their own way
I got them through the hoops to succeed
Lord only knew the depths of their need
I did my best with what I had
A listening ear, free time, a sketch pad
Some were too far gone but they tried
I believed and I pushed them all I could
They had to survive and graduate they would!
I’ve moved on but some faces return
and fill me with pride.
These are the words of an amazing teacher, “I believed and I pushed them all I could “… Now retired, I am amazed at how “some faces return”…I guess that is the power of teaching, yes? The students teach us, too.
You are a great teacher still even though not around the classroom. Love this sentiment and the use of rhyme.
Nancy, I too like to write in rhyme. I appreciate how you’ve worked your sincere thoughts into a constricting form.
One of my favorite passages was this:
“Lord only knew the depths of their need
I did my best with what I had
A listening ear, free time, a sketch pad”
I hear your VOICE in the first line, your humble honesty in the second, and a lovely series of three that captures the essence of your “gift” to the students.
Well done. (And I don’t just mean the poem.)
Allison, this is a wonderful prompt and mentor poem! I adore your words here:
What a writer this young student is!!
The Handle
She came with a warning,
“We assigned her to you because,
well, we figured you could handle her.”
Handle her?
As if to confine her to a pitcher,
letting her pour forth on my terms only?
Or more a runaway bike, where I hang on
for dear life as it races downhill?
Or will she be as a door to a car,
the boundary between me and
my driving hopes for the school year?
It turns out,
she handled me.
She was filled with unexpected questions,
when you’d least anticipate,
yes, irrepressible,
the way a loud guffaw of thunder
breaks through a rainstorm,
making you jump.
She noticed every obscure activity around her and
begged to know more, immediately,
irrepressible,
the way, on a hot day at the beach,
a big wave surprises you,
submerging you,
leaving you shaking your head and sputtering,
smiling from ear to ear.
She was enthusiastic and joyful,
irrepressible,
the way bright sunshine streams through
even a small crack in the curtains,
and, much like a cat,
you would find me right there,
leaning into her light.
I love the images you brought up with ‘handle’ — something we hear so often as teachers and don’t realize how demeaning it can be. I appreciated getting that look into your view of the verb turned noun and how you continued exploring actions and imagery throughout the rest of the poem.
Maureen, I love the way you see all that’s good in this small child. My favorite line is
“It turns out,
she handled me.”
I also love
“you would find me right there,
leaning into her light.”
I hope this child had other teachers who saw and nurtured her light.
Maureen,
“She came in with a warning”
You have me right there. I know that student.
“Handle her?
As if to confine her to a pitcher,
letting her pour forth on my terms only?”
Your attention to words (pitcher/handle) is whipsmart.
“guffaw of thunder” is a phrase that startled me with its accuracy and originality. You are gifted with an eye for metaphor.
Maureen— your words give us this vivid child!!!
Maureen,
Despite how frustrating it can be to be labeled as a teacher, they clearly had you pegged. What a lucky girl to get a teacher who saw her light and fed the fire instead of squelching it. Beautiful.
“She handled me”
Wow, Maureen, what beautiful figurative language you chose to explore this irrepressible girl. You need more than words, but similes and metaphors to capture her. And you did, or began to. I don’t think she was containable, and your poem points that out so well.
Thank you for this prompt and your mentor poem, Allison. “The universe needs you” is such a great line. This was fun!
____________________________
I love
Carol Jago’s
answer
to the
question,
“How many
poems
should a
high school
student
read?”
More.
This
is my
wish
for you:
more
and
more
and
yet
again
still
more.
It is
through
(and with
and
because of)
these poems
that you
can
experience
life.
Take
Flaubert’s
words
to
heart:
“Read
in
order
to
live.”
Scott, how I love your advice here! “More and more and yet again still more.”
I love everything about this, Scott. I especially like show it looks on the page. Side note, imagine my surprise when I found out my neighbor of 15+ years is Carol’s brother! May I share your poem?
Thanks! (And Absolutely! Share away!)
I am becoming a Scott M fan, looking for your spaghetti thin poems each night! I had not heard CJ’s “more” before, but it is perfect. Reminds me of “When is the best day to plant a tree?” Twenty years ago. “When is the second-best day to plant a tree?” Today.
Your teaching philosophy rings out in this poem. Your students are lucky to have you.
? Thanks, Allison!
RT
I will always remember
The last day I saw you
Your brown eyes laughing
Unworried about being called to the office
In trouble again, I’m sure
Your jeans had such a huge whole in the leg
I was worried you might start revealing
a bit too much
That hole and those jeans
reminded me of my own senior year
when battery acid kept eating away
a perfectly fine pair of blue jeans;
the looks I received
I will always remember
That moment
like a still life photo
You walking out my door
a gaping whole in your jeans
but I didn’t say a word
That night
I never heard the party at Bridge Out
or the sirens wailing
less than a mile from
my front door
You never knew how to stay
out of trouble
nor the danger of a steep hill
with a sharp curve
Barb Edler
21 September 2021
Barb, Your poem has me longing to rescue so many students. It’s students who live on the edge, whose choices make me cringe, I worry about and think about often. That’s a powerful shift between “word” and “that night.” I’m thinking about the contrast between whole and hole in the poem. The tone is so personal, and life is so full of steep hills and sharp curves. Powerful poem. This memory will stay in my heart a long time.
Thank you, Glenda, but I realize I did misspell hole at the beginning. Ugh..
Ah, Barb, this is so poignant. I am so sad. Beautifully written. I had to read this several more times – we have all had students like this. I am truly struck by the simple beauty of “Your brown eyes laughing”
Barb,
You introduced me to RT with such vivid and telling details (eyes/trouble/jeans).
And then you stopped time in your poem. You put RT on hold as you revisited your own holey-jeans memory. As a reader, I FELT the diversion was giving me space to breathe before returning to what you had foreshadowed: the last day I saw you. That pacing was powerful. My heart is swollen tonight as I read about so many precious students.
I can’t get over the haunting gaping hole in the jeans. A tragic contrast at the end brought me right into the thick of it. Thank you for sharing this memory.
Allison, thank you for your prompt today. My mind has traveled from here to there, so many students, so many memories. I so enjoyed your poem about Justin, “His words are his rocket”. The powerful action words help show his energy and the many reasons the universe needs him. What a wonderful tribute.
Barb,
I’ve been so moved by the poems posted here today. We teachers have so many stories. Hard stories. Lingering stories. Festering stories. In truth, Austin was a student who NEEDED a rocket boost. He came to my class as a castaway from the guidance department: they needed to find him a class he might not fail. After he wrote something (anything! write it!) about space travel, I penned my more-hope-than-reality poem :-). Often that’s our job: more home than reality.
Allison, you are so right!
Over the years I’ve written about many students, so I decided to think in terms of each class as both one and many for this prompt. Allison, I’m inspired by students as shooting stars and soaring rockets in your wonderful poem. Love the prompt.
Class Palimpsest
Archimedes transcribed it best:
Each year begins as a palimpsest,
remnants of previous years’
desk-dwellers etched
in memories, ghostly shadows
annotating novels; visages
gazing beyond graduation
announcements on obsolete
bulletin boards, the anthologies
of years past bearing silent
witness to a teacher’s longing
for faces whose names fade from
online grade books, replaced by
unfamiliar monikers, unknown lives.
It’s the same September year
after passing year until one
day we write anew and bygone
tales circumnavigated by the
sextant’s spinning compass guide
our crowded classroom through
passages students pen to the
future we touch in the lessons
we teach and the stories we share.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, your poem’s images of etchings and visages and connections through time are magical. To be in this crowded classroom, excited to learn from each other’s stories, is the place I’d want to be. Love the continual movement in your poem. Brilliant!
“Each year begins as a palimpsest” – oh, I love this! I love your poem – the two line stanzas give it such joyful movement, as your words embrace the passage of time learning together.
Glenda,
This is beauty. I love how you uniquely set up your lines and stanzas.
The images create wonder.
Oh, Glenda,
Sometimes I say to students “WIWI.” This means “Wish I’d Written It.” I feel that about your poem. You said so much of what I’ve felt. (Bonus: you taught me “palimpsest”!)
Yes, “one / day we write anew and bygone / tales” fade. “through passages students pen” and “stories we share” Wow! So many beautiful images here, Glenda. It has a lyrical and beautiful sense of history. I think you taught me the word palimpsest earlier too.
Like so many of us, I have a slew of students enter my mind. I love the idea of writing a poem to each student in class. I have never done that, but I will consider it for this year. Our state has passed new legislation that seeks to eliminate college dev ed courses – my darlings. I am seeing this as possibly the last semester of almost thirty years of teaching developmental writing, and so this comes from a more general place of words I have said and my philosophy of working with those students. It’s been a good run.
Poem to All of My Students
Show up
and we’ll go from there
Be here despite
all you are challenged by
Write with me
and you will find a new place
Where you can
freely travel anytime
Revise with me
and you will learn to command
You will gain
the upper hand
In love & in arguments &
in mastering your own world
Sit silently among others
pen to paper
Sieving thoughts through
one word at a time
Discover what it is
you have to say
Ready to be surprised
maybe even shed a tear
Never afraid
of what others might think
Let them write their own
I say
This is yours
and you belong here
Oh, Denise, I need to steal this poem to share with my ow students. You show every reason to write and the power of words. The final lines are perfect: “This is yours/and you belong here”. Bravo!
There’s so much to the simple direction “show up” and your poem illustrates that. The use of couplets is perfection in form. I love this poem!
This is yours
and you belong here.
do they need any more than that?
Denise, Your poem rings with hope and support of your students. Standing alone, it is a voice of confidence and celebration.
But your introduction places it in a different light: How/Why can/would a legislative body eliminate college development courses? With that in mind, your poem aches with sadness.
You gave me a lot to think about, and you gave me lovely word space to do it in. That’s poetry.
Lessons Learned
She was proud.
Biracial in a redneck, mostly white school.
Beautiful, headstrong, spirited.
Troubling, and troubled.
The chip on her shoulder
was just itching to be knocked off.
And it often was, by both students and teachers
Who could blame her?
Who could tame her?
She was mine in sixth ELA, then seventh.
We bonded through adversity.
Both of us came out winners.
At the end of the year, she came to say goodbye.
“Who’ll keep me straight next year?”
I offered to have her stop by every morning
so I could set her straight for the day.
And then I moved up to eighth grade.
“Be careful what you wish for!” I joked.
Back of the room was where we met for reprimand time,
tough mama love dished out liberally and often.
She was beautiful, headstrong, smart…
growing up and becoming stronger.
I held a morning apology circle in home room.
Seven or eight mean girls gathered,
Learning the apology mantra that would, hopefully,
keep them out of (or, at least lessen) trouble.
Part one: I am sorry…
Part two: for (fill in the blank, honestly)
Part three: This is how I will change my behavior:
Part four: I hope you can forgive me.
Tone, eye control, posture, attitude.
For months, we practiced the skill.
If we are lucky,
We are granted students who become family.
She tells me that parts two and three
continue to give her trouble,
but she gets lots of practice with her husband.
She is teaching the apology mantra
to her children now.
Lessons learned…
Gjsands 9/21/21
Gayle, what an incredible lesson and poem. I love how you show your long-lasting connection with your student. What a perfect title and perfect end. Magnificent.
I love this story, Gayle! How wonderful that you have kept in touch…this must make your heart swell:
You shared such an important lesson, and kept at it, making sure the lesson was received. So fabulous!
This warms my heart so much. How fortunate that young lady was to have you. I love these lines:
Gayle,
I love how your poem (and so many today) tells a story. Yours is powerfully rendered. Some of my favorite lines:
Troubling, and troubled.
Who could blame her?
Who could tame her?
tough mama love dished out liberally and often
Thank you for honoring this student by telling her story with such care.
Gayle,
I love this! It says so much about how you felt as her teacher! Don’t you love when we think we will set them straight? Lol!
Your student becomes family because your heart is in your work.
??
“This is stupid”
“English teacher just make stuff up”
“This doesn’t matter at all”
“Writing is dumb”
Sweet, young student,
I hear your frustration.
I’m trying to help you.
My goal is not torment.
I’m experimenting and learning.
Here’s a secret:
Some of those things drive me crazy too.
I’m changing things,
So please try them out.
Let’s strike a balance?
Just hang in there and I will too.
Mekinzie, I hear my own voice in both your student’s and your response. This brings back some wonderful memories. Thank you.
“Just hang in there and I will too.” – such true and perfect words! Wonderful how empathic you are.
Oh, I do love that line that pulls us in deeper, “Here’s a secret:”
Mekinzie,
Your poem resonates with me on so many levels!
“My goal is not torment.”
I must post that on my wall!
Your final line, a peace offering, is lovely.
So excited to write with you today and tomorrow, Allison! Today’s prompt instantly brought back a beautiful memory. About 10 years ago, I wrote a poem for our school. My principal wanted to build school spirit and thought everyone could recite a poem together. She asked, I responded with my poem. I wish I had saved the video of the school reciting it together for a Monday assembly on the yard. Great memory!
I Am Smart and I Am Unique
I am smart and I am unique
I believe in me
Learning is my responsibility
Achieving is my plan
Reading, writing, listening, and thinking
Until I understand
I am smart and I am unique
I have determination and focus
To do all that I need to do
Math, science, and history
Succeeding is my destiny
I am smart and I am unique
No one thinks like me
No one talks like me
No one looks like me
No one can be like me
I am the only me
Striving to be the best I can be
Written by Stacey L. Joy 9/2010
Here’s the link. The formatting didn’t work on the post.
I love the determination in this poem! Amen!
Does that say 2010?! How wonderful to revisit this poem from the past. Love the repetition of the mantra and then the anaphora of “no one.” Leading into the one that matters. The one who believes in herself! Love it.
Yes and oh what fun times those were under great leadership and everyone feeling valued! Thanks!
Stacey, I love the repetition of “I am smart and I am unique.” I love the cheering tone and imagine hearing your joyful students reciting this fabulous mantra. ‘Preciate you sharing the original formatting.
I love this poem! Truly, inspiring. To hear the students repeat that line: “I am smart and I am unique” – oh, wow!!
This is wonderful! What a way to build kids up!
Stacy Joy!
I am so glad my prompt gave you incentive to share this inspiring poem! I am grinning on multiple levels as I imagine your school reciting the poem together! Again and again, I hear your poems shouting strength to students–and others. THANK you.
Ah, what a memory! Thank you for sharing, Stacey. I hope your school will recite it again in reality or in spirit. I like the repetition of “I am” — “I am smart and I am unique”
Alison, thank you for this prompt today. I especially loved the examples you shared. Austin reminded me of a student teaching experience I had during college. I loved that you encouraged Austin to keep writing. Beautiful.
My poem is inspired by the deeply rooted honor/shame culture that my students and I have grown up in.
When Shame came to visit
He walked into class, huffing
and puffing.
Anger.
I stopped mid-sentence
and greeted Yousif,
“Hi! It’s great that you could join us!”
I ignored his anger.
He ignored my positivity.
“So, let’s continue class…”
Ali shouted from the back,
“HA! He got caught, Miss! He
got caught…”
I looked at Ali.
Anger.
before I could stop
him from sharing more…
Yousif got up,
and launched himself
in Ali’s direction.
Chaos.
Anger.
…
Control.
Anger.
…
Silence.
Anger.
The bell rang,
and I waited in quiet anger
for my class to empty itself.
“Yousif. Hold on.”
Yousif looked at me.
Shame.
We sat together in the front of
the class,
and he wept.
Deep Shame.
I sat with him.
I understood.
Compassion.
I reminded him, “You are not bad, Yousif.
Getting in trouble doesn’t define you.
It does not change how I see you. You are
still important to me.”
Belonging.
He looked at me.
Gratitude.
Christine–
I love how you alternated between dialogue, description, and strict narrative.
“Chaos.
Anger.
…
Control.
Anger.
…
Silence.
Anger.”
The progression of events here and how much is conveyed in so few words is moving.
Thank you for sharing!
Oh, Christine! I know this scene. I know the unraveling of this moment so well when the words fly and the hurt oozes in a place I tried to nurture as safe, and then how to heal the wound and teach into this moment toward comfort and belonging — you did it. This being alongside is beautiful.
Christine, Your student is very lucky to have you. Often a student’s anger has a source far beyond our classrooms. One of the students from the college admission scandal is on DWTS this season, and I’ve been thinking about the shame and second chances. Your poem has me thinking. And if you haven’t seen Monica Lewinsky’s TED talk on public shaming, it’s also worth viewing. Public shaming is something I think about often. I taught about the Greek culture of honor vs. shame when I taught Beowulf. Recently I had a conversation w/ a friend about shaming unvaccinated people. This is all a round about way of saying you’ve touched on such an important topic. When I was a kid, shaming in school was common. Thanks for making me think.
So beautiful! I love the punchy one word lines.
Christine,
Thank you for penning such a moving, beautiful poem today. Reading it tonight. I’m moved especially by these lines:
I ignored his anger.
He ignored my positivity.
Chaos.
Anger.
…
Control.
Anger.
…
Silence.
Anger.
Your poem gave me a window into your teaching world. Your empathy for Yousif is palpable.
Oh, Christine, Thankful for the lives you have touched at ARS, and for the lifelong connections you have made. I’m excited to see what the future holds for Yousif and all the others who have experienced your care.
Allison, what a gift to write a poem to your creative writing students. I love that so much. Austin sounds like a gem. I loved what you said about his writing in that third stanza.
Thank you for the challenge today. It wasn’t easy for me, but I enjoyed thinking of so many of my sweet students who made a mark on me over the years and trying out the ABCB pattern on a lot of abandoned poems today!
I had a hard time writing today for some reason; I have so many students on my mind. I have love and appreciate them all. They’ve been patient with me. I tried lots of poems on, but nothing stuck. Now, finally I decided on a found poem from my journal entries, all these lines were taken from posts written during the first weeks of school that very first semester. When I started, I had been in this new culture for one week, trying to cope with jet lag and just figuring things out. I started teaching mid-year and was assigned to teach English to kindergarteners, a grade I had never taught before.
January 2014
Getting to know Mohammed R.
Overwhelmed
Wondering if I made a mistake
Lost all my confidence
Out-of-control
Literally running around
Dread coming back
I need to fail forward
Today was better
Snacks in the teacher’s lounge
I don’t know how to eat them
Daily reminders I’m in such
A different place
There are a few moments of hope
each day, but more often just
painful learning events and despair.
Today was different. One class came in
And I almost made it in delighted control.
Learning? Who knows? Manners, yes.
Toilet? Water? Ball? I can’t understand them
when they say these words, and these are some
of the only words they say and know.
My only Arabic is just
the letter ط (tah) and shukran.
I had a dream the students and I were
engaged as a learning community,
it was a powerful gift,
But the gap between what is
and what may be in the future is wide.
Just when I think (knocking on wood)
that the day is going well,
Another class comes in and kicks my butt.
Sweetness—Mohammed R.
wanted to sit by me at recess.
Today was a day of hope—
Al Raja School means school of hope,
but is it really?
Is there hope, Lord?
I was able to read a story and
they all listened,
they seemed to understand.
I actually liked this day.
We went to the zoo today.
Mohammed R. whispered in my ear,
“I know a funny word.”
“Oh, what’s that?” I asked.
“Bananapants!” he laughed.
To the many Mohammed R.’s we’ve experienced; to feeling lost in translation, to being frustrated at chaos; and to the moments of connection… thank you for sharing this poem, Denise. I, too, am having trouble picking one student from our school of hope. I find myself wanting to describe something else. You inspired me.
Denise!
This is a touching narrative of progess and hope. I was struck by the dream. It implied that you could imagine it and wish into existence a community. And this exploration of words or word — how many must we be able to say in order to connect. Apparently, just one or none — laughter!
Sarah
Denise,
I also struggled today. The fragmented thoughts in your poem echo my own thinking. I love that you progress to a hopeful and humorous conclusion. I giggled when I read “bananapants.”
Oh, Denise, wow! You have given such insight into learning when the language is not your native tongue…all the more fascinating when it is you, the teacher, that isn’t comprehending. These lines really speak to the challenge, the importance of self-talk that gets one to persevere:
Loved this poem of yours!!
Oh, Denise, THANK you for reaching into your past experiences to share Mohammed R.’s story today.
Allison,
What a great prompt for us. It’s about that time of the year when many of us are starting to question our WHY.
I apologize for the length of this, but I kept going as long as I could picture someone from last year’s class that really stood out. It makes me feel bad for those who didn’t make the list. They likely feel like I did when my name was never said on Romper Room.
Why I Stay
When a shy, goth student
dressed in the same
black clothes every day
sits in your room
and never utters a word
and looks completely
disengaged, but then
stands up to share a genius poem . . .
When the outspoken
white supremist regularly
speaks without thinking
spouting close-minded rhetoric
that has to be fueled from home
(or social media . . . is there a difference?) but
then says “WOW” when the above girl
shares said poem . . .
When the proud lesbian reads and writes
with a voice more powerful than
anything you have ever heard
but then has a mental breakdown
and gets institutionalized . . .
When the quiet, gawky boy who
would just as soon melt into the carpet
as be noticed by you or a peer sends you
an email a year later
to thank you for noticing him . . .
When the affluent, well-connected boy
is seized daily by anxiety and can’t
help but flee the room to try to find
a safe space . . .
When the Latina girl stands at her
locker and cries and you ask “what’s wrong”
and she looks at you with pleading eyes and says
“I like girls and my mom thinks Satan owns me” . . .
When the high-energy, high-achieving, pressure-filled spazz
breaks down after seeing the picture night Goodnight, Moon
because the trauma ball of an abusive step-father rises to the surface
at the sight of that book . . .
When the family friend recovering from spinal fusion surgery
writes a poem about how much she hates
her body and the neck-to-hip scar . . .
When the aspiring country singer can sing
in front of hundreds but can barely muster
the courage to utter a word in front of class . . .
When the Disney-princess blonde-haired, kind-souled
youngest of four opens her mouth to share anything
and every one of her classmates instantly listens . . .
When the daughter of a fellow teacher
gets caught with a vape pen during your class
and you have no idea how to handle it . . .
When a Cuban refugee bravely and proudly
shares her story,
leaving all in awe of her pride and
in shame of what gratitude we should feel . . .
When a transfer student who came for more
rigorous instruction
has her confidence torn to shreds
wondering if she’s smart after all . . .
When a reserved misfit spends each class
with her head buried in a book,
never speaking
but then wows the world with her
What Makes Me, Me? quilt . . .
When the jock boy realizes he indeed
DOES like poetry
and is even fine with admitting it . . .
When the elite tennis player
puts her competitive juices to work
and uses it to fuel her quest to
understand tough things . . .
When the gorgeous blonde who
was sexually abused by her brother
can’t figure out how to sit still in class
and the mask highlights the pain in her eyes . . .
When the adopted Chinese girl writes,
“They aren’t really my parents,
so do I have to even love them?”
and fights sleeping for three straight days
and becomes a walking zombie . . .
When the quiet boy with vacant eyes
whose parents are both in jail and
is being raised by an aunt finally reads
something out loud and his voice
rivals Morgan Freemans’s . . .
When the sexually-active athletic girl
(she wrote about it in her journal) gets
up five times during class to walk
past her boyfriend so that
he can get a closer look at her yoga pants . . .
When a chubby, pale boy who tends to blurt out
and talk entirely too much
announces a name change
because his therapist adopted him
from foster care . . .
When the boy on the spectrum refuses
to stay off unapproved sites
on the school-issued device
and gets belligerent when you try to re-direct . . .
When the somber, dark-eyed percussionist
asks to talk to you after class,
but then stands there mute with tears rimming his eyes,
and you finally ask the unthinkable–
“Are you thinking about harming yourself?’
to which he nods his head . . .
When the auburn-haired, fair-skinned maiden
never looks up because she doodles in her sketchbook
and draws intricate art all over her hands . . .
When the petite voracious reader puts down
her latest book and comes up to share that
her uncle fired her dad from the third-generation
business, whispering, “How could he?” . . .
When the boy whose father is away in rehab
looks off his neighbor’s test and you look
away not wanting to confront his fragile heart . . .
When your volleyball player constantly fidgets
in her seat and shakes her legs so violently
that people three seats down can feel it . . .
When the mixed-race tough-skinned kid says,
“I’m not quite black and not quite white. I don’t
fit in anywhere” . . .
When the second-oldest of six kids
(and the only boy) simply will not ever shut his mouth
and he finally tells you, “I have to yell to be heard at home” . . .
When the long-legged beauty whose dad committed suicide
last year acts like it’s no big deal
when a character in the novel we are reading
does the same thing . . .
When the waify, timid boy spends all his time
head down, creating the levels of the fantasy
world his novel is going to be set in . . .
When the only child of divorced parents
asks you who your
favorite Saint is because Dad has
her read a different Life of the Saints
book each day . . .
When the soccer star boy
whose mom got arrested
for throwing a whisky bottle
at her live-in boyfriend
comments, “I don’t have a mom anymore”
to the boy sitting next to him . . .
When the red-haired kid with mischief
carved into his face proclaims, “I will never
used this when I am a billionaire hedge fund manager” . . .
When the 5’10 Mean Girl walks around the room
like it’s her kingdom and all the other girls
shrink in her presence . . .
When I wonder why I still get up each day
and head to the classroom even though
I am of retirement age, I think of each of these
treasures from last school year–
with half of their faces hidden by a mask–
and I realize I’m not ready
to quit being
the ears that hear them,
the eyes that see them.
~Susan
21 September 2021
Susan–
Thank you for sharing! Your poem painted a picture of all of the diversity of students in a classroom and depth of experiences. It gave me a lot to think about.
Oh heck. This is amazing. I’ll bet most (all) of us will read this and nod – yup, yup, yup – because THESE are OUR students. Humans with complicated lives navigating life through so many others’ complicated lives. And – for as long as it is – this is the SUCCINCT version of all those lives! Only the highlights reel. That final stanza, “When I wonder why…” my mind immediately screamed “These ARE all the reasons why!!!!” – then settled down when I realized that’s where you were going. It would seem like this litany would exhaust mere mortals, but it’s precisely what fuels teachers. All these lives. How can we possibly not care? Thank you, Susan, for saying so much of what needs to be said for all of these precious precious human beings. And for the teachers at the helm.
Susan, T
This poem is an anthem to public education. Beautiful. Stunning.
Thanks for this prompt. I need to write about my students more. I teach gifted kids and they are fascinating. What I wrote is more prose than poem, aka prose poem.
The Science of Reading says that a student learns to read by connecting sounds to speech, speech to sounds, sounds to words, but J had a different way.
Without sound, words emerged as images, images to movie playing inside his head.
He wanted to go back and see the movie again and again. Reading, re-reading, image to story, he grew into a reader earlier than his classmates who were learning the B says “buh”
and C says “kuh”. He saw the whole story from “Once upon a time” to “Happily ever after”.
J is what scientists call an anomaly. His teachers called him brilliant
and left him alone in the corner
to travel to Never Never Land.
Awwww…there is something sweet but also somewhat sad about this. I’m not sure I like that he is left alone in a corner, even if that seems to satisfy him. The idea of Never Never Land also makes it seem like he is left trapped in his childhood. At the same time – it seems endearing that he could be so much advanced – due to an anomaly – and left to his own devices to ‘read ahead’ in his own more advanced world. I love the sound descriptions of the letters – b/buh and c/kuh. That’s a fun recollection.
Denise, Margaret’s poem is really inviting a conversation. I basically wrote the same thing and then read your comment afterwards.
Margaret, I have also taught gifted students so I am really interested in your poem. I think on one level it shows why some students check out early. I’m really pondering your end “and left him alone in the corner/to travel to Never Never Land.” I’m not sure if you mean he is reading Peter Pan while the others are reading primers or that they just don’t know what to do so he is just put in the corner and left to his own devices. Either way, I love it because it shows how anyone can be different in the way they create or learn.
Thanks for your responses. I think all too often gifted children are left out because they “don’t need it” or “will do just fine”. In my experience, they have heightened sensitivities and need individualized education. There is so much focus on remediation and I know it’s necessary, but a first grader who can read alone is often left alone.
A wonderful prose poem.And, what an experience with J. Love the last two lines of your work the best.
Who Knew Till They Drew?
Music usually started the day
The tracks chosen to show the way
The mood or tone text or what I planned to say
To help students focus on theme
I chose music that often would seem
Thoughtful and soft like luscious ice cream
Over there, I saw her across the room
She wrote, right on task, I’d always assume
Then when over her shoulder I’d look – gloom
She wouldn’t be writing on the topic I chose
She’d often be sketching a road or a rose
Or the hat or clothes that som e character chose
I thought I was being smart
But this student was way off the chart
She showed her thoughts in art
So often is the case, we can’t tell by the face
If students are on task. No, not a trace
But, then, I learned to act with grace
And let them show what they know
In ways that made their faces glow
Note: This poem is not about ONE specific student, but represents many. The specific student who came to mind as I was writing is the one who told me at the end of the school year. Mrs. R, though you always played instrumentals or classic music, I could always guess who wrote recorded, or wrote them. So much for being on task. Her daily challenge was so different from what I had in mind!!
BTW, she did alright in the class anyway. She often chose music herself, to add to her presentations. Her love of music and art enhanced the learning experience for us all!
Anna, this is so true. In my writing classes I always provided a selection of prompts for daily writing, and added the line “or whatever you want to write about,” knowing that sometimes the thoughts in one’s head won’t let outside influence in. I enjoyed your rhyme scheme here … too often when I try it, it comes off as trite, but you achieve the combination of rhythm and rhyme and meaning so well.
Crimson
Hue
Dear Crimson Hue
A dove flew,
From the tin house we knew,
Singing a bewildering cue.
Never heard by my own,
Never have I heard his song.
As he looked at me and I at the bird,
I paused for a moment, as misfortune stirred.
If I figured his intentions, I would have known,
But never before had I heard his song.
Muddled, I listened to him,
As he perched on a nearby limb.
He cawed as the crow that day,
I did not understand what he had to say,
So, I waived it off and went on my way.
Caring not of what I heard,
I did not heed the cawing bird.
Crimson Hue
Your heart pounded with might
As your mind prepared for a fight.
Thunder split the sky as lighting raised the ground,
Fanatically, as one, all hearts did pound.
Nobody understood the rain,
But endured pelting beads of pain,
Statues waited for the decree,
Speculating what could be?
Igniting tears of all that trained,
Stunned by pelting beads of pain.
Through the heat and in the dust,
Competing for victory was a must.
Talented in all aspects of the game,
As a gator, you trained
Relentless and untamed
For your brothers, not fame.
Passion vested in your soul,
I encouraged my son to behold:
4
Your energy, dedication and grit
Your strength and stamina all fit
Into the ship that established a crew,
Devote yourself, emulate Crimson Hue.
One breath beautiful as a stride,
Exhaling, our cycle, a momentary glide.
Just a speck in the clear,
An instant for all to hold dear.
The dash exists
And will appear,
Year between year
For us all one day,
5
Ever so near,
But so far away.
Four on each side,
Are the years of our ride.
No one knows the stretch,
And no one can hide.
In this moment with you,
I questioned the cause
And what I do?
Unexpected rips the heart,
Imagination cluttered with no start.
Moving forward from this moment,
Is unacceptable and no one owns it.
Self-realization entangled with remorse,
Born again to be the course.
Two and three and even more,
Bent their knees on the fescue floor.
Trusting health for their brother,
As each put their arm around one another.
For Crimson Hue spread thine glory,
Many changed their life, because of this story.
Your spirit danced far and wide,
Engulfing love, city to city and countrywide.
For many soldiers of your clone,
Gave up their vest and sent it on,
To display support on divine ground,
They hung high and all around,
Prayers expounded higher,
As the fence sagged with attire.
Claiming your mark as theirs too,
Retired their cloth,
To honor Crimson Hue.
7
Crimson Hue
Grace streamed through,
The hurt became,
Sacred glue,
Which bonded rivals in an oak pew.
Family and friends from all around,
Climbed a hill and sat down.
Town after town did they crowd,
As a spiritual leader became loud.
Celebrating Crimson Hue,
Saying that it could’ve been me or it could’ve been you.
And where we are now, or tomorrow,
We must all learn a lesson from our sorrow.
To love and listen and be true,
Have the passion and heart of Crimson Hue.
He was loved and seldom faltered
Come now, kneel with us at the altar.
To rejoice and say farewell,
For his legacy has a story to tell.
Precious is the breath we take,
Each day a gift, for when we wake.
Passions are meant to pursue,
With all your heart like,
Crimson Hue.
9
Crimson Hue
They came to say
You are a brother in every way.
They sent a kestrel to lean on and pray,
A tribute to the wings you wear today.
Brothers young, old and the same,
Prayed and called out your name.
Many worried about their own,
Attempting to rationalize the unknown.
They supposed what would you do?
So they strapped on armor and plowed through,
The mud and cold,
They battled the young
And listened to the old.
Shaking hands at the end
Consoling each as a friend.
So, as you soar over the fields where they play,
Bless them all, every day.
Your soul is a lesson.
Their courage is a blessing,
You are part of them and them of you,
You are dearly missed Crimson Hue.
Crimson Hue
The dove sang and I never knew
His peculiarity was a clue.
That the peace of his charm,
Was balanced by the sound of his alarm.
The caw of the crow,
Cautioned the show.
I wished I’d stopped it, but I did not know.
For many of these I have seen,
The clashes occurring with white over green.
For the tranquility of a time before
Came to rest on the fescue floor.
The symbol of the peace displayed by the dove,
Appeared as Crimson Hue was lifted above.
He was greeted with grace,
As the Father cleansed the stripes from his face.
As each stripe disappeared,
He looked down and feared.
How was he close but far away?
He questioned rather to return or stay?
Should he return and join his folk?
He decided to stay and gild his sacred cloak.
I thought of his rest,
And wondered if the dove was in his nest.
Asleep in the night air,
Content without care,
Knowing life was not fair.
Mocking me for being unaware.
Known to the spirits, but not of man,
The cawing dove and a destined plan.
His foretelling I had missed,
Confused I reminisced,
As he look at me and I at the bird,
Paused in the moment, as misfortune stirred.
If I had figured his intentions, I would have known,
But never before had I heard his song.
Crimson Hue
Because of you
Many hearts have converted to
Living a life of answers above blue.
For if I see the dove once more,
I shall pray what for?
For the dark exists because light,
And the day is born after every night.
Cyphers of creatures presented to man
Are evident only in hallowed land.
This being my first but not my last,
Crimson Hue encourages the future with his past.
Crimson fell so others could stand,
Improvements were made to the game plan.
The strength of one to bond all others,
Different mascots but all brothers.
Memory strong on our wrist and in our heart,
Your soul blessings shall never part.
One with us and us with you,
Your memory strong
Crimson Hue.
The line between here and there,
Veiled by melodies in the air.
Divine entities with symbolic presence,
Pain and love balanced with essence.
For one is needed for the other,
The dove cawed for our brother.
Refinement unwanted, but in need,
Came from the bird I did not heed.
Often I think of this day,
Grace conquering my dismay.
For when I think of him and the bird,
I am at peace for what I heard.
Today, I do not blame him for his song,
You are forever in our hearts,
#CrimsonStrong.
This brings back memories of that day, if that student, of his life. A touching tribute!
thank you
Allison, Thank you for a rich and evocative prompt. So many memories flood in — successful students, thank you emails, Facebook friend requests after graduation, thoughtful gifts … But it’s the ones I didn’t reach who haunt me. Here is my very rough sketch of one of those.
You were already so angry
before arriving in my class.
You hid the rage
behind the mask of a clown
but from time to time
the truth seeped out.
Years of failure,
of cruel corrections, of reprimands,
scowling faces
had eroded entirely
what hope you’d once held
that school could be
a good place for you.
I tried to break through
searched to connect.
Stories and poetry
were my balms.
And patience.
There were the briefest of moments,
some laughter, a nod,
You saw that I saw you.
(I hope that you did.)
But then the mask
slipped back into place.
If I’d had more time,
If I’d had fewer class loads,
If others had been less demanding,
maybe I could have made
a difference.
You moved through the system
alone and afraid
but you kept showing up.
Your final weeks there
you still kept coming
even in the haze of a hangover.
You’d discovered a new mask of indifference.
I wonder where you are now
if you’ve found a better fit.
I wish I could have helped more.
I’m sorry.
Once a teacher friend shared this advice, “You cannot save them all.” But I like to believe that you planted a seed and were not around to see it bloom.
Thank you.
Kathleen this student did not say in words how much he appreciated/respected you, the fact that he SHOWED up regularly, it seems like beyond mandatory age, suggests that he was learning…that you cared enough to put up with him. :-)!
It’s okay to apologize, not no reason to be sorry for doing your best.
Kathleen, I agree with Margaret, but you do share the lost student struggling and the heavy load and feelings of guilt of a committed teacher so perfectly in your poem Hugs!
I’m sitting with these lines tonight:
some laughter, a nod,
You saw that I saw you.
(I hope that you did.)
But then the mask
Allison, Thanks for encouraging us to think about the students in this way. It’s going to take me a while to focus in, but I’m looking forward to seeing whether or not the words in my heart come out from the start or, like you student, they shoot out of my pocket like a rocket!
his leaving (a sestina)
he never turned back. packed his bags and left
beyond a circus and history in his pocket.
“goodbye, old world.” he promised. “i’m on my way now,”
and stepped on the gas to drive away.
that was when he was younger;
fledglings have reasons to leave the nest.
he walked onto his porch, today, & saw a bird fallen from nesting.
glanced at telephone wires to see if winged parents had left
this featherless embryo with its bulging purple eyes, so young,
and a beak open for insight (the creature could fit in his pocket).
youth fallen from its house, so quiet. he needed to find a way
to get the lil’ guy into shelter & now
seemed as good a time as any, he thought. the parents
were away and he climbed to the roof, found the finch’s nest.
the flight was his fault. in his world, it’s always
his fault, and he could never be sure how many days he had left.
he put the bird in the twigs, climbed down and put his hands in his pockets
to think about how vulnerable we are when young.
when he was younger,
he promised his family he’d be rich, but now
he made little — crumbs — and his pockets
were filled with poetic lint. perhaps this is why he harnessed
every moment for what it was. whether he turned right or left,
he’d find a figurative way
to gain meaning. his friends thought it was his getaway,
his escape: his solitude & his introspection, to make him younger.
he knew, however, he had only three weeks left,
and recognized he’d probably never really know
where his heart was anyway – in this city’s nest
or perched in forests (he grabbed a piece of gum from his front pocket).
as a child, he used to pick his parent’s pockets
whenever he needed comfort or a way
to get what he wanted (spearmint), but today he watched clouds, nestled
in gray patterns of unconsciousness. Carl Jung
would approve – he knew
the brain worked in depths deeper than right or left.
bluegrass pockets carried his younger
lake-filled days. he moved on: yes, maybe, perhaps, no.
remembering the nest and the difficult choice to leave.
Wow! This is one of the hardest forms I know of. Brilliantly woven with the bird nest. Is this you? Gobsmacked!
Usually, the prompts kick off a new poem, but this is one I wrote many moons ago (Mr. Moonbeam) for my students about them….but really about me…about saying goodbye to our experiences together. Every year we’re left behind, but we can leave too (perhaps the best lesson we can teach)
A Cycle of Students
by Erica Johnson
Year after year the confessions come:
I’m not a writer, I’m not a writer.
I nod and assure, slipping into the seat
empty beside you as empty as your page.
I’ll show you. I’ll guide you.
Year after year the papers come:
I’m not a writer, I’m not a writer.
I smile and coach, pointing at the line
rigid and awkward as the first draft.
I see you. I know you.
Year after year the belief cracks:
I’m not a writer, I’m not a writer.
I step aside and gesture, arms held wide
as the margins encompassing your words.
I cheer you. I change you.
Year after year the confessions come:
I’m a writer, I’m a writer.
You grin and boast, peeking at the poetry
nestled between the polished prose.
You know that. You wrote that.
Erica, I love the repetition…”I’m not a writer” and the balance of “you wrote that” to kiss the reader on the forehead.
“You know that. You wrote that.”
I LOVE the closing line that pulls the truth of your poem into a tight knot: as writing teachers, our job is to guide students to see what is already inside them. Help them find the crack (that’s how the light gets through!). The repetition works so well as you flip it at the end.
I’m a writer.
Erica, this speaks volumes – – what a testament to your determination to see your writers succeed! I’ll show you, I’ll guide you, I see you, I know you, I cheer you, I change you….you know that, you wrote that……Oh, my heart is beating with these lines. Such beauty in your words, such gentle nudging and persistence in your mission.
Erica,
Your poem speaks to each of us as we recall those many students who enter our classrooms thinking they can’t read or write. We know they can. Lovely tribute to all those transformed students and their teachers.
“You wrote that” is one of the most powerful things I can say to a student. Acknowledgement of what they can do. The repetition works well in your poem.
Such effective use of repetition to communicate the stages of growth we experience in our students.
This! I love the visuals you create as you help your students discover their writing selves.
Your students are so lucky to have you, Erica!
Erica,
The repetition is very powerful. We have to keep chipping away, have to keep leading them toward it until the epiphany occurs. You tell the story well.
Allison, thank you for such an inspirational prompt. Austin is a word rocket – I love that! I know he will keep putting black upon white with your inspiration!
The Best Reason
you are the one
whose picture I keep pinned
above my desk
for days that I wonder
why I do this
you were my best reason
for teaching
1999: new student
bruised arms, far too thin
you stood
in my classroom doorway
with your grandmother
holding her hand
after she left school
you had a complete meltdown
began breaking pencils
in triads with your bare hands
so many broken pencils
scattered across the floor
your speech was slurred
you had tell-tale tics
I wondered
about your story
learned your grandmother
was your angel
a savior who stepped
in and saved your life
because daddy was gone and
mama had beaten your ears
so severely with shoes
that you could barely hear
when I spoke
you tilted your head
at a sideways angle
to put your one able ear
in position to listen
you took most of your lunch
to your backpack
to share with your siblings
because
there wasn’t much
with six of you
I knew you were sharing
even hungry yourself
I started slipping in extras
for you to find later
you were a child
ahead of your years
knew things your peers did not
were the smartest student
in the class
Principal’s Honor Roll
the kid in Coke bottle glasses
who couldn’t hear
whose smile brought tears
and still does
when I look at that picture
of you and your grandma
smiling in the cafeteria
on Math Night
you are the best reason
that I kept teaching
Dear Kim… thank you first for telling the horrifying truth.Student faces came to mind as I read (and wept) of this child’s suffering; there are an uncommon number of savior-Grandmas out there, maybe innumerable… and teachers, planted right where they need to be for a reason, maybe this most important reason of all. This child, her enduring, her overcoming…I’m in awe of her. I’d have her picture up, too (so glad Grandma’s in it as well) for the reminder of why and to keep on, keep on, keep on. <3
Oh, Kim, you have shared such an important story here. I’m thinking we need to compile these to-a-student poems and present them to the public: THIS is what we do. THESE CHILDREN are who we teach.
The “turn” in your poem is profound. I read the “shoe” image with my heart in my throat, then saw the child tilt her head…wanting to hear. It broke me:
“mama had beaten your ears
so severely with shoes
that you could barely hear
when I spoke
you tilted your head
at a sideways angle
to put your one able ear
in position to listen ”
Thank you, thank you.
Kim,
I have drafted about four responses to your poem, and none of them do justice to what I truly want to say. So I am just going to say thank you. Thank you for sharing this story.
Thank you, Kim.
This poem will touch the heart of all teachers, because it is a true testament of why teachers teach.
Kim, “you are the best reason / that I kept teaching” says it all.” My heart aches thinking about the child you describe, the unbearable pain they experienced, and I wonder what happened as this child grew into adulthood. Do you know? I know this poem is about one child, but I can’t help but think about the many like this child who never have a Dr. Kim Johnson in their lives. My heart hurts for them, too.
Too often we don’t get to see those stories turn into success. I love this, and thank you for sharing it and reminding us to hope.
My goodness…the pencils, the deafness, the backpack of food. This child lived because of teachers like you. And, teachers, we live, because we find more reward in working with kids like this than the paycheck. An icredible, inspiration in your narrative poem.
Allison – I know other Austins. I see that drumming, know that electric brilliance. What an incredible gift to students, that a teacher should write a poem to each one. Speaks to the vital nature of the teaching relationship – that it IS relationship, and that it is valued. Glorious poem, as is this mentor text. Thank you SO much for these.
Right away I knew what I needed to do… see, I got this email about two weeks ago…
Dear Student…
That email you sent.
Almost didn’t open it.
Seemed like random spam.
Thank God I did, though:
I hope you remember me…
the little girl who
halfway wrote a book
‘bout five or six years ago…
-How could I forget?
Never finished it
but now I’m writing this one…
-You are still writing!
You can’t know the gift
it was, assisting your craft
as it developed
the pure joy I took
from the spark in your child-eyes
born of story-love
-that’s YOUR gift, you know.
Your storytelling power.
It’s grown stronger, still.
And your plans, to be
a therapist. A healer.
An author. Oh, child
you have no idea
what your words have done today.
I read them again
and again, amazed
by your remembering me.
I compose my thoughts
to respond to you,
most of all to say that you’re
unforgettable.
I could weep. Yep. Those little e-mails or notes or hellos years later. We just never know and they are so special. Thank you for this. Thank you that you opened that e-mail.
P.S. For the record: I wasn’t this child’s regular teacher. Her fourth-grade teacher saw her budding passion for writing and asked if I (literacy coach/writing pd facilitator) could work with her. We carved out the time and made it happen – one of the highlights of my educational career, thus far.
Wow … what a letter and remembrance (and now a poem about her, too)
Kevin
Those are definitely the emails and notes that make it all worth it. You reaction is similar to mine and I appreciated how you brought that joy and wonder alive in your words here.
Fran, I am grinning! I feel lucky that my prompt gave you “permission” to write this beautiful poem. This moved me:
your plans, to be
a therapist. A healer.
An author. Oh, child
you have no idea
what your words have done today…
“Oh, child” is perfect, as she will always be a child to your teacher heart.
Fran, your student was blessed to have your writer’s fertilizer as she bloomed along the way. I’m so mesmerized by the story here – the email that almost wasn’t, the dream pursued, the you of you. And that ending
most of all to say that you’re
unforgettable
Oh, what a beautiful word to end a poem on…..unforgettable! I can hear Nat singing it now.
Fran,
This is a lovely reminder of how the hard work of teaching bears future fruit. I’m sharing the joy you find in this student’s email. Lovely tribute and reminder.
Those wonderful emails. I’ve gotten Facebook messages. Recently I saw a former student as a waitress at a local restaurant. Knowing we matter to the students we teach, knowing we have planted a small seed, it’s Unforgettable.
I knew better
than to listen
to stories
that followed
you through
the years
— the tentative
tales that teachers
say they won’t
tell, but say,
anyway —
for here we are,
five weeks
in, and you’ve
been nothing
but magic,
an inventive
writer, hidden
beneath an armor
of prose and
poems
I’ve had conversations with colleagues where I basically said, “Don’t tell me…” and as a result, I have many stories about “magic” students, extraordinary human beings. And oh, the transformative power of writing… the closest thing there is to magic. I tell that to fellow teachers, often. Love this poem, Kevin.
Alas, in this case, it’s been stories of students who have been trouble and made mayhem for teachers, who then often told others “wait until …” – a message that I often try to ignore …
So true…so true…so true. I really find that the “good kids” struggle with creativity more than those kids that have to fight against labels. Isn’t that weird and somehow also wonderful?
We’ve all had that student with that reputation — I’m glad you were able to see past or beyond it or at least find joy in the fact that they were more than those words/tales. My favorite stanza was the last — I love imagery and meaning of the armor.
Kevin, “you’ve been nothing but magic” speaks to the power of a fresh start, a heart that has welcomed this writer with a clean slate. This is a gem.
Sometimes the greatest gifts come packaged in duct tape and rumors. Once opened, however, they are sea shells, puppies, and fresh seedlings popping from the soil. You prompted my thoughts about a kid I had who was extraordinary as a spoken word poet. He came to me labeled, marked, doubted, and forgotten. When I asked him, “Why hasn’t anyone ever told me you had all these amazing talents?” he responded, “None of them ever asked.”
Kevin,
This!! I wish a Kevin for every student – – a teacher who uncovers, discovers the strengths of the student, who stops the shadows of the past at the door. There is magic in all of them!
Yes, Kevin. The lines ” you’ve/been nothing/but magic,” were incredible. This got me thinking about the many times students in my classroom surprised me with their stories. It reminded me of how important it is to give chances and not allow the past determine the students who come to us each year.
Kevin, That first part about teachers telling stories is an ouch moment. The only student records I looked at were for sped students, and only to meet accommodations. Too many students don’t get a fair chance because of reputations, earned snd unearned. You’re helping change the narrative about that student. Love those last lines:
“you’ve
been nothing
but magic,”
A magical poem for a magical student.
Oh! and one more comment…yesterday was one of those days I got home from school with just enough time to grab a bite before a meeting and then shower and bed. I apologize for the few comments I left yesterday…just one of those days!
Allison, thank you for this wonderful prompt! I love Laux’s poem and yours. Students make such an impression on us. The bonds are so special and yet we routinely let them grow up and go. It’s a weird kind of love. But, your poem about Austin–I know that kid!
I have a draft of a poem based on a true story from this year’s first day of school. The story is still unsettled in my head. I know I will write more about this. But, it felt so good to have a reason to write it in this form today. Thanks again!
Big Sister Club
Even if you were not
the taller of the two,
I recognized you
as a member of
The Big Sister Club
The moment you
Asked to go to the office.
At first, I said yes
But, then asked…why?
I want to see if they have
Our names
We want to go to class.
It’s hard the first day
if parents send kids to school
without a complete registration.
How you sit waiting
in the library until
the universe beyond you
resolves.
In big sister language
you asked if there would be lunch
made a pile of books
started reading with your sister
found books to take home
to your little brother.
I recognized in you
parts that made me
a teacher and
gave me reasons
to also become a librarian
We big sisters–
We never stop.
Oh, Linda – “we big sisters/we never stop” – the nurturing soul of the educator, the innate caretaker instinct. On the first day of kindergarten this year I had a big 2nd grade sister approach me with her K little sister, asking where the office is. I took them. Turns out she was only asking where testing was (staggered entry for kindergarten). I marveled at her aplomb, and wondered if she’d been charged to do this by someone at home or if she took it upon herself. Such poignant love and care are woven throughout this poem about recognition.
“I recognized in you
parts that made me
a teacher …”
Just perfect
Kevin
I am in the Big Sister Club and know this girl. I’m glad you wrote about this. We big sisters need to stick together.
Linda, Yours is the first poem I read this morning and it tugs at my core. The big sister taking on the responsibility…trying to hold up the younger ones on her still thin shoulders. Wow. I love how you moved from “In big sister language…” to “I recognized in you…” bridging the experience you watched connect to your own (hence understanding “the language”). Wow.
Linda, this is such a sweet recognition of self in another. Students need more teachers who observe them closely enough to reach out and make a difference – – like you!
Linda–
I really appreciate your final stanza. It tied the entire poem together and the dash was very skillfully placed. Thank you for sharing!