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…

(Read entire poem here.)

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
Allison Berryhill

​​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.

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Britt

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.”

Emily D

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!

Kim Johnson

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. 

DeAnna C

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.

DeAnna C

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

Cara Fortey

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.

Rachelle

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 ❤️

Emily D

What a sweet remembrance. I would bet he does remember you!

Emily Yamasaki

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

Denise Krebs

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.

DeAnna C

Emily,
Great poem about a student who speaks French and is still able to connect with those around him.

Stacey Joy

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!

He made

friends

grades 

poems 

progress 

community 

Susan O

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!

Laura Langley

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.

Denise Krebs

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.

I should have known 

you’d infer my secret.

You were always so good 

at close reading. 

Wow!

Kim Johnson

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.

Rachelle Lipp

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?

DeAnna C

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.

Cara Fortey

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!

Laura Langley

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.

Denise Krebs

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! 🙂

Emily D

Rachelle, you laid this out well, using suspense to move us eagerly through the poem. Hilarious! Thank you, I enjoyed this!

Mo Daley

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

Allison Berryhill

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!

gayle sands

Mo. What a wonderful story. We never know the burdens our kids carry unless we ask. And care. And look what happened!

Cara Fortey

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.

Laura Langley

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.

Denise Krebs

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.

Kim Johnson

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!!!

Susan O

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.

Nancy White

Oh wow. This is so moving. I wish we could know more.

Mo Daley

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

gayle sands

Whew.

Cara Fortey

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. 

Susan

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.

Rachelle

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

DeAnna C

Cara,
I live your take on this prompt today. Thanks for sharing.

Emily D

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.

Donnetta D Norris

To Every Scholar I Have Ever Taught…
I LOVE YOU!

Mo Daley

Nailed it!

Allison Berryhill

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.

Nancy White

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.

Maureen Young Ingram

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.

Susan O

You are a great teacher still even though not around the classroom. Love this sentiment and the use of rhyme.

Allison Berryhill

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.)

Maureen Young Ingram

Allison, this is a wonderful prompt and mentor poem! I adore your words here:

His words are his rocket

He’s their astronaut.

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. 

Erica J

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.

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

gayle sands

Maureen— your words give us this vivid child!!!

Cara Fortey

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.

Denise Krebs

“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.

Scott M

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.”

Maureen Young Ingram

Scott, how I love your advice here! “More and more and yet again still more.”

Mo Daley

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?

Scott M

Thanks! (And Absolutely! Share away!)

Allison Berryhill

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.

Scott M

? Thanks, Allison!

Barb Edler

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

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Barb Edler

Thank you, Glenda, but I realize I did misspell hole at the beginning. Ugh..

Maureen Young Ingram

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”

Allison Berryhill

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.

Emily Yamasaki

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.

Barb Edler

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

Barb Edler

Allison, you are so right!

Glenda M. Funk

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

Barb Edler

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!

Maureen Young Ingram

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.

Susan

Glenda,
This is beauty. I love how you uniquely set up your lines and stanzas.
The images create wonder.

Allison Berryhill

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”!)

Denise Krebs

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.

Denise Hill

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

Barb Edler

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!

Kathleen Tighe

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!

gayle sands

This is yours
and you belong here.

do they need any more than that?

Allison Berryhill

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.

gayle sands

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

Barb Edler

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.

Maureen Young Ingram

I love this story, Gayle! How wonderful that you have kept in touch…this must make your heart swell:

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.

You shared such an important lesson, and kept at it, making sure the lesson was received. So fabulous!

Susan

This warms my heart so much. How fortunate that young lady was to have you. I love these lines:

The chip on her shoulder 

was just itching to be knocked off.

Allison Berryhill

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.

Stacey Joy

I offered to have her stop by every morning 

so I could set her straight for the day.

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.
??

Mekinzie

“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.

Glenda M. Funk

Mekinzie, I hear my own voice in both your student’s and your response. This brings back some wonderful memories. Thank you.

Maureen Young Ingram

Just hang in there and I will too.” – such true and perfect words! Wonderful how empathic you are.

Linda Mitchell

Oh, I do love that line that pulls us in deeper, “Here’s a secret:”

Allison Berryhill

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.

Stacey Joy

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

Stacey Joy

Here’s the link. The formatting didn’t work on the post.

Boxer Moon

I love the determination in this poem! Amen!

Sarah

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.

Stacey Joy

Yes and oh what fun times those were under great leadership and everyone feeling valued! Thanks!

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Maureen Young Ingram

I love this poem! Truly, inspiring. To hear the students repeat that line: “I am smart and I am unique” – oh, wow!!

Linda Mitchell

This is wonderful! What a way to build kids up!

Allison Berryhill

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.

Denise Krebs

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”

Christine Ann Roy

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.

Mekinzie

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!

Sarah

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.

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Emily Yamasaki

So beautiful! I love the punchy one word lines.

Allison Berryhill

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.

Denise Krebs

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.

Denise Krebs

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.

They flash through the sky

Like his own shooting star.

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!

Denise Krebs

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.

Christine Ann Roy

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.

Sarah

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

Glenda M. Funk

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.”

Maureen Young Ingram

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:

Dread coming back

I need to fail forward

Loved this poem of yours!!

Allison Berryhill

Oh, Denise, THANK you for reaching into your past experiences to share Mohammed R.’s story today.

Susan

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

Mekinzie

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.

Denise Hill

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.

Allison Berryhill

Susan, T
This poem is an anthem to public education. Beautiful. Stunning.

Margaret Simon

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.

Denise Hill

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.

Barb Edler

Denise, Margaret’s poem is really inviting a conversation. I basically wrote the same thing and then read your comment afterwards.

Barb Edler

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.

Margaret Simon

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.

Linda Mitchell

A wonderful prose poem.And, what an experience with J. Love the last two lines of your work the best.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

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!

Kathleen Tighe

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.

Boxer Moon

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.

Kim Johnson

This brings back memories of that day, if that student, of his life. A touching tribute!

Boxer Moon

thank you

Kathleen Tighe

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.

Margaret Simon

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.

Kathleen Tighe

Thank you.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

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.

Barb Edler

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!

Emily Yamasaki

I’m sitting with these lines tonight:

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.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

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!

brcrandall

                        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.

Margaret Simon

Wow! This is one of the hardest forms I know of. Brilliantly woven with the bird nest. Is this you? Gobsmacked!

brcrandall

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)

Erica J

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.

brcrandall

Erica, I love the repetition…”I’m not a writer” and the balance of “you wrote that” to kiss the reader on the forehead.

Allison Berryhill

“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.

Kimberly Haynes Johnson

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.

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Margaret Simon

“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.

Kathleen Tighe

Such effective use of repetition to communicate the stages of growth we experience in our students.

Heather Morris

This! I love the visuals you create as you help your students discover their writing selves.

Jen Laffin

Your students are so lucky to have you, Erica!

Susan

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.

Kim Johnson

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

Fran Haley

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

Allison Berryhill

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.

Christine Ann Roy

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.

Clayton Moon

This poem will touch the heart of all teachers, because it is a true testament of why teachers teach.

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Kathleen Tighe

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.

Linda Mitchell

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.

Fran Haley

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.

Linda Mitchell

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.

Fran Haley

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.

Kevin Hodgson

Wow … what a letter and remembrance (and now a poem about her, too)
Kevin

Erica J

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

Kimberly Haynes Johnson

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.

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Margaret Simon

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.

Kevin Hodgson

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

Fran Haley

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.

Kevin Hodgson

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 …

Linda Mitchell

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?

Erica J

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

brcrandall

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.”

Kimberly Haynes Johnson

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!

Christine Ann Roy

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.

Glenda M. Funk

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.

Linda Mitchell

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!

Linda Mitchell

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.

Fran Haley

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.

Kevin Hodgson

I recognized in you
parts that made me
a teacher …”

Just perfect
Kevin

Margaret Simon

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.

Allison Berryhill

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.

Kimberly Haynes Johnson

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!

Mekinzie

Linda–
I really appreciate your final stanza. It tied the entire poem together and the dash was very skillfully placed. Thank you for sharing!