Inspiration
Today, we welcome Kwame Alexander’s poem “In My Closet, On the Top Shelf, is a Silver Box.” (Crush: Love Poems for Teenagers, 2008).
Alexander’s poem serves as a mentor text to collect thinking. I love this poem because the short lines, divided with commas, help pace the reading. Many of the lines are subject-verb, which can serve as the form of the poem.
(Note: Sarah could not find a copy of the poem to share on this blog, but you can go to Amazon to the “look inside” feature of the book and search for the poem. An excerpt is available to read there, and perhaps you will be inspired to purchase this book for your classroom library.)
Travis’s Poem
Self, understanding
Heart, relieved
Truth, accepted
Mind, racing
Parents, not knowing
Questions, “Is this the right time?”
Car, stopped
Mind, racing
Heart, beating
Truth, unspoken
Me, walking
Door, open
Bible, open
Dad, reading
Me, speaking
“Hey, Dad”
Dad, turns
Eyes, soft
Heart, pounding
Mind, knowing
Me, speaking
“I have to tell you something.”
Truth, acknowledged
Dad, not understanding
Me, sinner
Heart, broken
Words, linger
Space, existent
Parents, ashamed
Heart, wounded
Me, hoping
One day, maybe in the future
They, comprehend
Love, exists
In many, forms.
Process Pointers
- Tell a story from your life — a memorable moment, a snapshot. Try Alexander’s subject-verb form in your poem. The original poem is about fifty lines, most with two syllables each.
- As an alternative, introduce us to your favorite poem and then borrow its form instead of lines as we did on day six.
Travis Crowder, M.Ed., is a middle school English/Language Arts teacher at
East Alexander Middle School in Hiddenite, NC. He has taught for ten years and has experience in both middle and high school levels. He currently teaches 7th grade ELA and social studies, and works with the gifted and talented students in his school. He and Todd Nesloney co-authored Sparks in the Dark: Lessons, Ideas, and Strategies to Illuminate the Reading and Writing Lives in All of Us.
Septum problems
Airflow blocking
Sinus infecting
Polyp growing
Me sickening
Doctor talking
Doc assuring
Scalpel cutting
Cutting too much
Ethmoid bone sliced
Doc ignoring
Symptoms shouting
Symptoms screaming
Germs entering
Brain abscessing
Me suffering
Me slipping away
Steve saving me
Surgeon drilling
Poison draining
Me improving
Slowly
Slowly
Slowly
I feel normal
Mo – This is such a frightening experience! You’ve shared something no one should ever experience in words that have me terrified in just a matter of these short, seemingly simple lines. The contrast between short, simple lines and horrifying is amazing. Lines like “…ignoring/ Symptoms shouting/ Symptoms screaming/ Germs entertaining…” I wanted to grab the doctor and shake him. As I read your piece this morning, I want to send you thousands of days of healing and never coming close to this trauma. Thank you so much for sharing such an important piece. Susie
Mo–The clinical work borders on torture with each new “ing” digging deeper. I imagine the draining that brought relief could be its own poem. Sorry for your suffering, and I am so glad you are feeling “normal” — in time to smell the spring flowers.
In Family Memories, Shared When Together, Is This Tragedy
Mom, reserved
Dad, fun
Kids, many!
Crazy, often
Mom: “Be careful!”
Dad: “Don’t worry.”
One Day
Mom, late
Beyond tired
Into stressed
About crying
Home, finally
Opens door
Sees red
Red on son
Son’s finger
Finger, severed
Son screaming
Dad pressing
Smells, fishy
Finger, hot dog
Blood, ketchup
Mom cusses
First time ever
Son cries:
“Real Sorry!”
Dad, doghouse
What a memory! You had me going for a while there! I really felt the tension.
I was so worried something had happened to your mom. Excellent turn at the end w/ carefree dad landing in the doghouse.
Eyes scanning
Highlighter marking
Pencil bubbling
Face scrunching
Eyes glazing
Shoulders hunching
Determination waning
We tell you
it doesn’t determine your worth
You believe we lie
Otherwise, why
would we hold you here
for so many hours?
You shared a clear picture of student with the scrunching face and glazing eyes. We started state testing today, so the line “it doesn’t determine your worth” connected with me. Although I truly believe it’s not a lie, sometimes it feels like one.
Melinda — Isn’t this just the pits!? Testing is a miserable label-making horror in my estimation. This short, punching lines really fit the “bubbling” mess of these tests. I just wanna scream that so much is put on the shoulders of kids and classrooms… and for what? And the Pearson Company just keeps getting richer. Grrrrr. I appreciate this poem a bunch! Susie
Gail and Susie, today was heart-breaking. I was in a small group, and those kids were so defeated after several hours I wanted to cry.
BUT, tomorrow we write poetry, and we create art, and we all regain our grip on the important things!
Thank heavens you’re a teacher, Melinda! Bring them the joy of creating with the power of their own words! Yea! Susie
Yes! Thank you for valuing creativity and individuality. Your students are lucky!
Heartbreaking the way we’ve allowed for profit co
Pained to dictate how we treat children. How did any of us learn w/out the abusive testing? Your poem capture the heartache.
Almost
Crisp, autumn evening
Eyes peeled, trying not to blink.
Waiting expectantly,
staring at the star-sprinkled
sky—-a streak of light.
A gasp and a pointing finger.
Did you . . .? Almost.
Another moment and then
Another, brilliant tail
zipping across the sky.
That night—continuously, one
Would follow another,
Desperate blazes
Into nothingness.
Stamped forever in our memories
Do you remember? Almost.
This poem makes me want to star gaze. I like the way the alliterative /s/ streaks across the sky and replicates the experience.
You challenged us to think “tight” and to focus on a poetic device. Mine is onomatopoeia. Here’s a poem focus on sounds. I have fun trying to recreate sounds with letters. [By the way, middle school students love saying this word and most of you know why! :)]
Sounds on an Evening Walk
Click-clack of push mowers
Low buzzing of electric ones
Clip-snip of hand-held trimmers
Swish of broom sweeping the clippings
Purr of European sports cars
Rattle-ti-bang of teenager’s clunkers
Revving of motorcycle engines
Whirring of bicycle wheels on asphalt
Clackety-clatter of skateboards crossing the cracks in the sidewalk
Yip-yapping of small dogs
Husky snarly, breathy growling of big ones
Heavy snorting through holes in fences
Padding back and forth on hard paw-packed yards
Chains dragging along to a snap
Gasp of dogs trying to get us
But we’re out of reach.
Whirring of Big Wheels on asphalt – – I haven’t thought about a Big Wheel in a long, long time – – thanks for the memory! I love your use of sound device in this poem. It made me feel like I was on the walk with you – – I love the different sizes of dogs you used too for different sounds. This one is loaded with great onomatopoeia!
Your poem inspires me to try this with my students. I wonder how what they hear in their neighborhoods compares to what I heard when I was their age!
Travis, your poem raises many questions for me resulting from that bible image. Did you do something wrong or reject a belief? I can relate to both, so this poem resonates on many levels w/ me. The ambiguity is enticing.
Age 4
Moment, frightening
Night, coming
Blizzard, warned
Snow, shoveling
Driveway, covered.
Window well, unnoticed
One, step
Heart, stopped
Me, slip
Face first, buried
Muffled, screaming
Breath, gasping
Legs, kicking
Boots, noticed
Sister, shocked
Me, crying
Lesson, learned.
By: Ryan Bruce
Your poem paints a clear picture of you kicking in the window well covered in snow w/ your legs flailing.
Ryan — Oh man, that had to be a heck of a spill. The “gasping” and “legs, kicking” sure convey the sense of panic! It is so real that these seemingly tiny moments leave a lifelong image. So good that you survived and are years years later to write a poem to put that horror into perspective. Susie
…are here years later…. (sorry for the error)
Such a vivid description in sparse words. A wonderful (or terrifying) depiction of a childhood memory!
[I think when I hit the “submit” button, it will push the 4 lines from e. e. cummings back up against the left margin…. those lines are meant to be indented, indicating these 4 are cummings’ lines — hope that’s not confusing. Susie]
cummings and goings LXIX
almost three decades ago, I believed
cummings’, in his 1931 collection labeled W [ViVa],
a poem numbered LVII,
when he confessed
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
I imagined your heartbeat in a rhythm
with my own; understanding your eyes could see me
forever, and no fissure, no breach
could fracture the backbone of us,
but I was wrong,
mesmerized by the voice of your eyes
designing, perfidious as all villains and
the blindness of my own; finally something in me understood
what opened and closed; it came suddenly without flags,
truth and guilt and a broken trapdoor
to the bowels of who you really were;
nobody, not even the rain, can wash you clean
by Susie Morice
First, I love e.e.cummings. Love the incongruous images in your poem: open-closed, seeing-blind, “voice of your eyes,” and the alliteration in fracture, fissure creates a sense of brokenness. Your poems are always so complicated and well crafted. Your knowledge of literature and that you have read deeply keeps me looking forward to what you’ll write next.
forever – no fissure, no breach could fracture the backbone of us……..
BUT I WAS WRONG! I simply adore that line that changes it all. But I was wrong. That line that is the moment in a relationship that defines the end, the admission that one has been blind to the truth. But I was wrong. The realization that a spouse has cheated. But I was wrong. The realization that there has been a betrayal. But I was wrong. Oh, that painful moment. Julius knew it: Et tu, Brute? Betrayal……nobody can wash you clean. You are a master, Susie!
*Inspired by the title of Alexander’s poem*
Tucked in the nightstand of my childhood bedroom
is an anthology of love letters-
some scrawled quickly during class,
others, labors of love, in careful penmanship.
Artifacts of infatuation, they now collect dust,
but I take comfort in knowing they are there-
paper proof that I was once seen. I was once loved.
Evidence of my amorous existence.
“Paper proud” is a lovely image. “Amorous existence” speaks to the way time steals these young love feelings.
Tiffany, I love the “paper proof” that you were once seen and once loved – evidenced by the anthology of love letters. I love your perspective on what we find so hard to let go – -our human need for love and our wondering if we may ever need to bag it and take it to court and label it “Exhibit A” – – you capture so honestly the reason we all keep those letters and dried rose petals! They are evidence of our “amorous existence!”
This reminded me of all the artifacts that we keep to remind ourselves of who we once were or who we are down deep. Thank you!
I loved the line “evidence of my amourous existence” because I feel these letters defined the speaker at one point and are now an artifact of what once was. This poem made me think of the book and now Netflix movie “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before” by Jenny Han.
My apologies to Travis! I did not post his entire poem initially. As of 1:43 pm, Travis’s actual poem, in its entirety, is here for your contemplation. Such a powerful piece, Travis. Thank you for sharing this with us.
I love your poem, Travis. As a reader, I can feel all of the emotions. I am proud to call you my friend.
instead of subject, verb i used a series of absolutes in couplet form.
Angeles Crest
Adventure questing,
Mountain cresting;
Adrenaline surging
Problems purging.
Pavement twisting,
Inertia resisting;
Body dipping,
Traction slipping
Gravel spitting
Teeth gritting
Cliff-edge nearing
Rider steering
Gears downshifting
Machine lifting
Tire sliding
Fortune chiding;
Control regaining,
Terror waning;
Breath returning,
Adventure yearning…
I’m picturing a car, but it could be a motorcycle or even a bike……and I’m feeling your life-on-the-edge sense of adventure and need for speed. I’m glad you didn’t go over the edge…..or maybe you did.
motorcycle, and only figuratively (but it was a matter of inches).
Steve — I had to wiggle in my chair as I read this. As one scared to death of drop-offs and heights, you had my hands sweating. (teeth gritting … cliff edge nearing… ) Oh lordy, shoot me now! You definitely conveyed a very real sensation with these quick lines! Susie
I love the structure of the absolutes in couplet form. The lines that struck me most were “fortune chiding;” and “control regaining, terror waining;” because these made me feel the tension and release. Thank you for sharing!
I’m using the alternate model today – and sending a poem I wrote several weeks ago that models Christopher Smart’s poem written in the 1700s, “For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry” (later mirrored by Mary Oliver in Dog Songs with her poem “For I Will Consider My Dog Percy”).
For I Will Consider My Dog Boo Radley
For I will consider my dog Boo Radley.
For he was rescued from the grief of neglect and abandonment.
For he was alone and starving and trembling in a crate in the back of a van.
For his rescue name was Einstein because of his wild and matted hair.
For he was chosen by Kim but bonded with Briar.
For he was re-named Boo Radley because he spent time behind a closed door.
For he is of the tribe of Schnoodle.
For his Schnoodlehood is a mixture of French and German.
For he is highly territorial about his pillows and blankets.
For when he is picked up, his ears sag down, but when he is put down, his ears perk up.
For he lives by a predictable routine of quirky habits and idiosyncrasies.
For one of his favorite games is glove wars.
For another of his favorite games is teasing keep-away.
For another of his favorite games is pant-leg-tug-of-war.
For he threatens wildlife ferociously but seeks protection from the ding of a cell phone.
For he merely tolerates his rescued brother Fitz.
For if he meets an admiring stranger he will chastise her harshly for cooing over him.
For he has an angel harping on one shoulder and a devil pitchforking on the other.
For when both of his humans are not home, his world gets tilted and he takes to his kennel.
For he lies on the back of the chair and rests his head on his humans’ shoulders to read their books and emails.
For he licks his lips to request his bedtime drink from a bathroom cup instead of a water dish.
For he punishes himself and assigns his own timeout in the kennel when he regrets his mischief.
For he is the bed police, Mirandizing anyone who moves a muscle.
For he keeps watch over his humans by night and sleeps by day.
For he puts his nose out the car window and breathes the exotic air when we go on safaris.
For he prances about the house like a show pony with his whale-spray tail.
For he catches popcorn.
For he gets tornadic zoomies indoors and rearranges all the furniture.
For he breakfasts upon plain yogurt and graham crackers in bed on weekends, lying like the Sphinx.
For he is now loved and cherished.
For he rules the Johnson Funny Farm.
-Kim Johnson
This is a wonderful tribute to your puppy. I love the image of mirandizing anyone who moves. We have two rescue pups. Snug is a schnauzer-poodle mix. Your dog sounds a lot like him. Think I’m going to pull the Mary Oliver and Christopher Smart poems as mentor texts for students. Thank you! Love your poem and through it love your dog.
Kim — This one is truly loaded with lines that made me smile, laugh, and love your Einstein/Boo Radley buddy. I loved your funny words like Schnoodlehood and Mirandizing… tornadic zoomies … on safaris and so many more. The juxtaposition of wildlife versus the cell phone. Ha! All that great character exudes through your clear affection and after his wickedly scary start from abandonment. Lucky you and lucky doggy there on your Funny Farm. Delightful. Susie
I’m not following the model today, maybe tomorrow. I bought a set of Metaphor Dice and played w/ them alongside a class of sophomores Monday. This poem is from the words hope, reluctant, dance. The rules allow derivatives.
“Reluctant Dancer”
Hope is a reluctant dancer,
A wallflower in a green floral Home Ec dress.
Reflections of junior high lovers in her eyes,
Gazing through, beyond, beside perfect
pimpled couples.
Arms gripping the curve of her back,
Hands resting gently on shoulders,
Fingertips grazing locks of hair,
Awaiting a pirouette, a turn, a twist, a plié
Before last call and the music fades to silence.
Glenda, this is lovely. The positioning and movement so perfect for a dance. I especially like this precious bit: “Gazing through, beyond, beside …” Thank you for sharing! (I love those dice!)
Oh, what Junior High memories you illustrate. Pimpled couples……those awkward days of beginnings of discovery with some downsides……I love the short dance and the fading music. Makes me realize that the music fades in different ways for different people. Thank you for sharing, Glenda.
Glenda — The sense of reverie comes across in a whimsical sort of way… I like the dreaminess of this one. I laughed at the “green floral Home Ec Dress” — oh dear! LOL! The metaphor of hope and reluctant dance is really a good one. Susie
Metaphor dice have me intrigued! I may have to invest. Comparing hope to a reluctant dancer seemed fitting. I could picture the Home Ec dress and the reflection in her eyes. Great imagery!
I got a set of the metaphor dice, too! I’ll play with them for one of these pieces later. I love the way you carried the movement of the dance through the poem.
Large long suitcase, stuffed with clothes, zipped
Small roller suitcase, stuffed with more clothes, zipped
Room, empty
Passport, ready
She, uncertain, anxious, excited
Parents, sad
Brother, sad underneath the surface
Car, packed
Flight, Paris
In flight, anxiety
Landing, smooth
Her mind, racing
Apartment, upstairs
Eight flights, tired
Open, door
Open, windows
Open, mind
Cafe, awaits
I felt like I was packed in the suitcase suffocating until the last few lines when everything began to open. The last line “cafe, awaits” offers such a nice reward, prize.
I love the last six lines and the way they suggest both an expansion of the girl’s life and a shrinking of time. I hope that makes sense. Now I want to go to Paris.
Brother, sad underneath the surface – – you drew a picture here that I can so understand. I love the cafe at the end. I wanted to be with you on this trip! Eight flights – – I’d need those for all the eating…..
“Brother, sad underneath the surface” very subtle recognition of what lies beneath.
In Her Closet, Pushed to the Back,
Is a Blue Crate
Christmas lights, tangled
Markers, dry
Student work, stale
Mug handle, charred
Third month, first year
Lunch, tutoring
Plan, observing
Before, meetings
After, grading
Between, oatmeal
Powder, mugged
Water, forgotten
Microwave, buttered
Timer, ten-not-one
Bathroom, quick
Fire alarm, sounds
Me, toilet paper
Me, evacuate
Me, a field
Special needs, wheel chaired
Little kids, no coats
Teachers, panicked
Stomach, knotted
Heart, twisted
Sirens, silenced
Fireman, “enter”
Fireman, points
Popcorn, culprit
Buttered microwave, flammable
Me, swallows guilt
Me, swipes mug remains
Bleary teacher, combustible
Aren’t we all “combustible”? And bleary describes so many of us, especially this time of year. The water, forgotten and markers, dry are such small, powerful moments in our days.
I LOVE story poems! And yours is just wonderful. You take us through circumstances and emotions with such an economy of words. Deceptively simple but, oh, so complex. This is great!
I love how this form tells your story – your fire confessional. I love the sound of “Popcorn, culprit,” as the identified criminal in the poem.
The idea of something being pushed back seems metaphorical. I think about all I’ve pushed back into a “crate” in the closet. I’m curious about your decision to move from subject/verb constructions to preposition/object in some lines, etc. I like the climatic building of the sparsely worded narrative.
I really liked how the structure form Kwame’s poem with the subject/verb and commas helped pace your story. At first, I thought it was just a “normal” busy teacher day, then when I read “Teacher, panicked” I realized it eas not just a drill.
my first years are in a file cabinet drawer. i know what i’ll be doing tonight. i had to read this to my of lunch colleagues; it turned into a most embarrassing moments session. thanks, this was the most entertaining lunch in a while.
Sarah — This ticks halfway between a clock and a bomb ready to blow. The sense of syncopation carries me along in a rapid-fire sense of how “combustible” and “bleary” state we keep and the pace of our seemingly normal lives. “Fire alarm” hits the frenzy button and a “fireman [pointing] is such a real gulp of “guilt.” This is a fun one to read several times in a row. Thanks! Susie