Found Poetry

I had students create found poetry using an article. I just had to share this one line:

Sometimes it's good
to start a better life
while the rest of your friends
are being kidnapped
by human traffickers

Dear old students.

Dear my old students from other schools,

I'm sorry that I don't remember your name, where I know you from, or anything particular about you. My memory is really that bad. But it's not all my fault. You've grown a lot as well. But really it mostly boils down to my memory. I'm lucky if I remember my name sometimes. I'll leave you with a poem by Billy Collins. Although I haven't had that many students as of yet (this will be my fourth year of teaching), it does resonate with me.

“Schoolsville”
from Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.

The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it’s cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.

I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.

Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A’s stroll along with other A’s.
The D’s honk whenever they pass another D.

All the creative-writing students recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.

Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.

Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double-spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

I like to go to bookstores and wander the poetry section. Often, I will grab a random book of poetry hoping to find a gem. I hit the jackpot with Boris Novak's poetry, especially in this poem which could be dedicated to that special someone.

Borders

We gaze at the same full moon... horizons

far away, too far from each other. Mountains

rise between us. A soft, mossy crust

grows over our footsteps. All alone

you crossed all borders and came to a foreign country,

to the homeland of my arms. Dangerously alone

I crawl past the keepers of borders: I travel to the

Northwest, where I am bitterly ashamed

of the screeching of the soul among smooth, horrible walls.

I stand before them, a dark man from the Southeast,

with a conspicuous name, shuddering, as naked as prey.

I cannot escape. Border is destiny.

Now you know: although you cross the border, you don't erase it.

Rising even higher it will measure your steps, like doubt.

A map is not an illusion. So speak more softly.

Beyond all borders your lips are my home.

-Boris Novak

The Ultimate Pick Up Poem

Love’s Philosophy

Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle–
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;–
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Poetry Challenge 2

This time my class was working on a chain poem. More information on this activity can be found here. It is basically an exercise in free association and feeds into poetry.

You start with one object in the room. In our case, we started with "light." You then write the first thing that comes to your mind, which was "bright." Then you write the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of "bright" and so forth until you have 6-8 items. Our list was as follows:

Light
Bright
Flashes
Fast
Car
Wheels
Rims

You then add words to each side to make it into a poem. This is what I came up with.

Chain Poem #1

The light blinds when the
Bright thoughts enter
Flashes of contemplation
Destroying the fast energies of the world
A car is man made
And he created wheels
The rims a mere decor

Poetry Challenge

For one of my classes, I tore up scraps of paper and had students write topics on the paper. They then had to randomly choose a paper and write about the topic they chose in three stanzas with a set rhyme scheme. The students challenged me: You have to write one as well. So I did.

Nature

The soft rain falling
On the hot concrete
Steam rising
Making the scene complete

Soft tears fall
Mirroring the rain
My hopes are tall
How can I complain

When my soul is pure
and untainted by sin
Temptations lure
But I will win

Qabiltu

Qabiltu
by Abu Zayd USA
It began with a simple statement, qabiltu Your hand in mind, we left to start our new lives. The sun never shined as bright And the moon was never so full as it became when your life and mine became one. We never met, We never spoke, but we there was a feeling that my faulty tongue can never express in its own words - muwaddah. The stars spoke to us that night bringing life to the dark Earth bring life to your dark hearts and stand. Water splashed on my face the night we were wed, urging me to stand before the One who blessed us with one another, an answer to the implicit call of His creation, and the explicit call of His Majesty. Greetings of peace and love showered our home, glad tidings of the clock's hand approaching Maghrib, breaking the fast you asked me to join you in. For you it was never nafsi nafsi You taught me what it meant to love Him, though you may not know it. It was because of my love for you I realized how much I didn't Love Him. My life was incomplete without You My life will never be complete without Him. Qabiltu my heart connected with you Qabiltu when will my heart connect with Him ---------------------------------------- From Islamicpoetry.org

A GOOD-TALKING CANDLE

I had a good-talking candle
last night in my bedroom.

I was very tired but I wanted
somebody to be with me,
so I lit a candle

and listened to its comfortable
voice of light until I was asleep.

-Richard Brautigan

you who were born with the sun above your shoulders

All the sights of paris
Pale inside your iris

All Things will Die

"All that is on earth will perish: will abide (for ever) the Face of thy Lord,- full of Majesty, Bounty and Honour. Then which of the favours of your Lord will ye deny?" (Surah al-Rahman: 26-28).

All Things will Die

All Things will Die

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating

Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d–we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro’ eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

National Poetry Month...

Your hope in my heart is the rarest treasure
Your Name on my tongue is the sweetest word
My choicest hours
Are the hours I spend with You --
O Allah, I can't live in this world
Without remembering You--
How can I endure the next world
Without seeing Your face?
I am a stranger in Your country
And lonely among Your worshipers:
This is the substance of my complaint.

- Rabi'a Basri

Army of one

Last night I went on a long excursion to Appleton, WI. The ride took around 4 hours, and some coffee. The point of my trip was to see a poet I really enjoy and have posted his poems on here before: Billy Collins. He read numerous poems including a wonderful selection of hilarious haikus. Below are the pictures I took there.

Billy Collins explaining his poems.

He had the audience cracking up.

I was surprised to see no statue of Jesus (as) in there. Only the really nice organ.

Outside view of the church.

There he is signing books. I got two books signed on behalf of my school. The picture quality is bad because I was shaking after meeting him. Not because he's so great or anything, but only because I'm a spaaz.

Lastly some deer I saw by the edge of the road.

She's looking at me.

National Poetry Month

The Country
by Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

National Poetry Month

Facing It
by Yusef Komunyakaa
My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't, dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way--the stone lets me go. I turn that way--I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman's trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

I was just looking at this blog, and I noticed the date of the last entry. I haven't updated in over a month. How did the time fly by so quickly that I didn't even realize it? I've been busy with moving, and working, and working, and working. What else? Nasty ice storm, car full of stuff, 60% humidity in my apartment, and we're already halfway through 2nd quarter. This year is flying by, but the days tick by slowly until they're gone. I don't even have time for a regular post, just this little rant. And a poem that captures some of my frustrations when teaching poetry.

Introduction To Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

-Billy Collins