Poem in Your Pocket 2016: How I Discovered Poetry

For Poem in Your Pocket Day 2016, I decided to cart around Marilyn Nelson’s “How I Discovered Poetry.” I had read it before, most recently in the collection Poetry Speaks Who I Am, edited by Elise Paschen, and had even dog-eared it.

“How I Discovered Poetry”

It was like soul-kissing, the way the words 

filled my mouth as Mrs. Purdy read from her desk. 

All the other kids zoned an hour ahead to 3:15, 

but Mrs. Purdy and I wandered lonely as clouds borne 

by a breeze off Mount Parnassus. She must have seen 

the darkest eyes in the room brim: The next day 

she gave me a poem she’d chosen especially for me 

to read to the all except for me white class. 

She smiled when she told me to read it, smiled harder, 

said oh yes I could. She smiled harder and harder 

until I stood and opened my mouth to banjo playing 

darkies, pickaninnies, disses and dats. When I finished 

my classmates stared at the floor. We walked silent 

to the buses, awed by the power of words.

When I picked it up again yesterday, it sent me spinning back into the recesses of my disorganized mind to ascertain when I first discovered poetry.

I remembered copying cheesy four-to-eight line poems from the board in Mrs. Latch’s 1^st grade classroom, stapling them into a crude Crayola-illustrated compilation of handwriting paper to give to my mother. I have no idea what they were or where they went—probably a landfill somewhere in Arkansas for all I know.

I remembered that throughout elementary school I thought poems were easy to read, but not much more than that.

I remembered cracking up (out loud) when Ms. Ortiz read “The Cremation of Sam McGee” in 7^th grade, not because of the content, although it was a bit funny despite the darkness of the material, but because I began to relish the language…and I knew what made it such a great poem. Owl-eyed Ms. Ortiz was not amused, as she was trying to establish the setting, front-loading for us reading Call of the Wild.

            I unsuccessfully tried my hand at writing song lyrics—mostly ballads—in 9^th grade but became fascinated by rap lyrics and rhythms, although I never tried writing any of those until 11^th grade.

I think it might have been in 10^th grade, though, in Mr. Albert’s class that maybe I really discovered poetry. He's the one who had us listen to Vincent Price perform Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" (on vinyl) with the lights off.

I remember having to explicate a simple poem about a dog. I believe it was simply called “The Dog,” but I am not quite sure. I’ve tried looking for it since then, but my searches have been fruitless. I remembering it having four short, simple quatrains, and the dog was coming toward the speaker, but that’s all I can recall. If anyone out there can help, I’d appreciate it. I don’t think it was a super-impressive piece of literature—maybe even contrived for a clueless high school student to practice with; I’m not sure. But I do know that once I saw the multiple layers that went into the simplicity of the poem—the language, the complexity of the meaning, and how it impacted the people around me, I was hooked. Then again, I had always loved language and words; they were magic from the time I started identifying letters. And when I found out how summary, emotional connections, symbolism, form, figurative language, repetition, theme, and all the other nuances of Meaning blended together on the playground of human experience, of course I wanted to play with poetry, too.

We started writing poetry: acrostics, haiku, cinquain, limericks, and many other vomitus forms that drive me bonkers today—pieces I have sworn I would never compel students to write, although it seems that most of their poetry exposure consists strictly of these and other fill-in-the-cheesy blank poems and Shel Silverstein. But I digress. I found that I was good at writing poetry, especially using this thing called free verse. However, I thought that great poetry had to fit rhyme and meter, and so I dabbled in that, and I ended up forcing rhymes, slanting others worse than bad puns. It wasn’t until I learned to let go that anything amazing happened, though. One of my poems that I wrote for Mr. Albert’s class was published in a British literary magazine (and, no I don’t remember the title of the periodical either). The poem was “Subway,” which I later published in the school newspaper as a junior.

For a time, if you looked at my earlier attempts at poetic drivel, you can interpret my life and its ups and downs, kind of like a teenage journal: rollercoastering mood swings, school misery, confusing relationships of all kinds, and flat, pretentious blather masquerading in philosophical sheep’s clothing. My vocabulary needed a definite smack down, or at least refined pruning. I remember writing a poem in 12^th grade because I learned the word ostentatious. I did another with gregarious. (I still like mixing my metaphors, though; it’s fun.)

Since that semi-angsty time in my life, I am happy to report that I think I have improved. Browse this blog; find the poetry label on the right-hand side bar to get started, and see if I have. Some of my earliest posts reveal some of the dross from the past. So, with this ramble about how I found poetry, enjoy the rest of Poem in Your Pocket Day! I’d love for you to share yours.

Poem in Your Pocket 2014: Baseball Edition

          Today's the day! It's only 8:22, and I've already shared my poem with 33 people!
          I guess before I get too far into this, if you are still uncertain about what Poem in Your Pocket Day is all about, check out the Academy of American Poets or my blog post from last year.
          Now, I have to honestly say that I was still undecided on my selection until the eleventh hour as I've been reading so many poems lately with my students and on my own. Earlier this year I shared my new favorite Billy Collins poem, and I seriously thought about recycling it, but I decided to find something that I hadn't shared before.
          I also contemplated using one of a handful that a couple of my colleagues and I are thinking about using with our students to identify figurative language (ones that aren't in too many classroom anthologies): "I'll Tell You How the Sun Rose" by Emily Dickinson, "Night" by Patricia Hubbell, or "Autumn" also by Patricia Hubbell (but without an electronic link)--all three of which I found in Piping Down the Valleys Wild, a collection edited by Nancy Larrick. You'll notice, though that I didn't choose any of them.
          No, with the oncoming baseball season (and yes, I'm back to coaching again), I wanted a baseball poem this year. So I debated whether to use a classic like "The Base Stealer" by Robert Francis, "Analysis of Baseball" by May Swenson, or even the mighty "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, but I felt that they were all overused.
          I thought about choosing a piece from Ron Koertge's novel in poetry Shakespeare Bats Cleanup or even its sequel Shakespeare Makes the Playoffs. Not this time. At one point I even contemplating using one of my own, one with a baseball element--"For Zachary"--but that seemed too egotistical.
          My mind still craved something new, a poem previously unfamiliar to me.  And then I found it late last night:

"Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt" by David Bottoms

On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either base line. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank
that served as our center-field fence. 

Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no few lives. I could homer
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learned what you were laying down. 

Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.

Like so many great baseball poems, it's about more than baseball.

          Please share with me and everyone around you, your poem. I'm interested to see what you have chosen to carry in your pocket today.
          And if you hadn't noticed, this post is replete with excellent poetry.

The National Day on Writing: How Can I Get Involved?

Just thought I'd put in a plug for the National Day on Writing, which is how I started this blog a few years ago.  This year, the NDoW (October 20th) falls on a Saturday.  Plan early.  The following link is to the NCTE site and several suggestions for how you can celebrate this awesome day!

How Can I Get Involved?

Pretend This Isn't Really Post #100

Why? Because I'm thinking up something ultra-cool to do for my 100th post on Joe Average Writer; that's why. However, I do have to share a link to another blog that I just started. It might be easier for me to keep, but I want to manage los dos at the same time. We'll see how ambitious I get with that endeavor!

Anyway, here's my latest. Warning:It may not be for skinny people!

New Blog Link

Oh, yes. I'll do something better for post #101. Just pretend that Blogger messed up the numbering or something like that.

A Personal Ramble about a Certain Dilemma

This feels good. I’m having my students write, and I actually get a moment to write by myself. Of course, these seventh graders need more steerage than my ninth grade lackeys, so this will probably be short. This class of 24 boys (and four girls) seems to open up more whenever I have them write about personal experiences, especially ones that involve injury, flatulence, or some type of other general grossness. Last week they practiced taking notes from Oh, Yuck! The Encyclopedia of Everything Nasty by Joy Masoff. They then had to reconstitute an article from their notes and did a great, disgusting job writing about farts, pee, and vomit.

Today’s prompt came from Bruce Hale’s “Boys, Beer, Barf, and Bonding” found in Guys Write for Guys Read. When I pulled out the book to read the selection, one of my boys whispered, “All right! It’s the cool ‘guy’ book!” I smiled.

Yes, it was one of the cool guy books, and one of the many prompts that I’d like to use on a regular basis in the future. I stand at a crossroads in my classroom. I can keep going along the same path I have trodden for eleven years, or I can blaze a new trail and incorporate the additional writing that I know the students need, the additional writing that I want to do. Sounds like a no-brainer, right? I wish. Teaching writing, just like actually writing, is hard work. Now, I’m not talking about assigning writing—that’s the easy part—but actually spending the time with the students to help them learn the art and the science behind writing well. Not that I’m the expert, but I do have the passion. Again, it’s no question what I should do, right? There’s this little thing called the doctorate program that I’m trying to manage as well. It’s completely kicking my butt, and I’m a glutton for punishment, I know. I’ve heard all the sado-masochistic comments before.

Truth be told: I know where I want my students to be with their writing. I know that this degree will help me get to where I want to be—teaching prospective English teachers how to teach writing—so that passion for writing well can be spread. But! I have to make a living. Working two jobs and going to school is no piece of cake, although a slice of German chocolate with coconut pecan frosting sounds yummy right now.

Looking back over my ramble here, I know what I need to do, and I suppose I’ve known it all along. I’m just a big, fat, yellow, non-San Diego chicken. ‘Nuff said.

So…

I’m doing it. Next year is going to be a structured writing workshop with literature scattered throughout the year. But it will all come back to writing.

But I need some help. That’s where you come in, my few readers. I’m looking for good mentor texts, writing prompts, “real-life” writing applications. Please feel free to flood my post with comments. Usually, when I say this, nothing happens, but I’m going to exercise some faith in my fellow teachers and writers and friends out there.

P.S. I’ll share a few ideas for engaging literature-based writing prompts in my next post.

A Few Tidbits from Kelly Gallagher

As many of my writing friends, I also attended the CUWP-sponsored workshop where Kelly Gallagher presented. I learned a lot, and more importantly, I feel validated in what I do as a teacher. During the conference, I purchased his book Teaching Adolescent Writers. As I go through it, I can't help the desire to regurgitate what I've been chewing. Spitting it out for you all to see helps in my digestion. And to mix metaphors, I guess the sponge between my ears needs time to process all I'm absorbing. So, here are a few neatly packaged lists from the first chapter of the book:

Top Ten Writing Wrongs in Secondary Schools
(from Kelly Gallagher’s Teaching Adolescent Writers)

1. Students are not doing enough writing.
2. Writing is sometimes assigned rather than taught.
3. Below-grade-level writers are asked to write less than others instead of more than others.
4. English language learners are often shortchanged as well.
5. Grammar instruction is ineffective or ignored.
6. Students are not given enough timed writing instruction or practice.
7. Some teachers have little or no knowledge of district and state writing standards.
8. Writing topics are often mandated with little thought about the prior knowledge and interests of students.
9. Teachers are doing too much of the work. Students are not doing enough work.
10. Teachers need help assessing student writing.

Writing Reasons (Why People Write)
(also from Teaching Adolescent Writers)

1. Writing is hard, but “hard” is rewarding.
2. Writing helps you sort things out.
3. Writing helps to persuade others.
4. Writing helps to fight oppression.
5. Writing makes you a better reader.
6. Writing makes you smarter.
7. Writing helps you get into and through college.
8. Writing prepares you for the world of work.


I highly recommend buying this book if you are a teacher of writing. Check out Kelly's website as well: www.kellygallagher.org

Plug for WIFYR

I know I haven't written since my self-imposed penance lapsed. So what? I promise to post more later. I just need to put in a plug for the upcoming Writing & Illustrating For Young Readers conference. Unfortunately, I will not be able to attend--something about residence hours up in Logan or something like that. I've heard that grad professors actually prefer that you show up to class. Who knew?

But as my homey Nacho says, "anywhays"...I'm including a few tips for critiquing that I stole straight from the WIFYR site. Enjoy. Also, check out the website. I went several years ago, and (Yes, this is a testimonial.) I loved it. I took a class run by Chris Crowe and Carol Lynch Williams. Plus I was able to rub shoulders with several authors and editors. I even got to revert back to the goggle-eye-popping-hero-worshiping-autograph-seeking fan when I met and actually held several meaningful conversations with one of my favorite authors, John H. Ritter. Not since I was an elementary lad had I found myself speechless--a blubbering idiot--in front of an adult. In short, it was an awesome writing experience. So...register and take your writing to another level.

Getting the Most from the Conference:
Eleven Thoughts to a Better Critique

1. Listen. When you receive a critique in your writer's group, this is a time to listen and not speak. Just write down all the comments that have been given. You can think about these later and choose what to use in your rewrite.
2. Don't argue. You've paid a good amount of money to be here. This time you have with other writers-and especially ones who know about good writing-is valuable. Squeeze every penny from your payment by not wasting time during critique. Listen carefully to comments and do not argue your point.
3. You are not the boss of the four-hour morning sessions. The faculty leader is. Keep your comments to the point. Do not monopolize conversation. Do not interrupt. Remember this: Each person has paid to hear from the collective group and especially from the instructor-not from just one individual.
4. Do not beat a point into the ground: Once a point is made (Your character doesn't seem realistic in his conversation)-there is no reason to hash and rehash that statement for a writer. Give a strong example of how this bit of the story is not working, then move on.
5. Pay attention when others are being critiqued. Don't use time when others are being critiqued to write letters, excuse yourself from the room, or drift off into La-la land. Pay attention. What mistake are you making that someone else is? Can you use what you are hearing to improve your own writing? Some of the best help I have received on a manuscript is listening to my peers discuss the novel I'm working on-and then listening to them discuss what fellow members of the group are working on.
6. Give an example of how something might be improved. Like: "You could use a stronger verb here. Pummeled is a much stronger verb. Try that."
Grammatical errors do not need to be pointed out in class. Instead, mark these on the author's paper. In fact, writing comments on the page is excellent for the author.
7. Don't focus only on the negative. We want people to have hope about their stories. Say what works in the piece and what doesn't work. There is no need to say, "This is the stinky-est piece I have ever read." Even if it is the stinky-est piece you have read. There are nicer ways to show how to help one improve his or her writing. And I have seen people I never thought would publish make a huge amount of money from their writing. Be kind, but be honest.
8. But don't only sing praises for an author either. Everyone here should want to have a publishable manuscript underway by the time they leave this conference.
9. Only saying the good, and ignoring what is not working, is not effective.
10. Please remember we all like different things. Just because I don't write fantasy doesn't mean I don't enjoy a well-told fantasy tale. Do not let your personal opinion color your professional opinion.
11. And whatever you do-don't try to incorporate every single person's comment in your story. This is your work. Yours. So pick and choose. What will really help your manuscript succeed?

Penance

Okay. So I just realized that I did not post once single time in the month of November. I wish I had some really cool excuse like I took the NaNoWriMo challenge and I was 50,000+ words into a novel that was accepted by a big name publisher, or even a small publisher, but that would be lying. I’m just a slacker who has been trying to tread water.

Truthfully, I might have written 50,000 words over the past month, but they would probably be tied back to “provide more specific details” and other such generic feedback. In fact, I’ve written so often lately that I do it in my sleep. Well, not really, but close.

As penance for my slackership, I will post post-Thanksgivingly daily (maybe) for the month of December regarding what I am thankful for. And next year, I’ll do NaNoWriMo, but I won’t be like this dude in this clip I stole about writing a novel.

So, for today, I’m thankful for my wife Amy who tells me to do my homework. I know, it’s kinda generic, but I really appreciate all her efforts to keep me on the scholastic straight and narrow. Research about educational philosophy and theoretical frameworks are much less interesting than…well…just about anything. There are so many good books that I don’t have time for that I need to read. I need to write. I need to watch football. I need to watch basketball. I need to eat. Apparently, sleeping has become optional lately. So, I am thankful for Amy who keeps me on track. She’s awesome. Oh, by the way, all my reflections are done for one class. Only two more papers to go this semester!

Guys Read

Yes, I know this is supposed to be a site about writing, but you can't have writing without reading. Plus, I just needed to share this site I came across a few years ago but have only recently been able to explore one night when I couldn't sleep. Who says nothing good comes from insomnia?

Guys Read

Now, about my own writing...there hasn't been much as of late, but I'll get back to some in the near future. I'd pinkie-swear, but I'll save that for my five-year-old.

Guys are Done for the Year

So the Guys Who Write Club didn't quite sell like I thought it would...I think mostly due to busing issues. However, at the end of it all, seven at least put in one appearance. Okay. So seven at least signed up. Three made it through to the end. Tah-dah! I've set up a blog for them to post, and I've given them posting rights. I'll probably give them complete administrative rights soon as well. If anyone is keen on student writing, check out guyswhowrite.blogspot.com to see what they've done...so far.

"Night"

Okay. So I'm not getting any help. Oh, well. Thanks anyway. I've got a few ideas that I'd like to try, but first I need to obviously start writing more. I'm thinking about taking a short intro that I ave and trying to work it as a serial. My friend Bartley has been doing that on his blog, and I'm inspired. Good on you, my friend. But in the meantime, here's another piece I dug up from ages past. I wrote this (or its first stages) in my 12th grade creative writing class. It was an imitation of style exercise, but I forget what the original piece was. If it sounds familiar to any of you, please let me know.

"Night"

I pause to rest, leaning against a graying hedge, crudely forged from loose stone and clay. From this familiar crest, I have frequently gazed across the silent valley below, and into the night. But never in my previous journeying across this knoll has nature’s simplicity struck such a chord with my soul as it does now; in wonderment, in awe, I fall entranced by its somber spirituality. I feel the wind on my neck; my soul shivers, stirring my passions. The perception of a lifeless, gray world begins to unfold itself before my eyes, a realm where darkness and light exchange perspectives in their elements, harmonizing, becoming one.

And in the midst of this simple sanctuary I see a grove; the sturdy oak, durable as time and more rugged than man, gathers in the cold and embraces the gentle silence. A dull moon glistens through the treetops and administers additional solemnity upon the melancholic land. In the distance, mountains without shape silhouette the sky, romanticized by the mystic moonlight. From this corner of the darkness, the light magnificently reigns over the earth. Reflecting its radiance from the serenity of the still, black water before me, the moon purifies this realm of darkness, cleansing it from evil, mystifying the grayness.

Nature beckons, yearning to share its light, its darkness. The winds, breathing tranquility across my face, kissing my eyelashes, usher a gray patchwork across the heavens, sheltering the fragile light of the moon. Unveiling her lady briefly and then tucking her away again, the night integrates reality and innocence wholly and flawlessly as to encompass all shades of emotion: light and dark, good and evil, love and hate; all blend within the shadows of my mind.

And this is how I see the night. I have experienced every aspect of its enchanted playground and felt its deepest secrets. I always see it from the darkest shadow, a world of mystery, frozen until the morning comes, like a dense fog at midnight, a cold blanket covering the earth. And suddenly, the howl of a wolf – a sustaining note – musical and harmonized with the orchestral chords of the night owl, of singing crickets, and the rhythm of the rustling foliage breaks through the silence – this first note of the darkness lingers in my mind. It casts an everlasting calmness that shines mysteriously through the despair of my soul, lustrous and enchanting, like the moon dissipating night’s disconsolate shadows.


One year I used this in my creative writing class (that I teach) as an example of over-the-top description. A week later one of the other English teachers in the building brought in an "amazingly brilliant" piece of 'student work.' The teacher noticed that this student was in my class ad wondered if she had written anything else like it. Moral of the story: don;t plagiarize your teacher's work, even if he doesn't consider it all that or even half a bag of chips. How's that for awesome?

P.S. I'm still looking for reviews--good examples for students. See the post dated March 8 for details.

Request for Help

I'm asking you, my friends and half-cocked followers of this site, to please review some of the works I've posted elsewhere on this blog and use the following guide to respond to my work. I want to show students examples of how to respond appropriately to their peers' writing. They need to go beyond "LMAO" or "Cool."


Dear (First Name of Poster):

I (past tense verb showing emotion) your (post/poem/essay/letter/image...), "(Exact Title)," because... (add 2 or 3 sentences)

One sentence you wrote that stands out for me is: "(Quote from message.)" I think this is (adjective) because... (add 1 or 2 sentences)

Another sentence that I (past tense verb) was: "(Quote from message)." This stood out for me because...

Your (post/poem/essay/letter/image...) reminds me of something that happened to me. One time... (Add 3 or 4 sentences telling your own story.)

Thanks for your writing. I look forward to seeing what you write next, because... (add 2 or 3 sentences explaining what will bring you back to see more about this person's thoughts).

(Sign your name)

Please make a comment on this post, telling me which piece you have reviewed. Then make the comments (following the guide) on the actual post for that piece.
Thanks,
Joe


This guide (along with others) can be found under the Guide for General Discussion Response on the Youth Voices site, an awesome resource/reference/student publishing site, which Chris Sloan introduced me to at the last CUWP Saturday workshop held on February 20, 2010.

I Stole This But I Like It Anyway

On Janette Rallison's web page she provides her Top 10 Reasons to be a Writer:

1. Librarians think you're cool.
2. You have an excuse to be cluttered: you have no time for cleaning; you're creating ART.
3. You get a collection of stories you'll always enjoy reading because you wrote them.
4. If you publish, you don't have to think about what you'll get your friends and family for Christmas—they're all getting your book!
5. You can name your characters all the things your husband wouldn't let you name your children.
6. You can work in your pajamas.
7. You get to network with other writers.
8. Money and fame. Ha! Ha! But I just had to throw that one in.
9. You can pattern your villains after the guys who dumped you in high school, and
10. You don't have bad days; you just have more writing material to draw from!

Same Old Joe

Yeah, I know. I haven't posted in a while. I'm still not posting anything new, but I thought I should at least do something. You can scold me all you want, but I already feel guilty about not writing more. While I was reading my friend Carol Lynch Williams's blog that she does with Ann Dee Ellis, Throwing Up Words, I couldn't help but feel like the scum of the earth, or at least the thing that's STILL sticking to my left shoe, for not creating writing goals for 2010. I swear they're swimming around in my head somewhere. They usually surface while I'm in the shower (not a pretty picture), but they seem to disappear before I get to my desk at school.

I promise to have my goals for writing this year (in writing) and posted for the world to see sometime in the next week or so. Maybe I should take Carol and Ann Dee's hint and not procrastinate.

In the meantime, here's an old piece that I scraped from the inside of my drawer:

“Revelatory Reflection”

bloodshot eyes at four-thirty a.m. stare at
a heavy-set reflection staring back at the
five o’ clock shadow that looks more like seven-thirty
and growing later

I blink

and catch a glimpse of my father staring back,
clean-shaven in his dress blues, ready for the general’s briefing,
and he walks out
the door;
Old Spice and teenage resentment
linger from his morning kiss

Why do you have to go?

You’ll understand when you’re older . . .

seven
months of wondering if you were coming home,
seventeen
years of wondering if you really cared . . .

late night chastisements—
after you had fallen
in and out of sleep
in the la-z-boy while I paraded around without regard
to you,
to curfew,
to anything not me—

they still burn
but now with different ardor

Why do I have to go?

predawn sighs surface from the kids’ room
down the hall;

seven
years of ends that barely met,
seventy
months of payments and pacifiers,
seventy
thousand soiled diapers later . . .

bleary-eyed,
I wipe the steam from the mirror
as I rub the stubble of yesterday,
mold my countenance—
my future—
in my hands

Dad,
I understand now,
I whisper through the lather on my chin
and scrape and shave the foaming bitterness down
the drain

This was written around 2003 or so--you know, one of those aha moments. My dad is now one of my best friends, even though at one point in my life I made that difficult.

Published!

Check out this link to a specific piece in the National Gallery of Writing:

http://galleryofwriting.org/writing/305481

It's also being published in the 2009 Utah English Journal.