Shuffling through the National Day on Writing

The National Day on Writing has come and gone, and here at the end, I feel like a failure. Well, at least when it comes to trying something new, which is what I usually do this time of year. I though about doing something with this year's theme: writing you community, but it just didn't work for me today. Instead, I just introduced zombie poetry to this year's group. It was a different experience, though, as all my classes are ninth graders, and they've been around the annual SFJH Zombie Haiku Contest for three years. Usually I have an easy sell with 7th graders, but this time 'round it was more like reselling an idea to them that they had discarded two years ago. Most of them bought back in though.

Just a warning, I wasn't really feeling the undead flow today. However, I did eke out a few between all the empty brainwaves.

Here they are for your (dis)pleasure:

counting syllables

has left the zombie poet

without any brains

zombies volunteer

as tribute to get a spot

in the hunger games

cancer, like zombies,

eats your insides without

mercy or remorse

(for the girl who wanted to write kitty haiku instead of zombie haiku:)

munching on kittens

causes zombie snacker to
hack up excess hair

Hopefully I'll come up with something a tad more profound the next time I attempt to write.

Top Ten (Maybe) Influential Reads

                Recently I was challenged to list the ten books that have influenced me in some way, or at least have stuck with me over the years. If you know me at all, that task is a daunting one. Often my students ask me which, of all the thousands (perhaps tens of thousands) of books I have read, is my favorite. I usually reply that I don’t have one; naming one single book as my favorite would be like choosing one of my children and setting him or her on a pedestal above the rest. I can’t do it. However, I have decided to attempt this list of ten books.

                I thought that I would start by shooting from the hip—just listing books that came to me off the cuff. That list came to about three dozen books, and that was before I went back to Goodreads.com to see if I had missed anything. (Of course, I had. I ended up with 56.) And so I had to set a few parameters, to narrow my list.

1.       I excluded all religious books. Yes, I am a practicing member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon), and religious scripture and text had made a big impact in my life, but I figured that at least half of my list would be dominated by religious tomes like The Book of Mormon. And so I decided to eliminate them from my list of ten. Perhaps, I’ll create another separate list of strictly religious texts for another time.

2.       The next eliminating element involved series. I decided to cut all series out of my list and depend solely on works that stood independently. This includes items like The Hobbit  by J.R.R. Tolkien, even though it is technically not part of a series; it is still connected to the world of Middle Earth and the story of The One Ring. If I could only choose one book from a series, I’d end up cutting my wrists instead of items from my list. Maybe I’ll do an influential series list later, too.

3.       The third part of purging dealt with professional reading. Although they have shaped my occupation, works by Kelly Gallagher, Penny Kittle, Deborah Dean, and others were cut to the scrapheap, because, like some of the other rounds of reduction, they might be a little too particular. As I look at shelves in my classroom as I type this, I can hardly decide which have been the top influences in my teaching career, let alone my life. Again, it sounds like this might be another list, although this one might have to be broken down by subjects as well: teaching writing, reading, classroom management, leadership.

4.       I also eliminated poetry.

So where does this leave me? Well, it left me with 17 titles that I felt had influenced my life

and stuck with me.

But before I reveal the top ten, here are the honorable mentions (in alphabetical order by title): Beowulf, Bronx Masquerade by Nikki Grimes, Harris and Me by Gary Paulsen, Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer, Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli, Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie by David Lubar and (believe it or not) Walden by Henry David Thoreau. Quite an eclectic mix, I think. It sort of represents the motley patchwork that makes up my life, though. I wish there were room to share all the stories behind all of these. Some of these, though, I have already written about; others I have not. Perhaps I will later.

                So here is the list in alphabetical order by title. I offer no explanations at this time. Deal with it.

1.       Choosing Up Sides by John H. Ritter

2.       The Chosen by Chaim Potok

3.       Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

4.       Guys Write for Guys Read ed. Jon Scieszka

5.       Lord of the Flies by William Golding

6.       The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

7.       Swiss Family Robinson by Johann Wyss

8.       To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

9.       Trouble by Gary D. Schmidt

10.   Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak

As I look over this list, I regret that I can’t include many (MANY) more, but I suppose that’s just something I’ll have to live with. The good news is that there are many more books to read before I sleep.

If you want to see my Goodreads stuff, and we're not already friends (on the site), please send a request. More than likely I'll honor your request. Heh heh.

How I Broke My Butt

Now that the title has caught your attention, I will proceed to ramble. If my blog died in back June as I indicated, its soul was eradicated in July and August. It took me getting back to writing with my students to resurrect its meager existence. And I could go on about my intentions, but we all know where those lead. I did scratch out several pages of notes, including the tale that follows, but that is neither here nor there. Whatever lapse has occurred, I am back now.

On the third of July, my wife fielded a phone call from Zac’s teacher from fifth grade: Mrs. H. She lived not too far away from us, and we were fairly well acquainted with their family. She invited us to bring the kids over to play on the zip line they had rigged up in their back yard. My kids, loving Mrs. H and not really knowing what a zip line was were all about going. I, knowing their tolerance for heights, was a bit reluctant. However, my wife had some meeting to attend, and I was delegated as official chaperon on this field trip.

I had been to the house before, but never in the back yard. The lawn was neatly trimmed, the flower beds immaculately pruned, the garden growing tidily in the corner. On the north side a small tree house platform sat at about ten or twelve feet from the ground, a wooden railing around it. From it ran a steel cable zip line all the way to the south fence. Connected to the cable on a wheel was a T-shaped metal seat for someone to sit on as they zipped down. At first glance, I thought “No way. There is no way I could ride that thing. The kids can have fun, but it won’t hold my weight. No way.”

As if she read my mind, Mrs. H said, “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

I raised a doubtful eye brow.

“Lots of guys your size and bigger have ridden it,” she continued.

“We’ll see,” I said, but I still had my doubts.

Zac took to it with ease, and pretty soon he was zipping down and scrambling back up the tree for another go. His sisters got a little jealous, but they were still too afraid to try. Even Sam, who usually tries everything at least once, had lost his nerve.

Mrs. H and I tried to convince them to try but were met with resolute refusals.

Somewhere in the conversation, one of the girls said they would do it if I did it.

Gulp.

So when the seat was close to the ground, I tested out the strength of the rig by pulling down on it. Hard. It held.

So I walked it back up the line a few feet and pulled again adding more of my body weight. It still held.

So I walked it farther. Tested. Again, it held.

Feeling somewhat confident in the durability of the equipment, I finally decided to sit on the bar with my feet still on the ground. Surprisingly, it remained steady.

Then I pushed off, fully sitting on the seat, to a height of about four feet. The bolt snapped. And I fell like an anvil in a road runner cartoon straight on my backside, which was planted on the metal bar.

As soon as I hit, I rolled onto my stomach, trying to assess the damage. My first thoughts were “Holy crap! I broke my butt.” I knew that was ridiculous—a memory of Josh W. “breaking his butt” sliding into home plate at baseball practice back when I was a sophomore replayed in my mind. He was trying to take the extra base on a play to the outfield when the relay throw hit him square between the cheeks. I chuckled to myself (because it was better than crying in front of the kids), but even that hurt.

Eventually, I was able to stand and start moving again. Mrs. H profusely apologized (and still does every time I see her). The next day was the Fourth, and we held too our family traditions: Freedom Festival parade in Provo, followed by lunch at the Brick Oven, then to a BBQ at my parents’. This year we had tickets to go to the Stadium of Fire concert with Carrie Underwood and other guests. Now, for those who don’t know me too well, I don’t really like country music, but all the sitting I had to do, especially on the hard, metal bleachers, made it unbearable. Needless to say, my tailbone ached for the whole month of July.

It’s only been a week or so ago that I was actually able to take my stairs two at a time without excruciating pain. Yesterday, I finally went back to the back yard where I busted my posterior to face my demons. (Not really. Mrs. H wanted Zac to help her with the ALS ice bucket challenge. Do you know how excited he was to dump a bucket of ice water on his teacher?) Mr. H made a point to show me how he had placed an even larger bolt on the zip line to replace to the one I snapped in two (clean break). And now we all laugh about it. Even though I didn't seriously jack up my spine, or even my tailbone, I still have miles to go when it comes to listening to my instincts, and not giving in to pretty girls, especially if the princesses are adorable seven or nine years old missing a few teeth.

June is a Place My Blog Goes to Die

I've had that title in my mind for close to a week now, and now that I actually have had a chance to look at my blog, I'm surprised that so many people have tuned it despite my lack of a posting presence. Joe Average Writer hasn't died this summer (yet). Then again, it might just be the same stalker who looked up the blog 400 times in the past two weeks. I don't know. Either way, it's kind of scary. Traditionally, once school ends, my blogging goes on vacation even if I don't. Last year I had to get ready for my comprehensive finals. The two previous years I was up in Logan trying to cram 9 credits into six weeks (each year). Sometimes July is worse, but I'm not going to let that happen this time. There will be no flat-lining on this blog this summer!

http://blog.contrarymagazine.com/2012/06/writers-block-theres-an-app-for-that/

Really, though, I have been burning the candle at three ends. Even though I haven't been in class, I feel busier. The month of June brought many challenges in the form of grading. The online course that Amy and I teach saw enrollment numbers skyrocket crazier than second grade girls on jumbo Pixie Stix. And with that spike came unprecedented numbers of plagiarists and whiners and all the joy that they bring to an English teacher. (Grumble.) Needless to say, after spending almost full-time hours at my part-time job for the past two months, I haven't been in the mood to really write much beyond the seven or eight stock comments that all high school writing assignments require. I haven't even been up for many snarky comments on Facebook. I haven't even read much…for pleasure, that is.

However, after finishing up my revisions for IRB (for my dissertation), I have resolved to write more and actually do something about the dozen or so blog posts caught in the spin cycle that is my brain. Now that I can breathe easier--portfolio submissions topped out at 335 or so; now we're down to 45--I can write that piece for Voices form the Middle, that article for Utah English Journal, and then maybe I can plan my curriculum for next year. Ive got some ideas for a presentation ion the value of read-alouds in the secondary classroom, too. Unfortunately, I missed the deadline for the conference that would have been perfect. Oh, well. I can save it for later. I also want to play more with the value of personal narratives. I might even throw in  recipe or two that I've been concocting.

That means, I'll get back to exposing my past by unearthing embarrassing stories. If you have any requests, like always, I'd be glad to take them.

(Sometimes) Easy (Not Always) Cheesy Poetry for Simple Students

The other day I had my students write phone number poems. Phone number poems are relatively simple to explain, but they are harder for students to execute. Any topic is valid. The only parameters are 1) the poem be written in free verse, 2) the number of syllables per line equals the numeral in the phone number. In other words, there are seven lines (ten if you include the area code). If a digit happens to be a zero, you must break your stanza. For this assignment, if students had more than one zero, they had to change one of them to a different digit, one that they decided on ahead of time.

I modeled a few examples for the students with phone numbers and topics they provided.

This first one is the school's phone number as suggested by my 7th period:

798-4075

every day students are served

pepperoni abomination:

plastic cheese slopped over burnt crust,

grease-soaked veggies

indigestion’s supreme, so

someone, pass the Tums

 This second one is a random number generated by 2nd period. The topic should be obvious:

420-1255

eight tentacles

wriggling—

wait!

they might

catch you unaware;

washed up, they still sting!

Now, you try it. Use your phone number, or your friend's, or your ex-girlfriend's, or any random number. The challenge comes from setting the syllabication before you start.

Baseball and Poetry

From now until the end of the school year, my seventh graders will be playing with poetry. What with testing and all, poetry is a simple way to get them to keep them minds open while not overloading them. With seventh graders, it can be somewhat of a challenge because many of them don't believe they can write anything at all let alone poetry. I have about 50 different types of form poetry that I pull out from time to time depending on the abilities of my students. And although I usually despise fill-in-the-blank poems, sometimes they are the little spark that will ignite the fire. If I am being perfectly honest, I think my real interest in poetry was kindled in 10th grade by Mr. Albert, who had us start with acrostic poems. Then we moved on to other simple forms like haiku, and others. By the next year, I was attempting sonnets (holy crap!) and such.

Anyway, one of the poems my students wrote this past week was what I call a Five-Sense poem as the word gathering incorporates all five senses. It is a simple poem, and for the most part, they are quite dry. This year, one class asked me to model for them how I come up with lines without just stating the obvious about a subject. For example: fire trucks are red; they sound like a siren; they feel like metal. Blech! Typically this is what I get, but this year has been a little better as I modeled. Go figure.

Not to say that this is amazing poetry, but here is my example that I created in front of my students. We were working on alliteration, simile, and concrete details:

"Baseball"

Baseball is red dirt stains on ragged road grays.
It tastes like stale seventh-inning bubble gum infused with sunflower shards.
It thumps when horsehide connects with well-worn leather
And smells like overpriced hot dogs humming under the heat lamp and humidity.
It feels like freight trains colliding at home plate.
Baseball pulses through my veins.

And the best part was this morning when a girl came up to me and said, "I don't even like baseball, but that was a good poem." This from a self-proclaimed hater of poetry, too!

(If anyone wants the template, let me know, and I'll send it to you.)

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.

Just a Heads-up for Thursday

"Keep a Poem in Your Pocket" by Beatrice Schenk de Regniers

Keep a poem in your pocket
and a picture in your head
and you'll never feel lonely
at night when you're in bed.

The little poem will sing to you
the little picture bring to you
a dozen dreams to dance to you
at night when you're in bed.

So--keep a picture in your pocket
and a poem in your head
and you'll never be lonely
at night when you're in bad.

This coming Thursday, April the 24th, is Poem in Your Pocket Day! Last year we had a great response. This year let's celebrate even more. Put a poem in your pocket--either a favorite, one that reflects your mood, or just a verse that inspires, tickles, bleeds, kicks you in the butt--whatever. Pull it out several times a day and share it with another fellow soul, who, like you, is wandering this planet, searching for a verse of his/her own. For more of the details regarding Poem in Your Pocket Day, check out the Academy of American Poets at poets.org for more information.

I haven;t made selection yet. Have you?

"Drunken with Opportunity"

Subtitle: Another analogy that may or may not work, depending on how my warped thoughts are like yours.
            Yesterday I had the opportunity to accompany a delegation of 8th and 9th graders from my school to a naturalization ceremony. The ceremony included a typical patriotic opening program with an elementary school group singing the national anthem and performing well-rehearsed commentary about famous American heroes. My school’s students led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance and read two original essays about what it means to be an American. Then the city mayor spoke for a few minutes. It was predictably lovely.

            After the 457 participants had renounced their previous citizenship and had sworn allegiance to the United States of America, the officiating judge had the new citizens stand by continent to show the representation (80 countries) to the rest of the audience in the hall. He then let each who desired, to share a short comment with the audience. Most simply stated their name, where they came from originally, and a part of their story or some of their feelings. Speakers included war refugees, foreign exchange students who never went home, parents of children born in the country who already had citizenship, even a former federal judge who had been exiled from his own country for some of his rulings just to describe a few. I found myself fascinated by their stories.

            There was one woman from sub-Saharan Africa, who, while struggling with her English haphazardly invented or coined a phrase that stuck in my head. And like a three-year-old attached to his father's leg when he's late for work, it pulled at my brain all the way home and all through the night; and it still pulls at me when I stop to think about it.

            She said, “I feel drunken with opportunity,” and then went on to narrate her educational experiences since arriving in this country. Now, her inexpert word play may have seemed like funny phrasing to those listening, but I feel she struck a treasure trove of truth with that simple statement.

            Her exuberant speech and excitement revealed the obvious buzz she was riding as she spoke of her new-found freedoms and opportunities that did not exist for women in her native country. Her educational opportunities alone made her a little tipsy. No one with a soul could begrudge this woman her giddiness.

            And then I began to think about the opportunities that I have enjoyed for my entire life. I thought about growing up in a military family. Do I take the time to drink in deeply from the different opportunities that I have to choose from? Those thoughts are still jumbled.

            (So, here’s where the philosophical analogy begins. Heh heh.) Are there some that are so inebriated by the blessings in their lives that they don’t even recognize which way is up? In other words, how many of us are soused by success and excess that we stumble through life as big, brash drunks, believing that the world revolves around us?

            Not being one to personally imbibe, I don’t know how far to take this metaphor, but I think it can work. Well, at least for my limited experience it does. As a citizen of the United States, and of the world, I have a responsibility to monitor my consumption of life’ joy and the intoxication that follows and make sure that I drink responsibly from the opportunities that are around me, careful not to get to pissed or punchy. I need to surround myself with family and friends who can help me know when I’ve thrown back enough, regardless of how well I think I can hold life’s liquor. Humility and a good night’s sleep does wonders.

            Now I know I’ve carried this way too far away from what this beautiful woman meant, but her speech made me realize again how richly I have been blessed in this life. I have a family, friends, and a God who love me and tolerate me, even at my worst. I have an education that grows and expands equivalent to the efforts I make. I have talents and interests and hobbies and the ability to choose how I pursue them. Indeed, I am “drunken with opportunities.” My plea, I guess, is for all of us—fellow citizens—to (1) help buy a round of opportunity for those who may not have any, and (2) to not make drunken fools of ourselves, with a reciprocal agreement to hand over the keys when it’s become too much. Too many mistakes (of all varieties) are made when people are drunk. (Hiccup.)

P.S. Then we went to the capitol, where I witnessed some partaking of opportunity in excess.

And Here's More Evidence

Yesterday I wrote, or rather, rambled for a while regarding learning how to write one skill at a time, and how I am really a conglomeration of all the lessons I've learned before. Not two minutes after I had posted and reposted 27 times because the formatting was off (I'm still not happy about it), I picked up my newly-acquired Horoscopes for the Dead by Billy Collins and read "Memorizing 'The Sun Rising' by John Donne."

“Memorizing ‘The Sun Rising’ by John Donne” by Billy Collins

Every reader loves the way he tells off

the sun, shouting buy old fool

into the English skies even though they

were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning.

And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day

pacing the carpet and repeating the words,

feeling the syllables lock into rows

until I can stand and declare,

the book held close by my side,

that hours days, and months are but the rags of time.

But after a few steps into stanza number two,

wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress’s eyes,

I can feel the first one begin to fade

like sky-written letters on a windy day.

And by the time I have taken in the third,

the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now,

a wavering line of acrid smoke.

So it’s not until I leave the house

and walk three times around this hidden lake

that the poem begins to show

any interest in walking by my side.

Then, after my circling,

better than the courteous dominion

of her being all states and him all princes,

better than love’s power to shrink

the wide world to the size of a bedchamber,

and better even than the compression

of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas

is how, after hours stepping up down the poem,

testing the plank of every line,

it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within.

Instant validation.

I think now about how horrible I am about memorizing bits and pieces, especially extended texts, and how usually once I have something down, another chunk of knowledge gives my mind the slip.

Most of the time, memorizing facts or formulas or French verb conjugations is like a Boy Scout learning his knots. He repeat over and over again, "drilling and killing," but despite his best efforts, the information still does not hold fast. The synapses fire long enough to pass off the requirement or the quiz, but then the skill disappears, forever into the dark void between his ears, or so it appears. Hope is not lost, my friends; not for you, not for the scout. At least, not yet. If you internalize the knowledge, be it stanza or sheepshank, grammar rule or game design, and actually use it, that tidbit of knowledge becomes a part of you, ready to creep to the surface in a contemplative stroll across the field, or it may pop out when you desperately have to secure your tent during a downpour. Eventually, it has the potential to become wisdom through experience.

It's not automatic, of course; you must work at retrieval of stored knowledge. It takes practice listening to that inner self. And you must practice! introspect.

You never know how or when the miscellanea lodged in your gray matter will be of use (or distraction). How often do song lyrics come to the forefront of your thoughts when you are alone, or psyching yourself up for the interview, or whatever? What do you do with them? Dance? Ponder life, the universe, and everything? Ignore that buzzing sound in your skull and grunt like a Neanderthal? Recognize it as a part of who you are?

So, I guess what I'm saying is that we, as human beings, need to cram as much learning into our brains as we can. And then we need to wedge in some more, even if it seems like we might lose other dear memories and ideas. They're still there; you just have to mine for them sometimes.

Again, let me assuage your fears, those who fear attracting zombies with those overstuffed brains. Don't worry. You have nothing to fear. In the moment, something that you supposedly learned back in Boy Scouts will help you survive.

Belated Ramble in Two Parts and Mixed Metaphors

Part I

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or any other kind of –ist for that matter, to see that I have neglected my blogging as of late. However, I need to articulate that I was writing, just not blogging. I started a few pieces. Then I put them down (literally and figuratively). I journaled. I dissertated. But I could not come up with anything I deemed blog-worthy.

Before I go on, though, I must confess that I am a little disappointed that I only had one entry for the poetry contest. Dave, you win! (Again!) Now back to our not-so-regularly-scheduled blog post.

As I worked on my seventh draft of my dissertation proposal, I had an epiphany. In the words of Smee from Hook, “Lightning ha[d] just struck my brain.” I encountered an amazing quote in my research book of all places. In her latest edition of Qualitative Research: A Guide to Design and Research, Sharan B. Merriam quotes Harry Wolcott: “Writing is not only a great way to discover what we are thinking, it is also a way to uncover lacunae in our thinking. Unfortunately, that means we must be prepared to catch ourselves red-handed when we seem not to be thinking at all. The fact should not escape us that when the writing is not going well, our still-nebulous thoughts are not yet ready to be expressed in words” (Writing Up Qualitative Research). That from a research book? Wow.

I didn’t need to feel too guilty (apart from breaking my promise to write 31 narratives, which I am still working on). 

Part II

And so I thought about my blog. And my writing. Then I looked down at the book again and noticed all my notes scrawled in the margins. Ping! (That’s the sound of the light bulb.) My ninth graders are annotating To Kill a Mockingbird right now (and digging deeper than they ever have before). As I revised, I was using the annotations I had made, just like I had been taught in Mr. Albert’s class. So I thought—hand on chin, pensive furrow in my brow—about the different skills that I had picked up over the years.

Mrs. Thompson taught me how to respond to questions with complete sentences in fourth grade. Mrs. Curry taught me how to effectively summarize (without embellishments) in fifth grade. Mr. Iwanski, even though he was a super creeper, pounded grammar and usage into me in sixth grade. That same year Mrs. Saiki taught me how to research, paraphrase, cite, and read as a writer. I started writing story to escape the realities of seventh grade. I wrote for audience in eighth grade, as it were in the Algebra Express. Mr. Albert, in tenth grade, instilled in me the importance of revision and the need to appeal to an audience. He also made sure that I knew how to back up my arguments and opinions with evidence and to never try to argue for something I didn’t believe in—at least when my grade was on the line. That same year I became a wannabe poet on the side. (Scattered evidence can be found on this site.) Mrs. Misselhorn helped me as a junior  to take something abstract and transform it into a concrete image, as well as to focus thesis statements. The advisors of the Lancer Lot gave me the confidence I needed to start publishing. And in twelfth grade I finally realized that I was a writer—not a very good one—but a writer nonetheless.

Various instructors throughout my college career helped me to shape my craft both academically and aesthetically. I sat through lecture and workshop and acquired piece by piece my writing tool belt. And just like Batman’s utility belt, there’s more there than you would ever think possible.  Nevertheless it’s still packed in there.

(I know I’m rambling now, but I needed to just spill a few thoughts and the way they came to me.)

Writing came to me slowly, as a process, one small fragment at a time.  And as I reflect on my skills, I realize that everything I learned back when I wondered if I was ever going to use it in my life…well…I still use them. These skills and shortcuts and secrets and styles—they are all a part of me. My own voice and style are a reflection of all the reading and writing I have ever done. Even the words I scribbled on the tiny Fisher Price desk with a chalkboard with yellow chalk that always squeaked and sent goose bumps racing over my body (They are visible now as I relive that memory.) helped lay a foundation, helped me to become the writing superhero I pretend to be. It’s up to me—jumping back to the Batman metaphor—to help them pack their utility belts, so they can use the tools whenever they need them. Okay, now that I think about it, I'm probably more like Inspector gadget than Batman, but the idea is the same.

Because I know hardly anyone will ever read this far, I’ll wrap up simply asserting that the writer I am today is because of the patchwork I stitched together from so many others. To the many, thank you. And as I try to instill similar skills in the nebulous minds of my students, I hope that some of them will also realize that I am just adding a piece to their puzzle. For some, it will just be a small patch of sky that blends in with the rest of their life’s panorama, but for others, I may be the red roofed villa in the hills that serves a s a focal point that gets the puzzle started within the boundaries of its frame. And yet for others, I may even be a straight-edged side, or even a corner foundation, from which the puzzle of their lives begin to take shape.

That’s enough of the metaphors, but I hope you know what I mean. Just take life, and writing, one piece at a time. And when the pieces don’t always fit, it may be time for a new puzzle. Either that or you just need to re-cut them to make them fit.

Can anybody tell me what this is supposed to be?

Post-Valentine Poetry Contest

Recently, I entered a local poetry contest: Valentine Zombie Haiku. Some of you might also have entered Dr. Crowe's event. I haven't heard about the results, so I assume that I didn't win. However, I still want to share my entry.

one dozen long-stemmed
brains only cost zombie guy
an arm and a leg

Today I share this to start SFJH's second annual Valentine Poetry contest. This year the three categories include "serious" love poetry, vomitous valentines (so overly-sappy that it makes me want to puke), and (last year's most popular category) anti-valentine poetry.

So I issue my own challenge/contest to all who want to participate.

Submit your post-valentine poem  via the comment section on this blog or email (joeaveragewriter@gmail.com) and we'll have some sort of a prize. For those who might be concerned about dual submissions with the school contest, my students judge the school contest, and I'll judge this one. You can use the same poem if you wish. And before you ask, it does not have to include zombies either!

Let's set the deadline for Friday, February 28th (2014). Good luck. Go ahead. Try to make me barf!

I gotta go. My inbox is currently being inundated with bad valentine poetry. Better grab a bucket before I dive in.

Teach Me How to Write a Poem

(This is to make up for December 27, 2013. See? I haven't forgotten.)

            At the beginning of the school year, I decided to host a poetry group during our school’s release time where students can come in and get extra help or participate in an enrichment activity. And to be honest, the results haven’t been too positive. The most students I get on a Thursday morning is two. Some days only one or the other will appear. Sometimes, I sit by myself and ponder what it would be like to stare out a window (since I have none) and petition the muses to club me over the head or drop me into the pit of inspiration. See also Billy Collins’s poem “Monday.”

            For the longest time, only one young man, a former student of mine, came in and we would discuss how to read poetry—where to breathe and emphasize words. He would ask for my suggestions on pieces he had written for his creative writing class. It was comfortable.

            Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead a small, bespectacled, or rather be-Coke-bottled, seventh grade girl squeaked in just as the bell rang. Feeling like a giant, I asked, “What can I do for you today? Are you looking for the study hall?”

            She crinkled her nose, pushed up her glasses, and stared me in the face. “Mr. Anson?” Pause. “Could you teach me how to write a poem?”

            I had no idea who she was or how she knew who I was.

            She blinked again—big eyes magnified by the big, black rims.

            “Sure,” I stammered, unsure of where to begin. “What kind of poem do you want to write? A haiku? I thought this was a logical place to start as my 9^th grade honors class was hosting the annual zombie haiku contest in conjunction with Halloween.

            “No. I want to write a good poem. How do I begin?”

            And begin we did, starting with a discussion on imagery, appealing to the five senses, and the use of figurative language. We discussed the fact that poems filled with empty emotion are only good for emo bands. We talked about avoiding tired phrases and images and looking at ordinary objects and situations from different perspectives. We talked more about form poetry versus free verse—the freedoms, limitations, and challenges of each. She sat, nodding in parts of my deluge of poetic spouting.

When she didn’t respond conversationally, I assumed she had drowned in the informational downpour. I supposed I should scale it back, so I asked what she wanted to write a poem about.

            Blink. Head tilt. “Morning,” she finally replied.

            I suggested framing a specific setting for the images, and she chose winter. We brainstormed a list of visual images: things you normally see in the morning, things you hear, smell, taste, or feel. I presumed she would want to write about Christmas morning or a school morning or some other cliché morning.

            “What is the first thing you associate with the morning?” I asked.

            Without hesitation, she replied, “Exhaust.”

            And that’s when I knew that she had been listening, absorbing everything that I had lectured not minutes before. It was impossible to conceal my grin. I felt it spreading like an accident down a toilet training toddler’s leg.

I know that I am not the wordsmith I would like to be, and that my poetry will probably never influence the masses, but in that moment, it was reconfirmed to me how powerful poetry can be. One simple image, one connected heartstring, one sliver of light cutting through the darkness can change your perspective or the direction from which the shadows are cast.

I wish someone would have taught me how to write a poem.