GHOSTS OF DISRESPECT

Educator Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot speaks so eloquently about RESPECT that I had to post some of her ideas here -- even though she doesn't write directly about poetry, I feel like so much of what she says has to do with real learning that lives inside relationships.

Lawrence-Lightfoot speaks about the educator as a "public adult" -- intense, wise, and generous, who enacts values through "authentic inclusivity" -- not just the rhetoric. The educator must bridge the gap between expressed values and daily actions, addressing the "ghosts of disrespect," both oblique and obvious, who haunt our school hallways and lives. She notes the "micro-aggressions" of the everyday that get in the way of enacting a compassionate culture with respect as the cornerstone. She insists that healing be a central part of education and that genuine interest in the lives of our students -- wanting to know and be known -- makes us vulnerable and open enough to hear difficult ideas and live the questions of our time. Endless curiosity is at the core of all meaningful relationships. To exist, we must be visible, and made visible by those around us. Finally, respect is about 1/symmetry, 2/relationship, 3/civility, and 4/storytelling. Respect is relational and generative.

A WORLD FULL OF BLIND PEOPLE

Poetry is like a bird flying in the clouds
Poetry is Sofia sitting on a buffalo
Poetry is like a duck in a flower
Poetry is like an eye full of fire
like a wind making music
Painting without paint
When a person hits another person and they die
A world full of blind people
sitting in the park at night
Is like Sofia sitting in jail
Is like a dog chasing a mouse

Mary S. Columbus Elementary School 4th grader, "Poetry is..." workshop

EATING POETRY

I soar through the sky looking
for dark poetry. I feast on dark poetry books.
The defenseless books beg for mercy.
I might spare 1 or 2 but no more.
I can see nothing but books and blood.
If I were ever confronted
by a holy poetry book, I would die
and hopefully I would remake a memory
forever, but till then, I will forever feast
upon dark poetry.

I hold the paper on a tilt
so the black, bitter ink slides
into my mouth, my lips are black
like the woods at night, but as silent
as a shadow. My veins turn black
as I devour the ink
on the ghost white page.

Alejandro and Luke, 4th grade (2001-2002)

Written in a poetry residency at Columbus Elementary School, Chicago, IL after reading Billy Collin's "Eating Poetry"

MAPPING OUR LIVES

You wanna go to my footprint? Well, if you must. First, once you arrive, you’ll see a man in prison. That would be my father. Don’t ask why he’s there. It’s personal. He’ll ask you to help him. To tell me to forgive me. Don’t do either. He deserved what he got and I’ll die before I forgive him. Next, if you go in the right direction, you’ll see a large German chocolate cake. Don’t touch it. It’s mine. Greedy much? Good. It’s from my 5^th birthday. One of my better ones when I look back on life. If you keep on easing down the road, you’ll find a tooth. It’s the first one I ever lost. My mommy pulled it out so it hurt like…well, you know. Don’t touch that either. I’m still waiting for the tooth fairy to get back to me on that. After that, if you keep going, you’ll see my name spelled incorrectly. I know it’s hard to spell, but if you’re a 5 year old girl, it might be. I’m gonna tell you now. You’re not allowed to touch anything. So keep going and se a younger me with chickenpox. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep walking. Years later in my memory – you’ll find a red cross. I’m in the hospital. Come talk to me if you want. All I did was say I’m gonna kill myself. Keep going and you’ll see why I’m crying. Can’t you see? 7^th grade was hell.

J, 8th grade

this student is one of the most extraordinary writers i've ever come across in my years of teaching writing -- the strongest voice, the most feeling i've encountered in a long, long time. to respect her privacy, i won't say much about her life. but i couldn't help wanting to post this writing done in a residency on mapping, where students were asked to map their lives inside the shape of their own shoe print, and then write about it. i'm so lucky to know this young woman and her writing.

POETRY -- by fourth grader Egor D., Chicago, IL

POETRY

Paint comes out of my eyes.
There's always sadness in my brain.
I've been eating poetry.

All the people see me.
They run away
and then they stop.

The poems have been disappeared.
The people cry.
More and more people are coming and
crying.

They drip and fall.
The blood goes down the stairs.
The poor people don't know what to do.

Now the people begin to crawl.
The people flew up and never came down.

*this poem was written by Egor Duma, 4th grader at Columbus Elementary School in Ukrainian Village, about 2 years ago. We read a poem on poetry by Billy Collins, and then I asked them to write about the "power" of poetry to make us do, feel, and think certain things. This is what he wrote, straight away, no cross-outs or erasings. Incredible imagery, incredible language. I love this poem.

REMEMBER EVERYTHING YOU CAN

so i'm clearing out the "empty" room of all my mess of papers and poems, trying to get organized for another year of teaching and thinking about children's writing. and i'm startled by these little gems of light i'm finding! i think these were written at columbus elementary school in chicago, il, in the ukrainian village, an amazing little school tucked into the corner of leavitt and augusta. we had read a poem by joy harjo and i asked them to take on an authoritative voice, to call on others to remember what might be forgotten in the everyday. we also talked about belonging and used this prompt as a warm up -- "...blank...belongs to...and...belongs to ...blank..." pushing for them to think about relationships, connections, audacious or otherwise. the light belongs to the window, and the window belongs to the light. that sort of thing. i love re-finding these poems in my apartment. they make me smile. enjoy.

REMEMBER EVERYTHING YOU CAN

Remember when you discovered that there is a world inside your body.
Remember when you discovered that you live on the brightest planet.
Remember when you discovered that your dog always dreams about bones.
Remember when you discovered that books are smarter than you.
Remember when you discovered that everything that grows has feelings
just like you.
Remember.

Pavlo D.

REMEMBER

Remember the moon is you and you are the moon
Remember you are the star and the star is you
Remember you are the sea and the sea is you
Remember love is in your heart and the heart is you
Remember you are me and I am you
Remember love is in our heart and our heart is in you

anonymous 3rd grader

RIDICULOUS YOU

check out this poem by 3rd grade student omari from visitation catholic school -- it's pretty intense. he wrote it during a workshop on "chants." totally unprompted, it just poured out of him (we were all writing about nature, he was writing this). omari...he's a beautiful, strange, round stuttering child, and i have a feeling he'll be writing poems his whole life. it's an amazing privilege to run into our future's poets. big love to all of you. xoxo, a

RIDICULOUS YOU.

You are full of mistakes.
You are full of mistakes.

No, I definitely am not.
You are full of mistakes.

Did you spill your mother's coffee?
You are full of mistakes.

You ain't perfect, I tell by your looks.
You spit vomit on your history books.
You are full of mistakes.

Why do you think your hair's in a bunch?
You are full of mistakes.

Gee, you're a tough cookie, see, you crunch.
You are full of mistakes.

I don't gotta do whatever you say.
You are full of mistakes.

Well, don't say it tomorrow! Say it today!
You are full of mistakes.

I hate you, I wish you are dead.
You are full of mistakes.

I'm going to tie you up with needle and thread.
You are full of mistakes.

And how exactly are you gonna do that?
You are full of mistakes.

I'll ask my mom, we'll see about that.
You are full of mistakes.

Oh, yeah, right, ya think you can try
to even make me slightly die?

Quit talkin' trash. You've got a rash.
You've caused ants by the Stikko's you smashed. -- (stikko's are chocolate swirl cookies).
You are full of mistakes.

Well, I ain't perfect and neither are you.
As a matter of fact, I hate you too.

You are full of mistakes.

WORDS

Words, by Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish.

That's all it took -- a single reading in a fourth grade classroom, to inspire this poem by Tanaili, 10 years old, Columbus Elementary School, Chicago, IL:

THE BATTLE WITH MY WORDS

When I had feelings, my words crushed me.
Then came the war!

When my words were mad, I tried to forget
them.

When my words were scorpions, I ran away
from them.

When my thoughts felt sad, my words became
Hell.

When my words threatened me, I threw them
out my window.

My words hurt me on the inside. Words screaming
in my head. Will the war ever end?

GRANDFATHERS, ANGELS, 3RD GRADERS

Yesterday, I led a poetry workshop with 3rd graders at Columbus Elementary School. We were imaginng ourselves as animals, objects, and ideas in nature. Nicole read a poem about being a butterfly that flies so high into the air that she ends up in outerspace. She can't breathe and starts to fall down, down, down. The stars reach out and grab her, saving her from a terrible death.

Meanwhile, Hector is quietly falling apart over the loss of his grandfather. Hector is crying at his desk, mourning, holding his head down by his chest. He asks if he can write a poem about his grandfather and draws a coffin with his grandfather's body inside. He can't stop crying. Hector is a short, stout boy with a crew cut. He's wearing a white shirt and jeans. His eyes are red and swollen. I try to console him but he can't stop crying. We try to talk about it and suddenly Nastacia, a chubby girl wearing a hot pink sweater with gold flecks, cries out, "HECTOR! Your grandfater is an ANGEL looking down on your from heaven! Don't worry, Hector, don't cry, he's right HERE!" she says, pointing emphatically to his shoulder. She insists that Hector's grandfather in an angel and he's in the room with us right now. Hector stops sniffling. His neighbor Vincent agrees with Nastacia. He says, "she's right, your granfather is an ANGEL!" Hector nods softly and picks up a pencil. He draws haunting, stretchy hearts that seem to float out of the coffin. He seems to calm down a bit, and wants to read his poem out loud.

This is the clearest expression of what my friend and artist Rachel McIntire calls "the value of emotional exchange" among children. They didn't need me. They had each other. Hector, Nastacia, and Vincent worked through their own ideas about poetry and spirituality and handled it with grace and calm. I watched them in awe. I wondered why adults so often forget these basic gestures of consoling -- perhaps it's that we lose our certainty that angels indeed live and move among us. I'm not so sure about angels myself but in this moment, I was relieved to know that Hector's grandfather WAS there to ease his pain, and also so grateful for Nastacia's absolute certainty that everything was going to be alright.

GREELEY DREAM POETS

Amazing poems by amazing young poets from Greeley Elementary School @ Irving Park and Sheridan. This work emerges from our after school writer's workshop on Tuesdays and Thursdays!

MY SOUL

My soul is wandering through space

Flying through stars, wondering

Everything in the world, trying

To figure out questions that are

Never answered. Finding friends

And love that surround it,

Trying to know more and more

About the outer world. Thinking

What to do next and who to meet

Next. Asking, asking questions

That no one ever questioned. Wearing

Necklaces made out of moon rocks

With a dress of shiny stars. Making

Everywhere it goes shiny and

So smooth flying through with

All its poisoned self esteem.

Wandering what to tell me next

To give me some advice, to give

Me some warm advice.

Beatriz F.

ALEXANDRA, MY BABY SISTER (A VILLANELLE)

For you, and only for you, I live, I breathe, I dream.

Only for you do I have a word to say.

You are the only way that joy may I redeem.

Even when I am happy, or so it may seem,

I am crying deep inside, and your smile fills me, I’ll stay,

for you and only for you, do I live, I breathe, I dream.

When I look into your tiny eyes as they gleam

All fear, worry, seem to have flown away.

You are the only way that joy may I redeem.

And when you’re crying, my mind echoes each scream,

While my heart is a hollow cave, you fill me in a way.

For you, and only for you, I live, I breathe, I dream.

In time, life reminds me it’s not like whipped cream,

but as dark and as dreary as dirt, where you’re my gold today.

You are the only way that joy may I redeem.

Your feet and hands, so tiny, smile honest, like a dream.

Eyes like a pond of lightness, a small content light amidst the gray,

For you and only for you, I live, I breathe, I dream.

You are the only way that joy may I redeem.

Emilia Anna B.

DARK ROOM

I am in a dark room – no noise

except my voice

my voice

Braces the silence

and the only thing here

Is this paper and pen

that has pink ink

I could not see

though it is too dark that maybe

in this room I could see

all my memories

But only if I close

my eyes

I could feel and smell

the people

It’s like

there was magic in every corner

of this

room.

Brenda R.

WHEN A DREAM DIES

What happens when a dream dies?

Do people stop walking by?

Do the trees say good night?

Do people start to fight?

Does the earth start to die?

May it be that nature catches the flu?

What happens when a dream dies?

Do my eyes stop to blink and

start to rain?

Instead of falling water

Do my tears become blood?

Or will the world

be full of flood?

Jessenia G.

CAVE

Creatures of Death

Flag of the Cave

Lakes of Treasure

The little boy

cries for freedom.

Why in a cave?

He shouts.

He wants mercy.

His parents died

in a war with evil.

He saw a light

But then the

monster came

to life.

As he ran away

He saw a sword

shining like

Heaven.

He grabbed it

and then suddenly

He felt brave.

As he charged

He aimed to the
Monster’s stomach.

As it was fleeing

He saw his parents

Behind the monster.

They tested him

in courage and

braveness.

Isaias G.

RISING SOUL

She woke up.

The sky was mixed

in 5 different colors.

She put on her robe

And walked outside,

Breathing in the sweet smell

of the sky that warms

Her inside.

And just like that

She was dressed

In the finest clothes.

And her soul rose to God.

Brianna Lelan B.

HOPE

Hope: the softest clouds moving

Back and forth in the air. Shoot up! Come

Down. Birds chirping tweet! Tweet! Singing

A little tune. Crunch! Oops, stepped on a

Cookie. A doe nesting its baby and that’s

Called hope! A butterfly nesting and sipping

The sweetest nectar. Cats on the prowl

Hunting for food: Hope.

Amee L.

LOVE LISTENS -- Sherman Week Four

So, Valentines Day. Just me, Jioni, and Antione again today. Halfway through the workshop, Jioni announced that his favorite word is "yesterday." He apparently calls Antione "tomorrow," so by default, they call me "today." For Valentine's Day, I decided that we would write love poems and eat pink cupcakes. First, they wrote their own poems and then we made a group poem imagining love as a person that walk in the room. What do we notice? What is up with Love?

INFINITE LOVE

Love walks in the room
wearing a a whole dress
made of flowers.
Love has a cool walk,
like it's sick: left foot
then right foot, then
left foot, then right.

Love dances like it
"walks it out."

Inside Love's pockets
you'll find 200 dollars
all sweet things
suckers and candy
you can even find
tomorrow or yesterday
in there.

Love listens for babies crying
tearing paper, splashing water
chairs sliding off the desk
and onto the floor, clocks ticking.

Love listens for crying people
Love listens to make wrong things
turn right. It spells wrong "r.i.g.h.t."

Love lives in heaven
in the sky
within us

in a black, green, and red house
with white walls, and purple chairs
and blue carpeting everywhere.

Love's house is full of furniture.
It is made of red brick hearts.

We know Love's biggest secret
But we can't tell you.

Jione and Antione

WHEN I WAS BORN -- Sherman Week Two

SHIVERING GREEN GRASS I AM -- Sherman Week One

On my first day at Sherman, I was introduced to Antione, the only child to sign up for after school poetry workshops. On his little red notebook he wrote, Antione and looked at me, waiting for direction. With one student I had to think twice about how to spend the next hour and a half. I'm used to huge groups of children where there's barely enough time to read a single poem let alone hear everyone's voice. But here I was with Antione in the upstairs classroom on the 3rd floor, sitting at a little cluster of tables. I usually hate doing the "I am" kind of thing, but I decided to try it with Antione, hoping I'd get a chance to see where he took this and also use it as a chance to talk about imaginative thinking, metaphor joy, and the use of alliteration and sensory details. So that's what I asked of him -- to finish the idea of I am any way he wanted -- the only catch was to speak absolutely from the heart. I also coached him to created a chain of ideas linked by becoming the one thing mentioned in the line that came before it. He nodded earnestly. And here's what he wrote:

I am a heart beating
like a drum, I am the
rain falling from the sky,
I am the sky filled
with clouds, I am the
clouds floating over
my head, I am a head
filled with thoughts, I am
thoughts that come out
and be a part of my life,
I am a blue book falling
onto a purple carpet,
I am the purple carpet
lying on the brown and white
ground. I am the ground
being stepped on by adults
and kids, I am a child walking
through a field of green grass,
I am the green grass
shivering in the
wind. I am a roaring
rocket blasting off
into the atmosphere.
I am a piece of paper
flowing through the
wind.

Antione

AN AFTERNOON OF IMPOSSIBLE -- Sherman Week Three

On Wednesday afternoons, I drive to 51st and Morgan to hang out with two amazing 4th grade boys, Jioni and Antoine. We write together for an hour and a half on a little red carpet by the windows. By four the sunlight streaks our faces in strips of gold. Yesterday afternoon, I asked them to make a list of impossible things. I got this idea from writing mentor David Schein. What's an impossible thing? Jioni says, "something that's UN-believable." We made this list and then we each chose our favorite two and wrote them on little pieces of paper. Next, each of us chose a mystery impossibility and had to speak on that idea for two minutes each. We had to pretend that this thing was actually a possibility and that we had experienced it. We talked about what it felt like, what we smelled, saw, heard, and experienced. Then we each had to write a poem just about that single idea. Here are their poems:

I climb a ladder
all the way
to heaven
and I heard
babies crying and
God was cooking
cookies and I smelled
soap, God was cleaning,
and God was
having a party and
a mom was melting
chocolate on her
baby.

-- Jioni

I smelled lots of flowers
When I was a bird
I heard other birds singing
When I was a bird
I felt the love
from my parents
When I was a bird
The bird flies
in the school and
sees this crazy party
When I was a bird.

-- Antoinne

THE ALGEBRA OF AWARENESS: COMING OF AGE IN THE AGE OF AIDS

What does it mean to "come of age"? What are the rituals, fears, and questions we have to mark the changes we experience in life? And what does it mean to come of age during one of the worst global health crises -- AIDS? At Crown Academy, I'm working with Mathematics teacher extraordinairre, Luke Albrecht, to develop a ten week unit that explores these ideas with 7th and 8th graders. We're using THEMBI'S AIDS DIARY (www.radiodiaries.org) to explore the stories behind the statistics. We're exploring the metaphors and functions of algebra to help us more deeply understand the significance of AIDS and HIV. Our first day was all about conversations related to "growing up." Students held silent conversations by writing to each other on large sheets of paper in groups. They asked each other questions and started to dig for the big ideas behind "coming of age."

THE POETICS OF TIME

It's true, Time is everything. Forget God. My teaching artist friend Leah and I have discovered that all things lead back to time, and everything we think about is hinged on our understandings of time, or our lack of understanding. So we developed an entire unit of study based on how people across disciplines describe and experience time. From Einstein to Dylan Thomas, Ben Franklin to Roethke, students explored the poetics of time and found ways to express how time is experienced in their own lives.

BROOK'S HORSES

RECIPROCAL OF YOU

Here's another poem by a 6th grade Ripley student named Summer. Neither she nor Jacob knew that the other was writing about "blank space." I guess when you think of numbers, infinity, meaning, and god are just around the corner. I asked the class to make a list of words they'd studied in their math class earlier that morning and develop a poem using at least three of those words. Summer wrote:

RECIPROCAL OF YOU

If you simplify a blank space

then sum it up

break it down and

subtract it
from you, What would

you get?

Would you get
the reciprocal of who you

are?

Summer, 6th grade
Ripley, NY

MIXED NUMBERS LOST IN BLANK WORLDS

I scribbled these words on Jacob's paper:

jacob,
you're a future
poet of the
world -- never
stop writing!!!!

love,
amanda

Minutes later, Jacob stood next to me, his rosy moon face looking up at me behind his round glasses, and said in a low voice (leaning in): you WROTE that i'd be a poet someday. Yeah, I know, I replied. I really think it's in you Jacob. You see the world through poetry. What do you think about that? He just nodded his head and walked proudly to his desk.

Jacob's an interesting kid -- His mind swirls with thoughts of infinity and minutia. I tell Matt, my guide this week, how much I'm loving Jacob and he goes, I knew you would. This kid -- his dad, well, he's what you call a "redneck," -- doesn't know quite what to do with a son like Jacob.

With no prompting whatsoever (just a conversation on math and numbers) here's what Jacob wrote: (mind you, after worrying that he wasn' sure he'd ever even SEEN a poem before!)



mixed numbers they're
mysterious -- just sitting alone ---
no one there ---
in a white world --- just staring into a white
space --- you hear your voice echoing and multiplying
voices in your head --- and dividing and dividing and dividing
and divided forever ---
nothing ever changes --- just a plane world

but never seen again as you walk
into the white, plane world

-- jacob, 6th grade


ripley community school
ripley, ny

RIPLEY WRITES

hello loves,

i'm writing to you from jamestown, the birthplace of lucille ball. here's where i am for a week, teaching poetry through the RIPLEY WRITES project of the chataqua arts council (thanks to david schein). at the moment, i'm all tucked into my electric blanket.

every morning, i get up before seven when it's still dark and wind my way through "amish country" to a town an hour away in Ripley, NY. i pass horse and buggie signs. i pass signs with symbols for cows and grapes. david says we're in wine country and i follow the chataqua wine trail for most of my drive. the most startling view is chataqua lake shimmering and icy, surrounded by torquoise and white old houses.

ripley is a hushed, rusty town with empty store fronts displaying "for rent" signs. several victorian style farm houses stand stiff and abandoned along the winding roads. on the main street, there's a seedy bar on the corner with grainy siding and around the corner from the school, a famous place called "meeders" where a woman bakes 15 different kinds of pie everyday. i had strawberry rhubarb and fresh apple. yum. i hear lots of people fill up this restaurant for fish fries on the weekends, men in plaid and ladies in sweatsuits boasting penn and fredonia state emblems. my guide, matt, tells me that all of the farms have died, leaving people in search of work in erie factories.

america's farming past seems ghostlike in a way. collapsed barns as shy objects standing still on the horizon. i have no idea what it means to grow up in a farming culture and then see it fall apart because of a shift in consumer trends and mass corporate farming schemes. i try to imagine my students' lives in a world where wrestling, hunting, curing one's own beef jerky, and yes, shopping frequently at wal-mart, are all part of the scene.

so, here i am with ripley fifth graders. j, a tall, lanky kid with dirt beneath his long finger nails, tells me he wants to be a poet, wants to get his feelings out, has to take ridilin but feels like when he writes poetry, a silence comes over him and he can write. he tells me he wants to trade his sister in for me. today he rushed over and handed me a whole notebook of poetry he'd written the night before. they were all about heros who saved people from drowning in lakes.

a tells me she wants me to be her mom because her real mom hates her. but she has a "teenager" friend named christine in the next town over who has a baby and christine is a good friend to her. i had to secretly pass along angelica's suicidal poem to her teacher, because i'm worried, and i'm only a guest, and i can tell she's been neglected. she's desperate for secrets. she's desperate for love.

veronica writes these wild playful language poems that make me laugh. later she tells me she has a major crush on steven, a boy with a crew cut and a little mole on his cheek. she boasts that she has a rich dad who knows hugh hefner. really? i ask her teacher later, who shakes her head. no -- veronica has a dad in her life, but he's not rich. she has lots of stories.

alice tells me she can relate to acute angles because they're small like her, and hardly noticeable.

in the afternoon, we turned off all the lights and learned to bend beams of light.

then we wrote about it -- about bending beams of light.

i'm having a marvelous time here, listening to what's going on inside. watching what's happening outside. trying to notice, to feel.

tomorrow i'm going to ask 6th graders about the personalities of numbers. is 7 a man or a woman? bob and i have had intriguing debates about this, i can't wait to hear what they think. i think i've had debates about this with several of you. tell me, is 3 a girl or a boy, bossy or scared? i love thinking about this.

it's amazing to remember all the layers of living we do, to remember that everywhere at any given moment, in any given town, there are whole universes spinning in the minds of every person, every child, whole worlds of thought and structure and wonder.

i love you all, spinning.

see you (some of you) saturday when i fly back to chicago and leave my slicked out silver rental car behind.