Assignment 11: Save Two Poems for a Rainy Day

Suits

by David R. Slavitt

Each morning, as I confront my closet's array,
I have to admit again that the life I lead
is hardly good enough: I have not been named
ambassador to Malta; I am not on the board

of any college or large corporation; I shall not
receive a major prize today and pose
for photographers. Those suits, the shirts, the ties
are ready, but I am not, and the shoes are shined

as they wait for different occasions than I imagined
on the tailor's block, when I shopped for a dandified
future brighter than what I expect or deserve.
Even for weddings and funerals that require
a suit, I choose from the second best, reserving
that one for the dream into which I yet hope to awake.

"Suits" by David R. Slavitt, from William Henry Harrison and Other Poems. © Louisiana State University Press, 2006.

Nights Our House Comes to Life

by Matthew Brennan

Some nights in midwinter when the creek clogs
With ice and the spines of fir trees stiffen
Under a blank, frozen sky,
On these nights our house comes to life.
It happens when you're half asleep:
A sudden crack, a fractured dream, you bolting
Upright – but all you can hear is the clock
Your great-grandfather found in 1860
And smuggled here from Dublin for his future bride,
A being as unknown to him then as she is now
To you, a being as distant as the strangers
Who built this house, and died in this room
Some cold, still night, like tonight,
When all that was heard were the rhythmic clicks
Of a pendulum, and something, barely audible,
Moving on the dark landing of the attic stairs.

"Nights Our House Comes to Life" by Matthew Brennan, from The House with the Mansard Roof. © The Backwaters Press, 2009.

Assignment 10: Find a Poem that Scares You

Vanishing Point

by Freya Manfred

The moment arrives when you say,
"I don't dislike this man,
but how did I marry him?"
Something about his wintry voice,
the way he can't or won't show his face,
and how small and alone you feel
out here on earth's curve,
driving day and night,
never reaching a destination,
until you realize you're running parallel to him,
and you'll never meet.

"Vanishing Point" by Freya Manfred, from Swimming with a Hundred Year Old Snapping Turtle. © Red Dragonfly Press, 2008.

Assignment 9: Write the Beginnings of Three Stories

1) All of the men that entered that house inevitably left it slightly less manly.

2) The drifter appeared at the edge of town at exactly 2:15pm. After stopping in on Sam's General Store to re-up his supply of chewing tobacco, he further made his presence known by sending two bullets into the chest of Bart Baker, the bank manager. Under the fiery gaze of his split barrel shotgun, Mae Ann Clemens, the bank president's daughter, promptly handed him $6, 256 dollars in silver and gold coin. He did not wait for Pearl Landreau's diamonds, which Mae Ann offered under her duress.

3) Jesslynn was a girl who had never believed in fairies. Or Santa. Or genies. Or happy endings. At 13 she had already seen too much of the real world to pretend anything good or beautiful or lucky lay beyond the cesspool that was her life.

Assignment 8: Appreciate an Old Poet

Robert Frost (1874-1963) is considered the bard of New England. Casual readers sometimes overlook the depth of his poetry and its technical accomplishment.

Fire and Ice

By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.


(To perish by desire or hate - both an unbecoming fate. LOVE IT!)

Assignment 7: Write a Poem about an Ordinary Object

Straw

A hole in the bottom
A hole in the top

As I breathe in
All empties out

The cargo rides up
To the empty space

Filling that thirsty void.

Assignment 6: Write a Poem about Writing

Lightning

Ooh! Ouch!
This pen is on fire
Burns hot
Almost Red
As my words
Flow
Out of my brain
Down my neck
To my shoulder
Passing straight through
My heart to
My elbow
My wrist
My hands
My fingers spit
feelings
and truth
and discovery.
My pen streaks
Across the page
Sending sparks into the corners
Where they gather
Flames to light my way.

Assignment 5: Discover lines that match your mind

Reading:

Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea by Nikki Giovanni

Twice she dreamed of rainbows...Once she wished for wings

We're going to Mars...for the reason we fall in love
It's the only adventure

Talk to me, Poem...I'm all alone...Nobody understands what I'm saying...
I know poems get lost...because they're always being found...

Fennel is one of the wonders of the culinary world.

If one day the sun decided not to set but to fall, wouldn't it break? Wouldn't it splinter into billions and millions of pieces? And all that glitter would wash into the earth.

Assignment 4: Find 3 poetry activities I can implement after Thanksgiving

Reading:

Awakening the Heart by Georgia Heard
A teacher's guide to teaching poetry....



1) Work with Noble House and Farnsworth House to create a Living Poetry Anthology. Each kid chooses a poem (one of their own or someone else's) and we place them all around the school.

2) Find a Choral Poem for us to perform

3) Find a poem to read everyday for a week during House
Monday: Read and notice and feel
Tuesday: Illustrate the poem
Wednesday: Create movements to the poem
Thursday: Bring in a personal connection or response to the poem
Friday: Write a poem inspired by this poem

4) Ask kids to search for a self-portrait poem: a poem that reflects their inner feelings

5) Choose a poem and create poetry craft groups to study particular elements: repetition, beginnings and endings, line breaks and stanzas, words, rhyme and music, image

HEY I FOUND FIVE!

Assignment 3: Write a poem dedicated to teachers whose jobs are harder than yours

When growing a seed
The seed may be good
And the gardener ripe
with good intentions.

But if the air is bad
it doesn't matter.

If the water poured
is hot and acidic

If the sky is cloudy and grey

If the sun shines too hot
or not at all

If the ground is sog or crust

Then growing a seed,
(the seed being good)

While the world seeks to destroy
it just the same,

Then growing a seed,
(the seed being good)

Then growing a seed can be hard.

When growing a seed
The seed may be good
And the gardener ripe
with good intentions.

And he prays

for the air
for the water
for the sky
the sun
the soil

To love the seed as much as he does.

That it's first vulnerable crack
Is not met with aggression
But tenderness and hope

That it's tendrils can rise
Through the shell and
the dirt

To meet the sky halfway.

Assignment 2: Find that Inspiring Poem

The Trouble with Poetry: A Poem of Explanation
by Billy Collins

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night --
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky --

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti --
to be perfectly honest for a moment --

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.

Assignment 1: Write Anything!

What annoyed her the most was that she was still not the priority.

Right then, it seemed that perhaps the truth was she never would be. Again, she began to doubt whether her impending sacrifice would be worth it in the end. The bet was beginning to feel too risky given all she had to lose, all that was riding on the line. She began to regret her decision to believe so soon that things would be different this time. Perhaps he hadn't changed and then how could she? A cycle is a cycle because it always comes round again, she thought.

Unfortunately, it seemed they hadn't learned anything after all.