Middle School Poetry Post Archive

Past Poetry Posts

Winter 09 Poetry Posts

A Cup of Light

I set the table with forks of happiness and knives of hurt.
With plates and glasses.
I filled the glasses with rays of sunlight.
I spooned rice of life onto the plate.
I spread a sauce of worry over the rice.
I poured worry soup into the soup bowl.
Cake of sadness was my dessert.
I sat in my chair and ate and I ate.
My sadness disappeared.
My worries disappeared.
My hurt disappeared.
My happiness disappeared.
And all that was left was a cup full of light.
 –Hannah Eshelman, Lane County, Oregon, Grade 6, Age 11

PARTNER POEM

I am, O Anxious One.

I am, O Anxious One. Don’t you hear my voice surging forth with all my earthly feelings? They yearn so high that they have sprouted wings and whitely fly in circles around your face. My soul, dressed in silence, rises up and stands alone before you: can’t you see? Don’t you know that my prayer is growing ripe upon your vision, as upon a tree?  If you are the dreamer, I am what you dream. But when you want to wake, I am your wish, and I grow strong with all magnificence and turn myself into a star’s vast silence above the strange and distant city, Time.    

--Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell  

Ask the Poems A Cup of Light and I am, O Anxious One.

1. Whom are you speaking to?
2. How do your feelings change?
3. What are you showing me about the beauty of disappearances?
4. How can a dream become a feast? 5. What are you showing me about silence, how it can be seen and felt?

YOUR TURN, what poem or story will you write? 

I see a trash can
Sitting on the ground
I watch a top
Spin round and round
I write it down

I see dew
Roll off the grass
I watch lightning whip and flash
I write it down

I listen to the sounds of the city
I think of feelings
Joys and pity
I write it all down

For this is my pastime
It’s what I do lots
Because that’s
How I write
By harvesting thoughts

Anonymous, Age 11
Oregon

PARTNER POEM for Harvesting Thoughts

Between Walls

the back wings
of the

hospital where
nothing

will grow lie
cinders

in which sine
the broken

pieces of a green
bottle

William Carlos Williams

ASK THE POEMS, Harvesting Thoughts & Between Walls
 
1.  Why are you paying attention to such ordinary things?
2.  How can ordinary things become extraordinary if you look closely?
3.  What kinds of things would you pay attention to at my house? At your own?
4.  How do your choices of detail show feelings?
5.  How is a place where nothing grows changed into a place full of possibility?

YOUR TURN, what poem or story will you write?

Spring 09 Poetry Posts

The Lost Voice

In the forest a little girl looked for her voice.
She looked for it slowly, holding every moment
sacred, singing muted in the breeze, calling for
her voice as she wandered on.

A small bluegrass held her voice, for he could
not sing or talk, but only a whisper of a voice
on the wind. As the girl searched, the sun set,
washing a shadow of doubt through the trees.
“I do not wish to use it, only to see it safe,
for who wants a voice which is muted by the
wind?”

In a lake the little girl looked for her voice, hiding
in a castle of mirrors, her voice a piece of
sand inside a dewdrop on a blade of bluegrass.
    –Helen Wolfram, Age 13, Lane County   

PARTNER POEM

The Little Mute Boy

The little mute boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it).
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice. 

I do not want it for speaking with:
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger.

In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
(The captive voice, far away,
put on a cricket’s clothes).  
   –by Federico Lorca, translated by W.S. Merwin

ASK THE POEMS
1. In what ways can a voice be found in silence?
2. What are you showing me about the voice’s disguises?
3. Can anyone own a voice?
4. What are you showing me about the need to search for a voice?
5. What gives a voice freedom? 

UNTITLED

Do you know the tongue of moon?
The secrets of the stars?
Can you wear the song of waves?

Can you even fathom the moon's words?
The star's ideas?
The wave's song?

Did you know the moon speaks
Every time a moonbeam hits your face?
Its words are whispered and wise.

Did you think the stars spoke
On water and glass?
Their reflections tell of the world
And all its secrets.

Could you have dreamed that the waves spoke
As they rush to crash on the beach?
Their songs are sung on empty shells.

And do you
Know what was once in those shells?
Can you fathom it?
What was once in those shells
Was the soul of everyone
Who ever had a secret.

But once the secret was known to the world,
There was no need for a hard shell.
And the souls were remitted with their
Minds and bodies.

-Thara Blanca, Age 14, Lane County, Oregon

PARTNER POEM

EVENING

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;

and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternately stone in you and star.

-Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

ASK THE POEM  (Imagine what the poem might say/write if you asked…)

1.  Where do you draw the line between sea, sky, and earth?
2.  What happens when you let go of the line?
3.  When you walk into the darkness, where do you go?
4.  Do you hear any songs you can sing again?
5.  What have you got in your pockets?

UNTITLED



In the middle of the night, a snowstorm came with claws

outstretched. It caught the clouds and tore them out of the

sky. The clouds broke into a million pieces, like shattered

glass, and flew into the air.



When the storm passed, the bits of clouds fell softly out

of the sky, and onto the ground, creating a blanket of snow.



The fierce storm was gone, but it had left a reminder

of its power. A bitter cold.



Anyone who stepped outside would get stung by invisible

bees. Buzzing softly, they strayed to the road, creating

a thick layer of ice.



When the sun comes out, it melts away the clouds. It creates

new clouds. But there is still the cold. The bitter cold.



- Natalie Wong, Age 11, Lane County, Oregon



                       

PARTNER POEM



ALL WE HAVE TO GO BY



As if I had dreamed the snow

into falling,

I wake to a world

blanked out

in its particulars,

nearly erased.



This is the silence

of absolute whiteness–the mute

birds nowhere

in sight, the car

and animal tracks

filled in,



all boundaries,

as in love,

ambiguous.

Sometimes all we have

to go by

is the weather:



a message

the snow writes

in invisible ink,

what the sky means

by its litmus

colors.



Now my breath

on the chilly window

forms a cloud

which may turn to rain later,

somewhere else.



-Linda Pastan





ASK THE POEMS

1. How does the weather make the world unfamiliar?

2. How can unfamiliarity be beautiful?

3. How can unfamiliarity be scary?

4. In what ways can weather change form?

5. What are you showing me about things that can’t be seen?

Someday I'll Need To Find My Voice



Bold and outgoing at the first four periods

Talkative and jumpy at lunch

Still cheerful at fifth period,

When sixth period hits, I'm not myself,

Some part of me is missing...

My voice.

My voice is held captive by the whole class,

The students or the teachers didn't take it,

I gave it to them.

I am taller than many of them,

However, I am small,

I'm small in personality, small in experience,

Small in knowledge.

I'm like a snail,

Even though I try to move and retrieve my voice,

I seem to get nowhere.

All I see when I look up are the students’ fuchsia sneakers

Or their white Nike socks.

When the bell rings and I leave the land

Where everybody there has my voice,

My voice finds its way back to me.

I know someday I will need to find my voice

In my 6th grade math class.



-Jenny Koh, age 11

Lane County, Oregon

PARTNER POEM for Someday I'll Need To Find My Voice

The Little Mute Boy

The little mute boy was looking for his voice.

(The kind of the crickets had it).

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.



I do not want it for speaking with:

I will make a ring of it

so that he may wear my silence

on his little finger.



In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away,

put on a cricket's clothes).

-Federico Lorca, translated by W.S. Merwin, Spain



ASK the POEM for Someday I'll Need To Find My Voice & The Little Mute Boy



1. Poem, what kind of journey do you take me on?

2. How do you surprise me?

3. What feelings are you sharing with me?

4. What adventures does your voice go on without you?

5. What noise can you make to call your voice back? 

The First Sky Is Inside You

(from a poem by Li-Young Lee)



The first sky is inside you,

A shadow on a butterfly's cheek,

A story made of grapes,

A kiss flecked with chocolate,

Laughing the song of a thousand moons,

Dancing the love of a thousand suns,

Outside is the inside,

Inside is out,

Color and light blend

To create miraculous illusions

Where people have skin of blue quartz,

Topaz eyes,

And the ocean is fire.

The first sky is inside you,

Bigger than life,

Smaller than the cost of forgiveness.

The first sky is love,

Kept in a walnut

Or enclosing the universe,

Equal only to the smile

A mother gives

As she watches her child at play.

The first sky

And the last sky blend

Into one.

--Kayla Cassidy, age 12

Lane County, Oregon



Partner Poem



One Heart



Look at the birds. Even flying

is born



out of nothing. The first sky

is inside you, open



at either end of day.

The work of wings



was always freedom, fastening

one heart to every falling thing.

--Li-Young Lee

Chicago, Illinois



Ask the Poems



1. Poem, what do you invite me to wonder about?

2. How are your words like music?

3. How do you give me the feeling of something magical?

4. What else is inside you?

5. What can you let out?

Dear Young Owl



Dear young owl, heed my word,

If you're to live, this must be heard.

Fly high, fly low, like black shadow,

The mice will never know.

Mouse, vole, mole in hole,

Shrew and lizard bold,

Beware the owl, we don't howl,

Your head in our beak's hold.

If in barn your family lives,

Beware black rafter swiftly gives.

And if in tree your family dwells,

Watch for raccoon--danger swells.

Swoop down from the moonlit sky,

The mice will never know how they die.

Crush the head, break the neck,

To me that mouse is just a speck.

Someday soon you'll leave the nest,

And put your skills to the test.

So spread your wings and find a home,

'Cause soon, young owl, you're on your own.



--Rachael Edwards, age 11





PARTNER POEM

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field



Coming down

out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel,

or a buddha with wings,

it was beautiful

and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint

of the tips of its wings--

five feet apart--and the grabbing

thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys

of the snow--

and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes,

to lurk there,

like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows--

so I thought:

maybe death

isn't darkness, after all,

but so much light

wrapping itself around us--



as soft as feathers--

that we are instantly weary

of looking and looking and shut our eyes,

not without amazement

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river

that is without the least dapple or shadow--

that is nothing but light--scalding, aortal light--

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

--Mary Oliver

ASK the POEMS

1. Poem, how do you create a sense of mystery?

2. What do you want me to feel?

3. How do you use details to make the owl come alive?

4. Owls, are you masks Death wears? Poem, what is it about you that causes me to think that?

5. What is it like to strike and fly away?

Spring 07 Poetry Posts



Romance Boulevard



Green is the rippling river,

Green and gray. Green winds.

The bark is silent and somber.

Yellow birds fly to my forever.

This is my street of centuries,

I stand to greet that barrage,

green animals, blue flowers

make my beautiful pallet.

Green is the rippling rover,

Like a banjo, the moon sings,

A song of paradise and eternity

I sway gently to the pulse.



Green is the rippling river.

Big eyes search wild skies

upon a day of soul release

questioning the universe no more.

The hues of frost like ghosts

change the dark to light,

all stands still, spirits fly low,

rise above yourself.

When do we come? Why do we stay?

I cease to tell time,

green animals, blue flowers,

my soloist march in armor.



--Chelsea Ingram, Age 14

Lane County, Oregon

from Romance Sonambulo



Green, how much I want you green.

Green wind. Green branches.

The ship upon the sea

and the horse in the mountain.

With the shadow on her waist

she dreams on her balcony,

green flesh, hair of green,

and eyes of cold silver.

Green, how much I want you green.

Beneath the gypsy moon,

all things look at her

but she cannot see them.



Green, how much I want you green.

Great stars of white frost

come with the fish of darkness

that opens the road of dawn.

The fig tree rubs the wind

with the sandpaper of its branches,

and the mountain, a filching cat,

bristles its bitter aloes.

But who will come? And from where?

She lingers on her balcony,

green flesh, hair of green,

dreaming of the bitter sea.



--Federico Garcia Lorca

Spain

Translated by Stephen Spender



Questions for "Romance Boulevard" and "Romance Sonambulo"

1. Poem, why do you use the color green?

2. What is it you are longing for?

3. You ask us questions--what do you want us to think about?

4. You take us on a journey into your magical world. How do you do this?