Anxious Blues; Upbeat Raps

Good poetry, however figured, tells the core truths of its community. The ones that had not been spoken in this way, that had not quite been put like that before. Among my seventh and eighth graders, the best blues poems are less weary than those of Langston Hughes. The texture of the sadness of our youth is more fearful and gloomy than mournful or happy-go-lucky. Their lyrics in a more contemporary form, by contrast, are optimistic and admonitory, rather than angry. Some of them rap about recycling; one, the pleasures of a school book fair.

Muzzammill R.
7th Grade, Room 109

Recycling

There are many ways we can use
Reduce and Reuse
Another way is recycling
No cars but bicycling
Stop polluting the air
We should have a day called earth care
Factories, busses, tracks, and motorcycles
Start using solar powered transportations--recycle
Start reusing, start recycling
And if you can’t do it, stop blabbing
A ton of paper can save 17 trees
You can be a hero if you wanna be
Plant some trees if you can
Trash bags go in the trash can
Make the earth green
By keeping it clean

Lois G.
7th Grade, Room 109

My Sad Talking Blues

Nothing to talk about
But I talk too much
Nothing to talk ‘bout
Yep, I said I talk too much
I get in trouble with my teachers
Can't walk but I talk lame, way too much.

Shouldn’t talk at all
Tape & zip my mouth
Shouldn’t talk at all
Tape and zip my mouth
With my split personalities
I should move down south.

Nothing to talk ‘bout
Shouldn’t talk at all
Nothing’ to talk ‘bout
I shouldn’t talk at all
But I talk too much, so tape and zip my mouth
And just like me fall!

Ahmad A.
7th Grade, Room 112

What You Fight For

My mama always said be careful what you fight for
Battles open windows but peace opens doors
Every day on the news
Teens go out for a cruise
Soon one gets shot & it gives you the bues
And always during night some kids get in a fight
They won’t stop won’t drop
Such a pitiful sight
When one of them get into critical height
It soon becomes serious and you can tell I’m right
Racism & evil only come from jealousy
And soon the anger becomes a felony
What I’m trying to say is just have it your w ay
But be careful what you fight for
& have a good day
Peace out war in y’all!

Ciahara S.
8th Grade, Room 124

No Good News Blues

Monday I got suspended
For no reason at all
I’m tired of this stupid school
And I can’t wait to next fall
Cause I got the blues
I got the blues

Silly girls trying to fight me
For some stupid stuff
These girls have no reason
They’re just trying to be tough
Cause I got the blues
O yeah I got them blues

The spring is coming
The winter is gone
Can’t wait till school’s over
So I can party all night long
I got the blues
Oh yeah I got the blues

I got the blues
And lately I ain’t there cause
There ain’t been no good news

Jia H.
7th Grade, Room 112

Violence

Our government sponsors all war and hate
Don’t think no lawyer can argue this debate
Born where Al Capone lived, I know I can relate
Our world will die out soon at this brutal rate
Those ghetto gangs waiting for the kill
They lost all faith, all goodness, all power of will
They got no real gun fighting skills
These bloody streets are making me ill
All this violence got no reason, no rhyme
One day we’ll all run out of time
The trees won’t grow and the sun won’t shine
And into this dark world we’ll be confined

Javeria N.
7th Grade, Room 109

Loneliness

My name is loneliness
I am a sorrow
That has many attitudes
I am at home
All alone, left in your dome

I am a very sad feeling
That is always left alone
Like a very lonely smelling cologne
That is never used
And left alone

Yet I follow almost everyone
One by one
At a time almost everyone needs me
I don’t stay for long
I just come & go

It’s like a heavy emotion
It makes your heart rip
It’s the worst thing ever
And its called being lonely.

Juritzy H.
7th Grade, Room 109

Fighting with My Friends

Having fights with my Friends
It’s a horrible thing
Having fights with my friends
It’s a horrible thing
It gets me upset--I say
The bad thing is it’s raining.

When we try to talk to each other
We ignore each other’s voices
When we try to talk to each other
We ignore each other’s voices
And feel like crying with sadness
Yet make the difficult choices.

Dorothy M.
7th Grade, Room 112

No More

This world is depressing
This world’s not safe anymore.
It’s true this world’s depressing
It’s just not safe anymore
And every single person here
Is like a rotten apple core.

Judgements don’t care about ya
And war don’t care about me
Judgements don’t care about ya
And war never cared about me.
The leaders are letting this slip by
And wave us off like fleas.

This world is dying
Near its end its true.
I said this world is dying!
It’s near its end--it’s true.
There’s no salvation ready there
And there’s nothing left to do.

So tell those close that you love them
And forgive the people you can
Tell those close you love them
Forgive the people that you can.
For this world is heading nowhere
TO THE PROMISED LAND!!?

Amelia S.
8th Grade, Room 124

Book Fair

Runnin’ low on stuff to read
Gotta get me some sustenance
My mind starts to bleed
& other dire consequence
Been savin’ my dough
Since the day I turned fo’
Gotta buy me some book to entertain my mind
If I wait too much longer, I’m finna unwind
I’m finally there--a feast to behold
Got books & books seem through visions of gold
All this info’s played out to my likeness
Entertainment so valuable, fit for your highness

DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA DADADADADADADADADADADA

Tristan Tzara, one of the founders of DADA, celebrated controlled nonsense.

The DADA poem allows you to see yourself in the newspaper; it reflects your own "unique qualities" (about which Tzara & John Cage & Jackson Mac Low & I remain happily uncertain) back to you in a haze of half-understanding.

Long Live D A D A !

These poems by my 7th & 8th graders prove the case w/out forcing it into foreclosure; like Tzara's poetry, they preserve the case by postponing it:

Michael F.
8^th Grade, Room 124

PROBLEM TIMESHARES

Mr. Bush didn’t discuss policy, but
the event reflected how housing and

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President Bush, under pressure
from congressional Democrats to do
more to help the troubled housing sec-

VOLUNTARY PROGRAM

MORTGAGES To

form, Republican may be open
to some kind of compromise,
given the severity of the fore-
closure problem and political
pressures.

The White House and Demo-
crats in both houses of Congress have
tor, touted results from his administra-

YCOA

ITALY from $499
7-8 Days All-Inclusive
First Class Tours

While the bill has little pros-
pect of passing in its current

Narda O.
7^th Grade, Room 112

Domestic Life

People treasure gangster money

It’s fascinating how The arms look fragile enough to snap

LOUISVEILLE CENTER CAN’T begin work

I can’t afford hot dogs sold from carts

watching operas on TV is very typical of us

The company offers new malls

class is empty

Sabir A.
7^th Grade, Room 112

CLIMB WALL IN NEPAL not winning

suits high and unhid

With things in flight;

To what end does this easy and cry

Shut and gone

of a small ere be miracles)

at a kiss

the same time.

bride increased—In Arizona

has hit a wall.

Fruitless, the fruit of mine own flesh

Obama

nuclear

head

blind, war

swallowed me that in mindless passion

there is no substance at all.

Rigoberto A.
7^th Grade, Room 109

3 DADA Poems:

1.

“This morning I woke up and walked
out, turned the key and there was a noise
People who might have
thought their lives had nothing to do with

Exactly how much depends on the size

2.

let him tell you, in its Underwear and the wife
was “sexy looking” at extremely high temperatures.
with vivid description of hot flashes

3.

Selling stolen converters to Whoopie Goldberg with John Stewart.
it’s “really expensive” the way things are set up
in a very big city

Fausto S.
7^th Grade, Room 109

a microfilmed roll of government
learned to taunt cops into hitting
criminal skills to the side of law
secrets from a fallen woman
of Soviet agents. Smirkingly
mark is Skip McCoy, a New York
and a shadowy new cold war had
him, as a way of invalidating
workers, prompting police to chase
Sheriff Joseph L. Mankiew
great swamp of moral ambiguity
merable bogus complaints.
In the fall, four states in the American
grants, a state that is the nation’s busiest
not a single reported citation. Not even
where in the middle—in that
gateway for illegal crossings, imagine
where those that placed him some
can’t find a single lawbreaker in a state
there have been thousands of
ruining businesses.

Mexico is Homeland of
Latinos. Books for only three months. But if they
that four years of active conflict
And don’t forget: since 1986, it’s been
Hall of Fame.

Maryam K.
7^th Grade, Room 109

Before/After

A faint echo of the
2002 sniper attacks
that terrorized the
Washington area.

stops with a jolt,

turns off his lights,
did you ever try to get around a girdle
women. Why should women be
required to know the names of flowers

Dethroned; dispraised, disseated; and my mind

with friends, she recom
mends against sharing prob
lems, saying it is best

toward--& naming the passage time or

Perhaps Non-Violent Action

Who can or could be can be sure
mixed into anesthetic, and drove it home.

Found Poems & the Future of the Language

We often think of poems as having authors, but that's not always true. Sometimes poems are found, rather than thought. One of the first American poets to find poems rather than write them, was the Chicago-born poet, Jackson Mac Low. As a Buddhist, anarchist, and pacifist, Mac Low believed that poems should contain as little of the author's own ego as possible. So he figured out how to let the poem write itself. Sometimes he wrote poems by opening a book at random and writing down the first word he saw. Each letter of that word would become the first letter of other words in the poem. Mac Low discovered that a poem written in this manner might be something entirely new. A fresh assembly of words, a gathering that marks a new place in the world of all that is written & said.

Here are some wonderful poems written in this way by 8th graders at Clinton. See if you can figure out what word the students first found. And remember that, even though each poem has a name attached to it, that's not the author's name. It's the name of the person who discovered the poem. These students are not writers in the normal sense of the word, they are explorers. They are exploring the future of the language.

Angela F.

Reply everyone patience like you

Love on vivid experience

Care a risk excuse

Joyful open year felt unable least

Worry obviously rather relax yet

Ciahara S.

Angry now good right yet.

Insisted night seen I see today extra disguise.

Patient and then I enjoy new time.

Rock on closer knock.

Quiet unicorn in every town.

Walls are long life sound.

Shakil A.

Some of muddy even

From railroad of mountain

Some out mighty every

Jose D.

Hunts Uruk-Lai now tracks soldier

Now oily water

Mordor on rattling dun orc Rams

Aragon ran and gave orcs Nazguls

Bilbo is lowlands bag old

Michael F.

Custom ubiquitious streamlined their ounce merchants

Around rockers on useful new displacement

Ford over Rams drivetrain

Do H.

Popular or psycho us like all really

Imad K.

Carefully attacking

robbers entertaining

us luckily left

yawning

Taha M.

Harry argument roared roared you

Potter of threaten tolerate especially robes

Hogwarts of good waiting a rapturously then should

Fahad A.

Many answers nag you

Dumb under many brains

Atomic trains out mined incredible characters

Fears erased American redscare

President resigns entering seaside independent diner exerting nuclear turds

No outbreaks

Brown rooms orange washers nightly

Trouble rises out under blue lighting egos

Wasif O.

Hannibal away neatly net ice Buddy all leader

Emergency mason extra reading gun expert now case yellow

Knife novella in flight enough

Amelia S.

Rolling out lightly land is now Gandolf

Hillside iron lift last strange if dear earnest he else

Striking then rise in killing in gospel

Tobacco others business as companies competition other

Numan K.

Dragon reptile at geometric orchestra normal

Electron life ear contest takeoff radiation on nucleus

Dan M.

Treebend roused exclaimed escapes

beggar eerie a road design

Holler one little like else rouge

Converse experience not vertical ever rapid sell equality

Elisabeth P.

Hold on like during

Dwarf will and remembered frightened

Martin admit returned tires it night

Lidia G.

Jewel echo war enough land

Abducting bishop don’t up conversations to it not gently

Dog out great

Speak photograph entrance as known

Liam inserted another map

Tiger increased growth enough remembered

Vinny L.

Alone: lake often no everything

House: how often us stare end

Chapter: cottage how all part together every rumbling

Chill: horseman in last long

Gray: riders at yes

Ricky B.

astonishment suddenly to out not in

secret how my ear next time I

marching earn a right not open

through how ray on up go now

happen or were enemy rule emperor

me perhaps end roll on rate at to

end not do on new elder well

earn later low open window in no

door over

Saad S.

Crude roaches establish devious establishments

Lycanthropy yields cannons and notifies the

nasty roaches on partly yapping

Transformed roaches are now snooping filthily on roads

minding educated drivers

Corrugated online roaches race unidentified gullying

and tracking educated drivers

Caleb P.

Morris:

Man own Rebecca remembered it said

Mineral:

Minerals in narrow evaporate rock a limestone

Bibiana B.

Listen

Lucas called a university

Seeing university clubs

looking like us

And something looks uncomfortable

Say Christ’s choice

Acting stranger and childish

Smoked like a supposed ciggy

Used little Cait

Shrug

Light uproariously left

Lucas slung undeniably

A car sitting until used

So likely unpredictability

Laughed saying Urrp

Leaned up unmasked

Unknown child

Confused loneliness

Crying

Changing a cottage

Listen

Ela K.

Blood like on ordered Diesel

Overgrown venturing east realized grass raking over wheezing Nature

Wrists remember it strained the storage

Steven T.

Terrible ego round rat in bed late excuse

Within ill tree hearken inside nature

So orange

Remember each month eat mango buy every resource

Bad apple death

Seyabend S.

Whatever her aunt told everybody viciously everybody runs

Open peoples everybody neighbor

Home of many everybody

Between a Dream and Reality

The poet is a realist and visionary at the same time. Her language should be precise, clear, direct, concrete. She tells the truth about the world. The stakes are too high to live in fantasy alone. Yet the poet's work is visionary. She sees beyond the normal, the humdrum. She lives in the imagination. The stakes are too high to risk succumbing to what merely is.

Poetry is therefore neither the dream nor the world of nine to five. It thrives in the space between sleeping and being awake. It is the cusp of the dream, the recollected dream. The terrible unknown written down. The exploration, during daylight, of the nightmare lands.

Here are thirteen poems about nightmares.

Marisol L.
7^th Grade, Room 109

Bipolar Screams

Bump, Bump, Bump. I’m coming!
No, no, no, it’s the __________.
Thump, thump, thump—I’m here!
Huh, huh, huh (breaths)—I’m awake!
Drip, drip, drip, gulp, gulp, gulp.
Rinse, rinse, rinse—back to bed.
(Springs, springs, springs) OK. I’m
comfortable. Snore, snore, snore Zzzs, Zzzs, Zzz.
Stop, ________ stop, stop, STOP!
No don’t hurt me, please! No, oh
no, no ________ is coming. Wake, wake
wake! I’m not waking! Wake
WAKE! Body, body, body, it’s me
the brain wakes up __________
coming! Coming, coming, coming—here
__________’s here. Open eyes. Open eyes!
Eyes open. NOOOOOOOO!
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Mom & dad thank you
for the sirens. __________ stopped
the voice stopped.

Sumayyah Z.
7^th Grade, Room 109

Deep Dark Language

Swish of lightning
thundering—the booming sound
the sound of lament from the trees
shaking heavenly with ancient frights—
contagious colds. With fire; comes
and goes, like a fire fearing dragon.

Echoing every untold man’s dreams
having shimmers, scary. Seeing buzzes
beyond Peace.
Chills like a frightened horse,
Can’t be able to feel the day light
but the releases of heartbeats faster
and faster and faster; then suddenly
a spark of light that is shot in the air
so fast like a firework.
Alarming dreams of peace and
Myths.

Evelyn R.
7^th Grade, Room 109

Nightmare

I feel frightened in the dark air.
My heart beating faster and faster.
I’m dying, feel hopeless with fear.
I can hear.

Looking at a death that’s calling me—
please tell me what you see
tell me what you hear—
I’m full of fear.

I feel hopeless.
I feel the darkness.
I’m screaming
And I’m awake.

Janet G.
7^th Grade, Room 109

The Well

In the dark I fell in the well
So deep and so cold it felt
I was scared when I fell
As I try to get out of my terrible well

Danzel J.

The Scare of the Nightmare

The nightmare was like asthma
hard to breath, killing me
slowly but with fear—
it’s like it’s real
can’t say anything
you can’t scream for help
knowing but then not knowing
what’s going to happen next
lament thinking that you’re about
to die you wake to the sunlight

Javeria N.
7^th Grade, Room 109

The Lonely Hours

In the lonely hours of night
So many emotions go through my head:
Afraid, alone, scared, but not quite
I look up and see that stars accompany me:
So bright, so powerful, making emotions fade away.

Sania T.
7^th Grade, Room 109

The Nightmare

I feel the cold, wet rush of wind
Flowing as I stand in the middle
Of a dark, lost space. All alone
And terrified.

I feel as if all the happiness
Has just left me. Fear and sadness
Has rounded up on me. I feel
As if I would never leave this terrifying place.

My heart beats so fast. I scream
But only hear my voice echo back as
I suddenly wake. I find out it was
only a nightmare and find myself
in the comfort of my room.

Narda O.
7^th Grade, Room 112

Death Ride

Screams of fear flying through the air.
The rusty metal from a roller coaster as it freezes
on the upside down hill.
Commotion down below as the belts come loose.
One hour later, sirens down below.
But I wake with a panic, taking breaths
in a puddle of sweat, and I’m back in line.

Marisabel G.
7^th Grade, Room 112

Death Silence

Grief and sorrow was heard
The sound of a heart bleeding to be saved
The plane was going fast
The clock of my life ticking to an end
Slowly I gave up hope
My ears went deaf trying to block the cries
Tears drained through my cheekbones
The dark water hit the ground like bullets
The sand is draining
Each grain of sand hitting the glass
One grain only is left to fall
One last shout is heard, then all is silence.

Ahmad A.
7^th Grade, Room 112

As Darkness Shines

I mumble in bed and tumble too
As darkness shines a man becomes anew
As he walks toward me a fright pierces the night—
From darkness his face come free.
And I soon realize that it’s me.

Richard T.
7^th Grade, Room 112

Nightmare

Fear strikes and disables my whole movement
A figured and grin step from the shadows.
Each step the shadow takes, I think of death.
Fear strikes with a blade and so does consciousness
I feel a disorder but can’t awake.
The figure strikes my heart but I’m not dead.
I’m stuck and cursed to endure this longer.
When will it ever end, when will it stop?
I try to break out of this dark nightmare.
With confusion I come to this conclusion:
I’m stuck in the dark, shadowy, scary dream world!

Amar A.
7^th Grade, Room 112

A Thought in the Night

I move to my right and move to my left,
The thought still at the top of my head—
floating there, just wobbling in the air
overhead. Whatever I do it just wanders
upon my head like a streaming river. I awake.
I realize the rays of light upon my
textured face due to the fact of it being morning.
Then while I regain and regather my thoughts
I realize that it was a dream. A blank
but oh so powerful thought toward life.
Something sitting, staring in your mind.

Huda K.
7^th Grade, Room 112

My Nightmare

The cricket chirps
as I wake to a clatter.
My robe slips on as I thud downstairs,
every creak of the bare wooden floor following after.
There in the kitchen appeared a woman as pale as the day was,
bustling in the kitchen with her tawny black hair and all.
She turned around, following with her the sounds of a door creaking.
There she appeared, with no face, but only a bloody, spattered skull.
My screaming could do no good, seeming that as I looked about
the world resolved within a red sky.
The hall swished around me & swirled as I swayed about,
only then falling endlessly into a pit, just dropping to my death.
A scream escaped my mouth & I jumped under the covers.
To this day, the lady in my dream still hovers
just as I drift right back off into that world of nightmares.

"His heart was shattered to the brim"

Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" is that rare poem that was wildly popular when it was first published and continues to make an impact on its culture. More than a century after it first appeared to critical acclaim, it is still discussed by scholars, taught in eighth grade classrooms, and enjoyed by all who read it. What makes it so good? Why does this literary heart continue to beat so long after it was exposed to air?

The answer clearly has to do with poetry's close proximity to death. Between the word that the bird keeps squawking (Nevermore!) and the death of the woman whose name so conveniently rhymes with raven-talk (Lenore) lies the imagination. Poe's poem locates it for us as a story and locates it musically--as the space between rhymes. The poem is a portal into the imagination because it measures our distance between the mysterious, confusing present and the ultimately unimaginable death of the future.

Here are several poems by 8th graders at DeWitt Clinton, Room 124, who learn the fundamentals evoked by Poe's poem:

Jose

Destroyed

They came in the dead of night
They were fast and swift
We had no chance to put up a fight
This was not a fun gift
Families—destroyed

Now we are forced to flee
Some of us climbed up a tree
Out we are heading, towards the sea—
Why couldn’t they let us be?
Friendships—destroyed

On the boat many have died
In the sun many have fried.
Doesn’t look like we’re making it home.
And I think I’m beginning to see gnomes.
Hope—destroyed.

Kashif O.

Nosferatu

In a village where no one would pillage
there lived a man who would never tan
his pale white face would withstand any mace
be even he, tempter of tempters
could not resist the taste of blood.

His name was Nosferatu—
a vampire of the French sort.
He yearned for his love, to find his love
but none were suitors from above.

He walked and walked, to the ends of the earth
looking for his love, his love from above.
He found his love during a tranquil meeting:
a winged seraph from heaven landed like a dove.

But his love did not want him.
His heart was shattered to the brim.
He lived his last days, calling for her in vain
and yet she did not come.

Hector P.

The Vase

My mama told me to take care of her vase.
I told her I wouldn’t lose it.
I told her that it would be OK with me
For at least some many days.
The next day I couldn’t hear, breath, or see.
I found out that I’d lost the vase.
I went to my sister and annoyed her with this—
She told me to get out of her face
And to save the whole drama
By going straight to tell mama.
And so I went to go and tell her.
I thought to myself that it would be better
If I just told her
But I worried that if it was lost forever
There would be storms in my weather.
I wondered what she’d do if I were a bird—
If she’d pluck out all my feathers.

James W.

What’s Done is Done

You try to find another truth—
It’s like trying to find a free booth—
You will find nothing but torment
Since there’s only one truth.
What’s done is done. Nothing can change that.

You try to bring back loved ones
But it’s like an eternal run—
It’s never going to ever work
& your anger will make you a jerk.
What’s done is done. Nothing can change that.

When two towers become really weak
Nothing will hold it—not even the peak.
When they fall, we say “What’s done is done.”
When they say this, they’ll also say
“Nothing can change that.”

The torment you will only find
Will make a demon that put’s you in a bind.
What happens to you is done.
What’s done is done
and nothing can change that.

Fahad A.

Shadow Man

The shadow man stood alone in his tunnel of hope
He was lonely in the world and sad
And not having a companion made him mad.
In his dark tunnel he did nothing but mope.
This is what he did in his tunnel of hope.

The man’s only friend was his shadow,
Which never left him except at night.
The shadow was created by the reflecting light.
The man’s only belongings were a knife and rope.
This is what happened in his tunnel of hope.

The days were the same and night went alright.
The shadow man enjoyed being in the sun.
The heat being down made everything more fun.
His life was nothing close to an opera of soap.
This is what happened in his tunnel of hope.

The world meant nothing to the shadow man—
His reason to live was to stand there and smoke.
That’s all he could do because he was broke.
His grocery shopping was to buy a six-pack of dope.
That’s what happened in his tunnel of hope.

One day the shadow never joined the man in the tunnel.
Never in twenty-seven years had this been!
This was outrageous and like a sin!
The shadow man went mad and hung himself with his rope.
This is how he died in his tunnel of hope.

Amelia S.

Flow

Pound, pound, swim, work.
Dirt harvesting fields are all I come to.
Cross the river for the American dream—
Now I can’t even afford shoes.

Pound, pound, away my fate.
Deportation agent is bordering close.
Faking my blindness, hoping for mercy.
Here comes my paper harvesting host.

Pound, pound, the paper is gone.
And so follows the agent, right behind.
Chasing his paper across the boarder—
Sirens ignite after him, eager to find.

Pound, pound—the paper harvester requests my help.
The metal’s too heavy
For her frail figure—
And so I help her to her Chevy.

Pound, pound, my heart goes wild
And love spirals from the heavens upon us.
Marriage is next, and as time passes
Legality is bestowed upon us.

Lidia G.

Chop

An old man in an ancient house
Son and daughter visit
In the entrance there they stop
When they knock they see a mouse
The daughter asks, “what time is it?”
They hear, chop, chop, chop

They walk in and the girl’s mouth pouts
It was time for dinner
The go up the stairs to the top
They hear someone’s shouts—
“Get away from me! I’m not a sinner!”
They hear, chop, chop, chop

They walk in the room
They see the old man
He swings a broom and a mop—
“There’s going to be a big boom!”
He stands by a can
They hear chop, chop, chop

The girl helps him cut the meat
He puts his hand there
Then she chops and there’s a pop—
The cut is very neat—
But it’s the pain he cannot bear
From the chop, chop, chop

“No!” the son yells
The old man’s dead
Then their hearts stop
They hear bells
& noises from the bed
No longer hear chop, chop, chop

Devastated, crying
Daughter begs forgiveness
Her come the cops
She feels like flying
Hoping they have kindness
To forgive her chop, chop chop

Ela K.

The Men on Stilts

Few kids go round in circles
Little women trade
Funny little boy looks like Steve Urkel
Boy climbing the tree never afraid
The one on stilts—
Just like a flower, he wilts

People pulling on one another
Men over each other climbing
By the river they’re in the clover
People look like they’re fighting
The other one on stilts—
He also wilts

Long white ribbons wave
Bickering doesn’t look like fun
Do any of these men ever shave?
Men on stilts appear shunned—
Maybe that’s why they’re on stilts?
Maybe that’s why they wilt?

Now I end my story—
I was in the middle of it all
There was nothing gory
Except for all the fighting I saw
It was a she, not a he, on stilts—
‘twas me, who wilts

Wasif O.

The House

Alone at night in the dark ebony
Three soldiers there were.
Lost from their army in the jungle
They had no food or a bundle.
They had nothing.

Suspicions were aroused as two came closer.
Soldier number one became the outcast however.
It seemed that out of nowhere they found
A mansion there and nothing more.
He was running out of time.

Entered the house the soldiers all three—
Amazing things were found, giving all glee.
However number one stayed separate from the other two.
At night a horrible event occurred—
He ran out of time.

He heard horrific things so he ran.
His friends he saw in horror.
Dead the two were all over the floor.
Frightened, he ran—but found the doors were locked.
He had run out of time.

Evil beings sprang out of the floor.
Bloodthirsty they were wanting him.
He gave up his life to carnivorous beasts—
Ghosts and such took over him and his life.
He ran out of time.

The soldier’s clock was nevermore—
He had been eaten alive without hope.
Soldier number one was nevermore.
He was never seen ever again.
He ran out of time.

The "It" that is an "I"

What good can poetry do? In other words, what might poetry accomplish more successfully than other exercises?

On answer: poetry brings us into contact with the unknown. It asks us to step outside of ourselves. It asks us to use our imaginations to become other than we are.

In Sylvia Plath's "The Mirror," the mirror tells us its story. It is not the normal person, the "I," that speaks, but the mirror speaking to the person who looks into it each day. The mirror is what frames the "I," gives it a place. The mirror is an "it."

In the following poems, the students adopt the perspective of inhuman entities. They write as kites, as mouse traps, as TVs--even as time itself.

In the best poems, the students really do step outside of themselves. They leave the "I" world behind, and inhabit the world of "it." Notice how the speaker of "The Shoe" cries "my laces out" and dreams of becoming a basketball sneaker, because the work is less. Notice how the chalk in "A Day in the Life of a Piece of Chalk" observes the teacher in the classroom after the children have left. Notice the intimacy of the mouse trap's report in "Old Fashioned." It sees what we choose not to see. It does a job we ourselves do not want to do. Notice the sarcasm in the last line: the mouse trap is commenting on its own work ironically. Similarly, in "Flying Prisoner," the kite is captive twice-over. First, it is prevented from flying away by its string. But later, its also put in storage. A captivity that it hates and one that, by comparison, is less bad. This is what it means to adopt the perspective of a kite, to make your "I" an "it."

Dorothy
Room 112 – 7^th Grade

Old Fashioned

I sit in the corner, ready.
My plan? Watch and wait.
A mouse wanders by.

I sit docilely.
I mean no harm.
Have some food.

Creeping closer, always carefully.
The mouse edges toward my bait.
Slower, than attacking.
Snap! Aha!

My sharp snap goes tight on
The mouse’s tail. Cutting tightly.
I hold on with my life.

The mouse, scared and hurt, whines.
Scrambles. It wants to live.
I grip it. Doing my job.

The men come and reset and rebait
me, throwing away my catch.
Such a proud day’s work.

Jia
Room 112 – 7^th Grade

Flying Prisoner

I can soar above the skies
Dancing with the birds
Carried by the whistling winds around me
I dash along the white feather clouds
Joyous but never free

Entangled in my tail is a sinewy thin line
A lock that will forever trap me
In the glorious days of summer I will fly
But I will be stored away when the days shrink back
And in this dark prison I will lay until the cold subsides again

Marisol
Room 109 (7^th Grade)

Jacket

Am I interesting to look at? GOSH!
Am I that cute or ugly?
Do you want to buy me?
NO! NO! NO! Wait, wait
comeback please!
Com’on don’t
be a mama’s boy.
Buy me! BUY me!
I can be quiet or loud.
Oh! You buy my opponent.
No wonder those guys are selling
like popsicles on the Fourth of July!
People always go for Mr. Boring or Mr. Ignorant.
No wonder your country’s run
by a wanna-be dictator!
O well, I guess I’ll sit
here until tomorrow when
they put me in boxes & garbage me!
Ahhhhhh! Life’s so not fair.
People use me, then abuse me.
People wear me, then declare me old.
People say they love me thn
give me a ruba-dub-dub.
I can keep you warm
when it’s cold outside.

People’s upper bodies are held in me.
Parents tell you to not sell your style out to me.
I can be blue, yellow, orange and black.
I can be green, pink, or even mis-matched!
But can I keep you warm all the time?
Please ask yourself before you yell “that’s mine!”

Daniela
Room 109 (7^th Grade)

The Light Bulb

I am white and bright.
If I am not around, everything is dark.
Switch me on and I’ll shine you up.
The sun is my friend.
We both are bright.
I help people see in the night.
The darkness fears me.
When I come out suddenly, people block their faces.
I am needed all over the planet.
I shine bright.

Fahad
Room 124 (8^th Grade)

The Trash

I am the keeper of waste. Ruler of the wasteland.
I collect what mere humans call garbage.
One man’s trash is my treasure.
I see everything people try to get rid of.
Evidence, garbage, and even rare valuables.
Everyday I am filled, and weekly emptied.
I am the best friend of hungry scavengers
and feed them generously.
I rule the garbage truck, and am the greatest collector.

From the ruler of the waste, I am seen
as a bucket of crap.
They fill me with stuff no one can imagine.
I feel ashamed and disgusted
and wish I was used for something else.
My brothers and sisters belong to neighbors all
around the world. We all feel the same.

Every week when we are emptied from the car
we are collected in a truck and go to where
I meet my entire family.
Birds try to peck at us, and machines
try to crush us.
And some of my family members are ripped
apart and recycled.
We start as a human’s delight, and end here
at the resting place of all the trash.

Ela
Room 124 (8^th Grade)

A Day in the Life of A Piece of Chalk

I lie in a tray, my friends all around me.
Some of them are brand new.
Some are broken, wasted away to dust, gone.
There are new friends every day. I barely recognize any of them.
Every few minutes a new hand picks me up.
The foolish people drop me. I break in two.
They pick me up, put half of me back in the tray, bring me up to the black wasteland
and my body is rubbed away.
I leave a mark. Is that not what everyone
wishes to do, to leave a mark on the world?
My mark is erased.

A very loud object sounds. The people
scream, as if happily.
Within a few minutes the world is empty
all except for one person.
Another fifteen minutes pass, and the last
person leaves. The room is dark.
I begin to collect dust once again.

Mirza
Room 124 (8^th Grade)

The Ocean

I control the world underneath me
all the creatures swim beneath me
boats swim on my head and the planes
shake me as they pass by.
Creatures with arms and legs come
with equipment to swim in my body.
Predators chase their prey while the
rest hide.

Everything here is so great—
whales to octopus and shrimps to seaweed
is what makes it beautiful.
No one really comes all the way down.
My feet hurt and all the things of the world
on top of me are dumped right into me—
their waste falls and breaks the home of the citizens.
Nothing is explored beneath me
no one comes because of fears.
I want everything explored
and then I’ll be happy and have even more power.

Bibiana
Room 124 (8^th Grade)

Book of Life

Emotions bind on my pages.
Different reactions
for every person.
Taking tears and rage
and happiness
with the story I show.
A person feeling
what I feel
they turn my pages
and tears fall
I feel the cold
dripping of emotions.
I am old and battered.
Not many come by, but
the people I see are young and bright
looking to see
the story of life. But people
think differently of me now.
I am what I am—
the book of life.

Numan
Room 124 (8^th Grade)

The Shoe

I set there all tied up
My laces knotted
My soles all worn out
I sit there eating up space
I cry my laces out
Waiting for a foot in me
The stench of old socks
Attached to me.
I wait for a foot to fill me up.

It’s 8:30 and I see
A giant approaching
I lay my air holes out
And my thin cushions.
I lay my laces out on
The sight of those smelly socks
It is another day my body
Inhabited by a foot.

My brother shoes watching as I leave
The big and tall basketball shoes
Were thrown in the backpack.
I dreamt I was him; he was
Only worn once a day
While I sit attached to a foot
All day rotting my soles away.
I await the time I come back
Home to my family of sneakers.
The day will come when my soles will die
And I will never be tied again.

Angela
Room 124 (8^th Grade)

The Time

How long have I existed no one knows.
When I will end no man can tell.
I pass slow for some.
I pass fast for others.
But in truth, who can accurately say that I pass an even length?
So many ways men measure me to their fitting.
Why, I am always there with you, always going without favor.
How flexible I am is up to man to find out.
I will pass & move without favor or hate.
One of my many forms common worldwide—a clock.
In so many ways man depends upon my hands.
I shout & I whisper;
I tick & I tock.
How many hands I have
How many sounds I make
How many of my numerals can be shown.
Accuracy is what man see for, but

Who can actually read me
Measure me
Count me
Correctly?