A Valentine For Ernest Mann

Naomi Shihab Nye

I am a poet who works in the schools most of the time with third, fourth, and fifth grade students. Over the last twenty years I take seen thousands of immature poets and read their poems. Their piece of work is often moving, ever entertaining, and sometimes truly remarkable. Smashing poetry connects, the voice in the poem, so brutally honest, we believe it's our ain. Every once in awhile one (or more) of those wonderful poems emerges from a placidity student, and everyone sits up and listens, at first surprised, then awed, inspired, and thankful.

I noticed L. was smaller than most of his fellow 4th graders. He seemed distant, detached, more engaged with his electronic tablet than his classmates, but I could tell he was monitoring what was happening around him. He responded to me 1 on ane. He asked questions about the writing exercises, but insisted that he merely apply his tablet. A classroom aide agreed to copy his writing onto paper, and so I could take information technology with me each calendar week. The teacher permit me know that 50. was "on his own" when it came to writing, that he hadn't washed much writing at all in class and that his parents knew 50. didn't write much, that it wasn't anything he was really into, and because he tested off the charts in science and math, they weren't concerned that he didn't exercise a lot of his "writing" assignments. The expectation was that he probably wouldn't write poems because he was focused on other things.

It was obvious that 50. was very intelligent. Each week he entertained me with his poems, and more chiefly he entertained and surprised his classmates when he'd share his poem out loud. After 10 weeks of writing poems, I asked the students to write a poem on poetry, gave them several examples and ideas on how to become about this kind of verse form. I try to encourage them to turn poetry into other things: animal, vegetable, human, whatever, simply show it doing things, make information technology a metaphor, their own ars poetica. I apply Naomi Shihab Nye'due south "Valentine for Ernest Mann" which tells a hush-hush "poems hide."

Valentine for Ernest Isle of man

You can't society a verse form like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll have two"
and look it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
*
Notwithstanding, I similar your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Hither's my address,
write me a verse form," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to exercise
is live in a manner that lets us find them.
*
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I idea they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious fashion. Aught was ugly
merely considering the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled upwards at his feet.
*
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives requite us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you about like, but not quite.
And let me know.
*
Naomi Shihab Nye

What a wonderful poem virtually poetry. She tells us, "Cypher was ugly / only considering the world said and so." That "What we have to practice / is live in a way that lets us detect them." So some students explore where their poems come up from, where they hibernate, and how they find them. I try to encourage them to compare poetry to concrete things, so I don't go a bunch of "poetry is beautiful" or "poetry is about emotions" or "poetry makes my heart sing," that kind of writing that has no voice, no uniqueness. Merely in spite of my efforts to "prompt" my writers, once in awhile someone writes in a manner that reminds united states of america of what we love about verse.

This is the verse form that L. wrote on poetry, this "somewhat disconnected brainiac" child who really wasn't a author. Enjoy.

Poetry is in Nature

*

I merely desire to go out this world backside

and go to the tranquility of a poem

I get my ideas from cats,

my paintings, and my mind'southward middle

I know what I am

I know what I can practice

I know what I tin be

I am an enigma, always mystic

I am everywhere, always

I am all this and more

I am the poem

*

by L.

And remember, nosotros are all poets, but we might non know it unless nosotros make the effort to write our thoughts and feelings downward. You are the poem. Tell it.

A Valentine For Ernest Mann,

Source: https://markgibbons.substack.com/p/where-do-you-find-poems

Posted by: howellhards1978.blogspot.com

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