More Poetry Recipes in the Classroom: Add a Dash of Shape Poetry by Andrea Perry

Adding a dash of Shape Poetry is bound to spice up many a classroom project.  Get the point?

Shape poetry is a type of poetry which describes or defines an object (or concept, function or characteristic) and is shaped as the object (concept, etc) being described.  

For example, in math class students can demonstrate their knowledge of geometric shapes (even three dimensional ones!) by constructing a work of art.  They can show what they know.  They can type or write or stencil their words, rhyming or not, and arrange them to explain terminology.  Quadrangles, cylinders, squares, oh my!

 In Social Studies, similar projects can take shape. While studying Egypt, students can display their understanding of the mummification process or afterlife beliefs or even Egyptian gods by constructing a poem in the shape of a sarcophagus, linen strips, a pyramid or other related subject content. In an American History unit, Fort Necessity could necessarily be constructed with beams of words, the evolution of the American flag could be striped with information, or the Boston Tea Party,  steeped with facts.

Out in the solar system, scientists have described planets, galaxies, constellations, meteors, stars, and comets to us.  Students can make a big bang by applying their knowledge of any of these with a shape poem full of facts or descriptions.  The applications in science are seemingly endless - atoms and molecules, seeds and plants, magnets and metals can all take shape as shape poems.

Life does indeed imitate Art.  Get out the construction paper, scissors and glue and have your students start getting plenty of poetic projects "in shape."

Poetry Month Lemonade

I came across this delightful little book only this week but would love to share it with all my fellow poetry lovers during National Poetry Month.  Lemonade and Other Poems Squeezed from a Single Word was written by Bob Raczka.  However, Raczka credits Andrew Russ with being the first person he read who likes to make poems out of a single word, and he apparently loved the idea. So when life gives you word poems, make word lemonade!  Here's an example (minus the illustration):

vacation

ac tion

     i n 

a

va          n

When I first opened the book, it took me a while to get the hang of the poems, as the spacing threw me.  I didn't immediately realize that the sequencing of the letters of the words is drawn from the title. Aha! Then I discovered that the poem is rewritten on the back side of each page in case you don't  'get it.'

vacation

action

in

a 

van

Kind of a form of shape poetry, if you will.  But oh so clever!

friends

fr  e  d

f i   nds

  e d

chocolate

h      at

    co at

 h     o   t

c    oco a

And as you can see, the creativity is not limited to longer words, like 'constellation.' Even 'spring' and 'rain' are able to bloom into poems.  As a matter of fact, 'spring' described exactly how I felt after I read this little book of gems:

spring

i

s    ing

i

sp   in

i

            g

rin

If you were as tickled with these poems as I was, I bet right now you are running for paper and pencil to invent a few of your own.  In my mind, that's the highest compliment we can pay to Bob Raczka.

March Madness Poetry Finale

Congratulations, Dave Crawley!

The Route 19 Writers would like to congratulate our good friend, Dave Crawley for making it into the final two for the Think, Kid Think, 2013, March Madness Poetry contest.

Dave won round after round by using his witty word play and rhythmic meter to wow the audience with his mastery of words.

The final words have been revealed:

hullabaloo vs. bumbershoot

Dave has until 9:30 a.m. on Wednesday (E.S.T.) to submit his final poem. Then, the voting will begin, and Thursday evening at 9:30 p.m. (E.S.T.), the winner will be announced and will receive The Thinkier trophy on their mantle for the rest of 2013.

Dave, we all wish you the best of luck. You are a fantastic poet, and we are all proud of you for making it this far in this challenging competition!

Readers, we encourage you to go out and read both poems and vote for your favorite at:

http://www.thinkkidthink.com/

The Magic of Letters

Don Fiester
Oct. 12, 1923-Sept. 11, 2012

I love the magic of letters, those combinations of lines, curves, circles that, when grouped in a certain way, arranged in a particular order, have the power to move armies, connect lovers, start riots, give comfort. When I lose someone dear to me I seek out the poltice of poetry, hoping that in someone else's choice and arrangement of the letters I'll be touched where I need to be touched, a cool hand on my heart. I often find it in the following poem by Mary Oliver. It lives in my closet. I pulled it out last week to remind myself that my father was a bridegroom who took the world into his arms.

When Death Comes 

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Thank you, Mary, and all of you who arrange curves and circles and lines into soothing, beautiful expression.

Fran McDowell

I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet. But I love working on pieces that feel like poetry. Therefore, I’ve signed up for an online course in a program called Coursera. (I suggest you google it) It’s a social entrepreneurship company that partners with the top universities in the world to offer courses online for anyone to take. It’s free and sounds pretty amazing.Their idea envisions a future where the top universities educate millions of students. My idea is to post this poem now and then at the end of my ten week course post it again to find out if I’ve actually learned anything. 

So, for any of our followers who happen to have an affinity for, or knowledge of, the genre, I’m taking a tentative step and posting a piece I wrote a few years back. It is the recollection of my 11 year old self, coming home in the dark on a horse that I simultaneously loved and feared. 

It’s open game for critqueing (constructive, please) since I am in the enviable position, as I’ve said, of claiming no knowledge of structure or . . . uh . . . whatever guidelines define poetry.     

Night Travel

The smell of evening earth,

unfurling mayapples,

still warm gravel,

mix with the leathery smell of horse sweat.

His neck, steely hard

damp beneath my hand

signals that I need to stay calm,

he’s scared enough for both of us.

We’re losing light

Evening shade draping itself 

across his flanks, my bare shoulders, 

making home seem a lifetime away.

Yellow warmth from kitchen lights,

hidden by distance and the rising road,

keep me nudging, 

keep him walking on.

Taught calves against quivering sides

green shadows turning black,

all could skew his judgement,

turn hind quarters into dynamite

My breaths are too shallow.

His come in snorts.

I know what it means. But he needs to stay calm, 

I’m scared enough for both of us.

“Easy, Boy.”

The words come from a tissue paper mouth.

“Easy boy,” 

from hands, to reins, to bit.

My memories whispered

of summer fields hammered by flying hooves

stopping short of creek, road, ravine,

just in time to save my life.

His listening scattered

trusting the voice that speaks to him

whenever golden nuggets of grain

fall into his bucket.

Time tested trust.

It’s all we have.

It will have to be enough,

since the night has finally swallowed us. 

Posted by Fran McDowell