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writing in the classroom

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The Second Coming July 2012

Search through 19 years of classroom poetry here—you might find your poem.

A Poem about the difficulties facing teachers once there was a cellphone in every student’s face. It is written as a response to William Butler Yeat’s poem THE SECOND COMING

The Second Coming 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.


Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Things Fall Apart-(My answer to William Butler Yeats’ poem)

Dear Mr. Yeats, it is true, what you said.

When, in a small classroom, 35 teenaged souls

all heading in separate directions

collide with me, the largest mammal in the room,

the pain extends beyond the physical, it corrupts the

psyche, and like a cancer, it grows, eating its way

to the core of society.

Today’s teacher is thrown into the Lebrea Tar Pits with

all the other dinosaurs, and the

largest mammal in the room is not large at all.

Tiny power in adolescent hands,

ipod, ipad,upad,wepad,theypad,droid,

fake knowledge is free and in the hands of the

proudly ignorant rebels at all times.

they want nothing from me but fodder for their tweets (but they do not know what fodder means) and

they stand up angrily for their rights

to do what they want, when they want

and inside they are certain of this inalienable right,

although they do not know what the word means,

‘inalienable’.

No. Large mammals who do not tweet or love

reality tv have no right to impart anything.

the generally smaller mammals with their

handheld connection to all

are clearly superior, and in charge,

and have the right to speak to everyone in the entire world

at the same time I have lost the right

to teach.

It is true as you say WB Yeats

“Things fall apart, the center cannot hold”

and technology is that rough beast,

its hour come round at last, slouching away from

me.

CRAY 2012

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Teacher

A teacher is

a parcel of old groceries,

from the sale bin, worn thin,

roughed up, frayed, decayed,

depleted and faded. His tired eyes

diminishing his value in the market

putting him in the half-price bin,

where most folks walk by, stopping

only long enough to identify the flaw

then move on.

And this parcel called

a teacher is

held together with twine

from the farthest corner

of the oldest hardware store,

where Phil, the owner and his dog will always help you find the item

you are seeking, and will ask how

your aunt Martha is doing since her

surgery.

But this package

has been damaged

by rough handling and the

twine is straining,

because this person we call a teacher

is not God.

Why can’t Johnny Read? Cries an outraged

public, has the teacher

outlived his pull date?

And

Why is it that all the old hardware stores

have been replaced by

shiny, glitzy new depots with

pimply faced teenagers

who don’t care where the twine is

shrug their shoulders

as they point to the map of the store?

CM 3/24/2000

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triskaidekaphobia for Ms. Johnson

Clean your spleen

on a Friday.

Run in the sun

on a Friday

Joke with a bloke

on a Friday

But never

on Friday, 13.

Because

Pancakes are flat

on Friday, 13

Dogs are lazy

on Friday, 13

pimples feel greasy

on Friday, 13

And nobody ever wants that!

So when a baby is born on Friday, 13,

people can’t help but wonder:

what will this child do in the world

that will tear us all asunder?

The baby will laugh and grow and weep,

and wish sometimes to fall asleep for

longer than we approve.

But our Culture grows its own disease

It’s Friday, 13 fear If you please,

just call it:

Tris/kai/de/ka/phob/i/a.

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1st period

And where will

you go

once the last bell has rung itself?

Who will you

blame for your

subtle discord?

What roughly hewn living will you eke out 

and on whose promises

do you rely?

You trust the sounds and move your

feet as though to dance correctly was the only choice.

Still,  your laughter warms

my heart.

CLR2012

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1997 Wahluke

Mis Sonrisas

Each day

the sun rises gently,

with a whisper of deference,

and a shudder of 

anticipation.

 

The implicit simplicity of manners

is not lost on the horizon

but beams happily up

from row after row after row after row after row after row...

each shaft of light 

reflects a different image

here I see proud, strong, and cooperative,

now silly, sweet and secrective.

There is grinning and slouching

now alert, now drowsy.

Monkey faces, stretch their lips, twist their eyebrows

around their chubby cheeks.

Tappity tap--confused and frustrated: defeated becomes

clear, focused: victorious.

Sullen and silent, cell reorganization, chemical alterations

clear, sure, excitable wow!

Moving from a world of their own,

to my realm,

and back again.

Quite sure they won't miss a thing.

Quite happily, they are one energy.

 

When, as nature requires, the sun

sets...

I will ache with the wish to have given more to my sonrisas who only 

stayed for a day.

CM 1997

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bring me a rock and I will know who you are

Ok that is a weird start. My intention here is to share all of the poems I wrote about students over the past 20 years in the classroom that I felt really captured their essence.

Over the years, I have felt, rightly or not, that I know my students very well. I am honored when I read their essays or poems, or anything where their voice comes through.  I feel it is similar to asking for a rock from Paris rather than a T-shirt.

 I don't want gifts when friends and family travel, what I really want is a rock from their trip. I want them to be in a beautiful place, think of me, and pick up a rock from  underfoot.  Then I feel as if I was there. 

similarly,

I want the students to give me something genuine from themselves, and that's what I wanted the most---more important to me on a human level than a formulaic essay or straight A work. It was the rocks my students brought me that helped me know them and celebrate them. And to me, that is the most important part of my work as an English teacher.

And in this blog, I will share my students with you.

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