Self-Portrait Poems

Nine-year-old minds are like little sponges. They are so open to possibilities, and they aren't afraid to venture into unfamiliar territory. I spent part of the day yesterday with two classes of third graders. We had a lot of fun working on self-portrait poems. It's a workshop that I love doing.

I read a few self-portrait poems from some earlier workshops, and I could see their wheels turning. Some with delight, like when the sample poet mentioned her dislike of all things related to school. Some with confusion. Why did she call herself a flower? Some with a little trepidation when I showed them how one poet wrote about himself by writing how other people saw him.

We made lists of things they liked, didn't like, were afraid of, important places, things that made them happy and sad, dreams and goals. I asked them to choose a physical attribute and make a comparison using "like" or "as."

Using my comparison, we talked about the way the words sound when they bump up against each other. Like the difference between these two lines.

My eyes are as brown as chocolate.
My eyes are brown, dark like chocolate.

As I left, they were excited about finishing their self-portraits. That's always a good feeling.

Here's one of my favorite self-portrait poems, written by a twelve-year-old student, in a workshop I taught a few years back. I always read it when I'm doing this workshop. The kids always like it as much as I do.

Self Portrait

Who thinks she is pretty?
Me, I do.
I think I do.

Strange but in a way like everyone else,
Always messy
Sometimes dirty.

Up in trees...
Down in the dirt...
King of the mountain...
Lord of the land...

Q: Would she have rather been a boy?
Umm...sometimes
Q: Inside or outside?
Outside! Definitely

Nose in her books
Fingertips on pens
Ear to the door
Feet to the floor.

Would she want to live a different life?
No, she wouldn't trade.
She is content with what she has.
She does not ask for more
But could not live with less.

Small house.
Small room.
Small yard.
Big life.
Big feet.
Big knuckles.

Cold or hot, never warm.
Black or white, never pink.
Up or down, never on solid ground.

Always expressive
Smile, frown, laugh, or cry.

Saturdays...Yardwork. Ugh.
Cleaning...Yuck.
Playing...ALWAYS!

School?
No.
Hated.
Horrible.
Yuck.

I Conquered the North Pole

No fingers or toes lost to frostbite. My ears and nose are still intact. I've eaten no pemmican, suffered no scurvy.

I finally managed to write my script on the Peary/Cook controversy. I really enjoy research, sometimes too much. This was one of those times. I got caught up in the details of the story so much I lost perspective. I got emotionally involved. I didn't like the ruthless, egocentric Peary I found in the pages of his biographies. I didn't want to believe Matthew Cook was truly a con man. But facts are facts. So many facts. I couldn't figure out how to condense this story to a scene.

Right. One scene.

It's a little like writing a 30-second trailer for a 90-minute film, without leaving out the climax and the conclusion.

That's the heart of readers theater. Or readers' theater. Or reader's theater. Or any of those choices, plus the British spelling, theatre. Take your pick. It makes trying to find information on the internet absolutely maddening!

Anyway, I'm closing in on completion of this project. I'm already feeling my thoughts wandering toward the next one, which is actually the last project I put on hold in order to write this one. I'd like to think this mind flitting is like a hummingbird, moving delicately between hibiscus nectar to sweet clematis. Unfortunately it feels more like the Keystone Cops blundering from one half-open door to the next until the culprit of a thought disappears into thin air. I know lots of writers who work on multiple projects at the same time, but I haven't figured out how to do it very well myself.

I'm trying to stay focused.

Poetry Friday: Polar Animals

It's been a busy week and my brain is tired, so here goes with some silly, polar poems.

Please Remove Seal
Jack Prelutsky

PLEASE REMOVE SEAL BEFORE USING THIS PRODUCT,
the sign on the box clearly read.
I don't have a seal, but I'm taking no chances—
I'll toss out my walrus instead.


Narwhal
X.J. Kennedy

Around their igloo fires with glee
The Eskimos tell tales
Of Narwhal. Listen and you'll see
This unicorn of whales
Through frosty waves off Greenland's coast
Majestically advance.
And like a knight come forth to joust
Hold high its wary lance.



The More It Snows
by A. A. Milne

The more it
SNOWS-tiddely-pom,
The more it
GOES-tiddely-pom
The more it
GOES-tiddely-pom
On
Snowing.

And nobody
KNOWS-tiddely-pom,
How cold my
TOES-tiddely-pom,
How cold my
TOES-tiddely-pom
Are
Growing.

Be sure to stop by Anastasia Suen's blog, Picture Book of the Day, for other Poetry Friday posts.

Check Out These Blogs

Today is the first year anniversary (Blogiversary?) at Teaching Authors. The six children's authors who also teach writing are April Halprin Wayland, Carmella Martino, Ester Hershenhorn, Jeanne Marie Grunwell Ford, JoAnn Early Macken, and Mary Ann Rodman.

Stop by today's blog post and register for a free critique by one of the six bloggers. What a great giveaway to celebrate the blogiversary.

Over at Paula Yoo's blog, NaNoPiBoWriWee is getting ready to kick off. You write seven picture books in seven days. Okay, it's a little crazy, but it's fun.

If you're planning to join NaNoPiBoWriWee, check out Nancy I. Sanders Blogzone for some great preparation tips.

Write well!

Spring in my Backyard

Spring doesn't last very long in the deep South, but while it's here it's stunningly beautiful. I'm enjoying every minute of it.







Because I know that very soon my lovely garden will have a fight for its life with a jungle of weeds, briers, and searing heat. This prickly little vine is known as greenbriar. It can also be called bull briar, horse brier, and cat brier. It's such a monstrous nuisance people can't even decide on a single name or a consistent spelling. This little shoot may look innocent at the moment, but if it's not destroyed, it will soon grow straight up above everything around it until gravity pulls its nasty little stem downward into whatever grows nearby. The thing can grow up to twenty feet long and wrap itself in, around, and through every healthy plant within spitting distance.

Definitely a worthy antagonist.

First Reading

I had a delightful visit with students at Hannan Elementary School yesterday. With students and teachers ready for a break from testing, I had four attentive audiences. Well, except for when the loud speaker called for the second graders to come get their snow cones in the middle of their author visit. We whizzed very quickly through the rest of the book we were reading together. After all, it takes something pretty special to compete with snow cones!

The fourth grade classes agreed to try out my script on Columbus, Vespucci, and Waldsemuller from the reader's theater book. They were such great sports about it. Eight students agreed to read the parts in front of the group, even though they had never seen it before. They did a great job. And it was a good evaluation for me to see a first reading.

Another Polar Poem

I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the Peary/Cook controversy. At some point research must stop and I must find a way to present this to middle-grade readers. The fact that it's still disputed a hundred years later makes me ask myself: What in the world am I thinking? I need more than a pick ax and a sextant to find my way through the morass! There is still a Peary camp. There's still a Cook camp. And they are still as diametrically opposed to one another as contemporary partisan politics. So, I'm taking a break from them and reading about S. A. Andrée, who tried to float over the North Pole in a hydrogen balloon. He didn't make it either.

Polar Explorer Salomon August Andrée (1897)
by Elizabeth Bradfield

O, terrible—silence over ice—
no panting dogs, no hissing runners,
no footfall to break it. Just the crack
and groan of its own awful straining
rising up.

You warm your hands at the flame
that lifts you. The balloon's silk
is a second sun, unsetting. You're always in its noon,
directly underneath its rippling light.

There's a red smear on one floe, white
bear loping away from the seal's meat.
There's a quick spout in a lead,
the whale's back there, gone.

When blizzards, no ground to fix
your boots to, just directionless swirl
and the compass' doubtful arrow.

Who else has breathed air this clear, crystals of it
hardening briefly in your lungs? Who else has so brightly
risen above the dangerous landscape?

And when you find that you are losing height,
when the earth calls you down to its own slogging,
when it's been decided that you've traveled long enough
as ghosts, silent and apart, you know
some disaster of hunger and cold awaits
—your bones' location to be a mystery for thirty years—
you know your limbs may no longer have the knack
of pulling, of recovery, of resistance, and you're glad anyway
to be mortal again, and stumbling.