I didn't sleep a wink last night. That's because today is the first day of school. Even after all these years, I still get the first day jitters. I toss and turn thinking about what I'll wear, what my students will be like, and how that first meeting will go. I still get excited about school and all the great things I have to look forward to each year. Last night I imagined a can of talking pencils instucting the rest of the school supplies in their duties. (Yes, that was strange.)I love school, always have and always will. I still love shopping for school supplies. One of my favorite things to do on the first day was to choose a desk in the front row so that I could be the first person to breathe in the smell of freshly minted ditto pages. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the damp pages and smell the purple ink. So, in honor of my first day back, and for all the first days still yet to to be celebrated, let's write this week in honor of school.
Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
**Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Physics
ReplyDeleteMy friend teaches physics,
writes his lesson plan to Led Zeppelin,
his tests to the Rolling Stones.
What next—finals to Cream?
I cannot write even so small a piece
as a single poem
with rock standards blaring away,
or I want to get up and dance.
There has to be a physics answer,
something to do with lights,
with optics, with the speed of sound.
c Jane Yolen
Hope this formats!
When I was just six, my family moved from Washington State to California, and before school started we visited San Francisco, did it up royal, like the country-bumpkin tourists we were. During our afternoon in Chinatown, I saw a pencil box which mesmerized me and I bought it. That pencil box represented my new life - California, San Francisco, First Grade - the whole big wide world opening up to me. Here's a poem I wrote about that pencil box - it's not new, so I didn't stretch, so apologies. I've had a busy week with student work, but I wanted to share:
ReplyDeletePencil Box
I put four bits on the counter
and the box was mine.
Six yellow pencils fit there
side by side, I was perfectly addled,
I was a goner – even before I knew
the alphabet, I knew its cedar perfume –
I flew over the high-humped bridge
painted on the top, over the willow,
the m-stroke for a bird, everything
was suggestion then, before
the putting on of too fine a point.
People expected me to come
to my senses, save the change
in my burning pockets, after all
the box was wooden, cheap
Chinatown, but half a dollar
went a long way
toward heaven when heaven was closer.
I have just now bumped into Poetry Friday and via that, you. And after a rumpled night with a feverish child, poetry seemed like fresh sheets.
ReplyDeleteBut I am very new to this and there are lots of wrinkles. I am nonetheless going to offer this early morning scrawl, because I have promised myself a year of courage. And the year begins now:
January 1 always confounds me.
New year? Why? There is no hinge,
No turning, no change.
Selfish Janus, playing both sides.
Those arbitrary, arrogant Romans might
be satisfied but I know better.
The year begins now.
Summer browns and wilts and finally
Surrenders its might.
We shake it off like a dog does a bath,
drops spattering the sidewalk
landing all around, the dog already running.
This is how it begins.
Three fresh pencils in a case.
An impatient marble notebook.
New shoes. Packed lunch.
Kettle-drum heart.
And a thousand snail trails like silver arrows
Pointing the way from summer
To school.
Happy back to school for everyone! The kids around here are going back next week. I can't wait for the library, where I work, to settle back down after the busy, busy, busy, summer we've had this year.
ReplyDeleteHere's a senryu:
nearly sixty
still thinking the year
runs september to june
Did I say how busy we were this summer?
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteOooo...I love this, Laura!
ReplyDeleteOh, Laura, that's WONDERFUL! and applause to Jane, Francesca (yes to courage) and Diane, too. Nicely done, and Happy New Year to us all.
ReplyDeleteThank you, everyone, for these poems. They remind me what a magical time of year this is for all of us: child, parent, teacher. Fresh starts for all...
ReplyDeletePlease Bring:
One guinea pig
A poem each day
Books about oceans
Time just to play
Laughter
Patience
A listening ear
(I made a supply list
for teacher this year.)
-Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Tricia,
ReplyDeleteI HATED elementary school. I attended a strict parochial school in Massachusetts in the 1950s. We had about 50 students in a class. I became a school phobic in first grade. I can still recall refusing to get on the school bus a couple of times.
The "back to school" poem I'm working on is a dark one indeed. Not sure I'll post it at Wild Rose Reader or Blue Rose Girls. I'll send you the link if I do decide to post it on Friday.
I have a double-header for you this week: a new poem, Higher Text, and an old one, Balloons
ReplyDeleteI LOVE these poems.Thought I'd add an old one of mine since it is one of those I am fondest of:
ReplyDeleteCrayons: A Rainbow Poem
This box contains the wash of blue sky,
spikes of green spring,
a circle of yellow sun,
triangle flames of orange and red.
It has the lime caterpillar inching on a brown branch,
the shadow black in the center of a grove of trees.
It holds my pink
and your chocolate
and her burnt sienna
and his ivory skin.
In it are all the colors of the world.
All
the
colors
of
the
world.
c Jane Yolen, all rights reserved
Oh, more delicious school poems! Amy, love that guinea pig and book about oceans, and, Jane, that wash of sky, those spikes of spring...
ReplyDeleteElaine, I can't wait to read your dark elementary school poem. The dark side is almost always the interesting one (or maybe that's just my morbidity).
What a great bunch this week. Tiel, I'll head over to your blog to read yours, too.
Tricia,
ReplyDeleteI love the Poetry Stretch contributions this week! Here's the URL of my "dark" poem about parochial school in the 1950s:
http://wildrosereader.blogspot.com/2009/08/going-back-to-parochial-school-poem.html
These are fabulous! Here's mine:
ReplyDeleteNew books
Coat hooks
Pencils, sharp
Autoharp
Squeaky chairs
Many stairs
Milk box
Itchy socks
New dress
Recess
White shoes
Two by twos
Butterflies
Sleepy eyes
Book bag
Pledge to flag
Backpacks
Small snacks
Smell of ink
Classroom sink
Spelling list
Clenched in fist
Lunchroom fray
Plastic tray
Chef’s surprise
No more fries
Gym class
Balls to pass
Math team
Day dream
Chalk dust
Homework – must
Bell rings
Gather things
Home we wend
Summer’s end
Tricia--I still say: collect these in an anthology. They are stunning.
ReplyDeleteJane
This is about the trauma of having a health-food mama:
ReplyDeleteSack Lunch
Turkey sandwich on whole wheat,
not Wonder Bread to make
into perfect white pills.
The lettuce isn't crunchy,
it's dark green like algae,
an actual leaf.
My apple won't shine—
Mom took the shine off,
she calls it wax. My carrots
aren't orange bullets,
they're pick-up sticks cut
from skinny fern-top roots.
When I begged for dessert,
she said, "That's the apple."
No chips in a foil bag
with screaming letters
and a neon cheetah,
no goopy-hearted Twinkie
hugged by sweet yellow cake.
"Healthy food tastes better,"
Mom told me. But I ask,
I ask and I ask.
No one wants to trade.
--Kate Coombs
P.S. I loved everybody's poems! Laura, your two lines "Goodbye wander/Hello,stay" induce goose pimples, they're so perfect. And Francesca's snail-trail arrows are eerie and poignant and true.
ReplyDeleteHope the first day of school went well for you. I don't think you'd be *human* if you didn't get nervous.
ReplyDeleteThe main item middle school students want for back-to-school is the latest sneakers. I posted this poem on my blog last week, but made a few changes.
ReplyDeleteLast Year’s Sneakers
Lie on the bedroom floor
their smooth white skin
scuffed by time—
neon tangerine laces
now pale apricot
once unyielding
now weak and worn
Last year’s sneakers
lie on the bedroom floor
watching
their replacements
unboxed, laced up
ready to run
Last year’s sneakers
lie on the bedroom floor
tongues hanging out
nothing to prove
ready to rest