Don’t Miss the Miracle
I, who cannot see, find hundreds of things
to interest me through mere touch.
I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf.
I pass my hands lovingly
about the smooth skin of a silver birch,
or the rough shaggy bark of a pine . . .
I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower,
and discover its remarkable convolutions;
and something of the miracle of Nature
is revealed to me.
Occasionally, if I am very fortunate,
I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel
the happy quiver of a bird in full song . . .
At times my heart cries out with longing
to see these things.
If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch,
how much more beauty must be revealed
by sight.
Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little.
The panorama of color and action
which fills the world is taken for granted . . .
It is . . . a great pity that, in the world of light,
the gift of sight
is used only as a mere convenience rather than
as a means of adding fullness to life.
[Mark Link, In the Stillness Is the Dancing (Niles, Illinois: Argus Communications, 1972), 36–37 -- compiled from the essay “If I Had Three Days to See,” written by Helen Keller in 1933.]
to interest me through mere touch.
I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf.
I pass my hands lovingly
about the smooth skin of a silver birch,
or the rough shaggy bark of a pine . . .
and discover its remarkable convolutions;
and something of the miracle of Nature
is revealed to me.
I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel
the happy quiver of a bird in full song . . .
to see these things.
If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch,
how much more beauty must be revealed
by sight.
The panorama of color and action
which fills the world is taken for granted . . .
the gift of sight
is used only as a mere convenience rather than
as a means of adding fullness to life.
[Mark Link, In the Stillness Is the Dancing (Niles, Illinois: Argus Communications, 1972), 36–37 -- compiled from the essay “If I Had Three Days to See,” written by Helen Keller in 1933.]
convolution: a twisting together; a turn, twist, or coil
1540s, from Latin convolutus, past participle ofconvolvere "to roll together," from com- "together"(see com- ) + volvere "to roll" (see volvox ).
__________________________________________________
Destiny Prasad (B3) turned in
April Rain Song by Langston Hughes
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.
_____________________________________________________
The Worst Punishment of All
By Miriam Zeidner B7
Line upon lines of dark chocolate tarts,
Sweet sugar cookies and apple pies.
Brownies in the oven and truffles in the fridge
And cold, fresh, strawberry shaved ice.
Ice cream topped in cherries
Velvet cake a radiant red
Cake pops ready to be iced
And fresh spiced gingerbread
Butterscotch pudding waiting to be scooped
Sorbet molding into beautiful spheres
Chocolate chip cookies, Angel food cake
All completely wowing my peers
My mouth waters at cherry cupcakes
Coconut cakes and petit fours.
Butter cakes and lemon squares
Chanting to the eater, “More, more, more!”
Buttermilk pie, frozen yogurt, chocolate cream
Snickerdoodles and cinnamon bars
Cheesecake lying on the counter
Chocolate, cream, and cherries all toppled in jars
Delicious cakes, cookies, puddings to eat
And yet my mom has grounded me from treats.
____________________________________________
Turned in by Charlie Hawks B6
[Untitled]
So you just sit in your seat
While all these thoughts in my mind met.
I'll just sit here struggling and hustling through
Because all this Poetry stuff is new.
I have no idea what a Poem is supposed to be.
I don't want to do this, but you're making me.
What will I write? How can I know it?
I see no Poet,
But did I show it?
-- by an anonymous student
____________________________________________
ART WARS
Poem: The First Book, by Rita Dove
Open it.
Go ahead, it won't bite.
Well...maybe a little.
More a nip, like. A tingle.
It's pleasurable, really.
You see, it keeps on opening.
You may fall in.
Sure, it's hard to get started;
remember learning to use
knife and fork? Dig in:
you'll never reach bottom.
It's not like it's the end of the world-
just the world as you think
you know it.
Go ahead, it won't bite.
Well...maybe a little.
More a nip, like. A tingle.
It's pleasurable, really.
You see, it keeps on opening.
You may fall in.
Sure, it's hard to get started;
remember learning to use
knife and fork? Dig in:
you'll never reach bottom.
It's not like it's the end of the world-
just the world as you think
you know it.
--found at http://thechocolatechipwaffle.blogspot.com/2009/02/poem-first-book-by-rita-dove.html
Students responded to the poem "High Flight. " They read the poem, and in their composition books they a) wrote quickly for about two minutes about anything this poem brought to mind for them. b) borrowed one line from the poem and created a poem or continued to write their thoughts, focusing now on that one line.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
— John Gillespie Magee, Jr
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
— John Gillespie Magee, Jr
"Something For Nothing"
Rush -- Lyrics by Neil Peart
Waiting for the winds of change
To sweep the clouds away
Waiting for the rainbow's end
To cast its gold your way
Countless ways
You pass the days
Waiting for someone to call
And turn your world around
Looking for an answer to
The question you have found
Looking for
An open door
You don't get something for nothing
You don't get freedom for free
You won't get wise
With the sleep still in your eyes
No matter what your dreams might be
What you own is your own kingdom
What you do is your own glory
What you love is your own power
What you live is your own story
In your head is the answer
Let it guide you along
Let your heart be the anchor
And the beat of your own song
[ Rush Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
Rush -- Lyrics by Neil Peart
Waiting for the winds of change
To sweep the clouds away
Waiting for the rainbow's end
To cast its gold your way
Countless ways
You pass the days
Waiting for someone to call
And turn your world around
Looking for an answer to
The question you have found
Looking for
An open door
You don't get something for nothing
You don't get freedom for free
You won't get wise
With the sleep still in your eyes
No matter what your dreams might be
What you own is your own kingdom
What you do is your own glory
What you love is your own power
What you live is your own story
In your head is the answer
Let it guide you along
Let your heart be the anchor
And the beat of your own song
[ Rush Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
ART WARS -- The handout
Poems: (If you are absent, fill out the ART WARS chart for Foul Shot and Base Stealer.)
This is the chart for you to print and fill out:
The Hunter
Foul Shot -- with as class
The Base Stealer -- by as pairs
Read by the poet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jI2eB_1A-z8
Example of a base stealer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ck0cq1Rqip0
Poem: The Light of a Candle
Poetry -- Fast Break
Poem in Your Pocket Day is April 18
Poems to Imitate, to be INSPIRED BY
Some classes have read the poem "A Slice of Life" and written in response to it.
2. Borrow one line from the poem and write again, this time focusing on that line, using it as the basis as a passage that will perhaps be poetic.
3. Write about what adolescence has been like for you so far.
Some classes have read the poem "A Slice of Life" and written in response to it.
| A Slice of Life What's as confusing as last week's science lab? Can be as sweet as sugar? Then, sharp as a knife? Comes quickly But with no instructions on how to handle it? Can take you up to the stars Or throw you sprawling against a rock? Just when you think you've got it figured out, It takes an unexpected turn. Those who have lived it Either warn you about the dangers it brings, Or tell you to live it to the fullest, Perhaps you know what I am talking about. Don't let it pass by without making a mark Or saving a memory, because It will only come once, and soon the opportunities, The moments, the dreams Will all just be a slice of your past The piece of life that we call Adolescence. Katherine T. 1. Write quickly for 2-3 minutes about all that this poem brings to mind for you. |
3. Write about what adolescence has been like for you so far.
NS
–noun
1.
the transitional period between puberty and adulthood in human development, extending mainly over the teen years and terminating legally when the age of majority is reached; youth.
2.
the process or state of growing to maturity.
3.
a period or stage of development, as of a society, preceding maturity.
Poem #1: A poem by Dennis Webster:
THE PENGUIN
The penguin is an awkward bird.
At least, that's what I've always heard.
It swims and waddles, never flies,
When other birds act otherwise.
Its workday outfit seems so formal
And that, I think, is hardly normal.
It keeps its egg upon its feet
Which doesn't sound so very neat.
Still, I guess the penguin does its best
To raise a child without a nest.
It's not exactly Paradise
Living on a slab of ice.
This poem was written by the father of Kim Cunningham of Hancock, New Hampshire. An artist, she has produced an illustrated booklet that includes this poem.
Found at http://www.antarctic-circle.org/poetry.htm
Science fiction is fiction (made-up rather than things that have really happened) and usually involves either outer space, technology, or ideas about the future.
Many deal with imagined technology, or with the results of the misuse of technology.
The characters usually act as people would if the situations they are placed in were real.
We shared a poem that works as a riddle, and worked on figuring out what was being described and who was seeing it that way. You could call this a "science fiction" poem!
Here is the poem: (By the way, May Swenson originally came from Utah. She was born in Logan, attended the University of Utah, and became a world-famous poet.)
Southbound. . .
By May Swenson
A tourist came in from Orbitville,
parked in the air, and said:
The creatures of this star
are made of metal and glass.
Through the transparent parts
you can see their guts.
Their feet are round and roll
on diagrams or long
measuring tapes, dark
with white lines.
They have four eyes.
The two in the back are red.
Sometimes you can see a five-eyed
one, with a red eye turning
on the top of his head.
He must be special—
the others respect him,
and go slow
when he passes, winding
among them from behind.
They all hiss as they glide,
like inches, down the marked
tapes. Those soft shapes,
shadowy inside
the hard bodies—are they
their guts or their brains?
We also read the short story, "The Boy with Five Fingers," in preparation for more short stories, and for reading the novel The Giver. This story, like The Giver, looks at a possible post-apolcalyptic future. In other words, in these books, man has destroyed civilization and most of mankind. The story and book deal with what sorts of societies might grow up many years after such an event.
In this case, apocalyse means "any universal or widespread destruction or disaster: the apocalypse of nuclear war."
any universal or widespread destruction or disaster: the apocalypse of nuclear war.
Spring is like a perhaps hand
E. E. CUMMINGS, 1894 - 1962 III
Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of Nowhere) arranging a window,into which people look (while people stare arranging and changing placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here) and changing everything carefully spring is like a perhaps Hand in a window (carefully to and fro moving New and Old things,while people stare carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there) and without breaking anything.
Vernal Sentiment
Though the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places,
The frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green,
And boys moon at girls with last year's fatuous faces,
I never am bored, however familiar the scene.
When from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter,—
Two yellow and black, and one that looks in between,—
Though it all happened before, I cannot grow bitter:
I rejoice in the spring, as though no spring ever had been.
"Vernal Sentiment" by Theodore Roethke from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke. © Anchor Books, 1974.
The frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green,
And boys moon at girls with last year's fatuous faces,
I never am bored, however familiar the scene.
When from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter,—
Two yellow and black, and one that looks in between,—
Though it all happened before, I cannot grow bitter:
I rejoice in the spring, as though no spring ever had been.
"Vernal Sentiment" by Theodore Roethke from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke. © Anchor Books, 1974.
Turtle
Who would be a turtle who could help it? A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet, She can ill afford the chances she must take In rowing toward the grasses that she eats. Her track is graceless, like dragging A packing-case places, and almost any slope Defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical, She’s often stuck up to the axle on her way To something edible. With everything optimal, She skirts the ditch which would convert Her shell into a serving dish. She lives Below luck-level, never imagining some lottery Will change her load of pottery to wings. Her only levity is patience, The sport of truly chastened things.
—Kay Ryan
The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
“The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Public Domain. (buy now)
Vernal Sentiment
Though the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places,
The frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green,
And boys moon at girls with last year's fatuous faces,
I never am bored, however familiar the scene.
When from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter,—
Two yellow and black, and one that looks in between,—
Though it all happened before, I cannot grow bitter:
I rejoice in the spring, as though no spring ever had been.
The frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green,
And boys moon at girls with last year's fatuous faces,
I never am bored, however familiar the scene.
When from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter,—
Two yellow and black, and one that looks in between,—
Though it all happened before, I cannot grow bitter:
I rejoice in the spring, as though no spring ever had been.
Don’t Look Now
It never dies:
the old gag where
the old gag where
Wile E. Coyote,
in hot pursuit
in hot pursuit
of his rocketing foe,
sprints off a cliff
sprints off a cliff
and keeps running
on thin air till he
on thin air till he
happens to look down,
nailing us every time
nailing us every time
with that why-me look
in the drawn-out
in the drawn-out
second after fortune’s
yanked the rug;
yanked the rug;
and then we follow
the poor chump’s image
the poor chump’s image
growing smaller and
smaller till the quiet
smaller till the quiet
puff of dust
on the canyon floor.
on the canyon floor.
“Don’t Look Now” by William Trowbridge from Put This On, Please. © Red Hen Press, 2014.
Wild Geese Alighting on a Lake
I watched them
As they neared the lake
As they neared the lake
They wheeled
In a wide arc
With beating wings
And then
In a wide arc
With beating wings
And then
They put their wings to sleep
And glided downward in a drift
Of pure abandonment
And glided downward in a drift
Of pure abandonment
Until they touched
The surface of the lake
The surface of the lake
Composed their wings
And settled
On the rippling water
As though it were a nest.
And settled
On the rippling water
As though it were a nest.
“Wild Geese Alighting on a Lake” by Anne Porter from Living Things. © Zoland Books, 2006.
We Wear the Mask
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
__________________________ Death
The Blue Bowl
Like primitives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole.
They fell with a hiss
and thud on his side,
on his long red fur, the white feathers
between his toes, and his
long, not to say aquiline, nose.
We stood and brushed each other off.
There are sorrows keener than these.
Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.
—Jane Kenyon
_________________________________Math
____________________________
"Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
______________________________
Mary Oliver
The Sun
Numbers
I like the generosity of numbers. The way, for example, they are willing to count anything or anyone: two pickles, one door to the room, eight dancers dressed as swans. I like the domesticity of addition-- add two cups of milk and stir-- the sense of plenty: six plums on the ground, three more falling from the tree. And multiplication's school of fish times fish, whose silver bodies breed beneath the shadow of a boat. Even subtraction is never loss, just addition somewhere else: five sparrows take away two, the two in someone else's garden now. There's an amplitude to long division, as it opens Chinese take-out box by paper box, inside every folded cookie a new fortune. And I never fail to be surprised by the gift of an odd remainder, footloose at the end: forty-seven divided by eleven equals four, with three remaining. Three boys beyond their mothers' call, two Italians off to the sea, one sock that isn't anywhere you look.
—Mary Cornish
Arithmetic - Poem by Carl Sandburg
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your
head.
Arithmet ic tell you how many you lose or win if you know how
many you had before you lost or won.
Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children go to heaven -- or five
six bundle of sticks.
Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand
to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.
Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and
you can look out of the window and see the blue sky -- or the
answer is wrong and you have to start all over and try again
and see how it comes out this time.
If you take a number and double it and double it again and then
double it a few more times, the number gets bigger and bigger
and goes higher and higher and only arithmetic can tell you
what the number is when you decide to quit doubling.
Arithmetic is where you have to multiply -- and you carry the
multiplication table in your head and hope you won't lose it.
If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad, and you
eat one and a striped zebra with streaks all over him eats the
other, how many animal crackers will you have if somebody
offers you five six seven and you say No no no and you say
Nay nay nay and you say Nix nix nix?
If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she
gives you two fried eggs and you eat both of them, who is
better in arithmetic, you or your mother?
head.
Arithmet ic tell you how many you lose or win if you know how
many you had before you lost or won.
Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children go to heaven -- or five
six bundle of sticks.
Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand
to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.
Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and
you can look out of the window and see the blue sky -- or the
answer is wrong and you have to start all over and try again
and see how it comes out this time.
If you take a number and double it and double it again and then
double it a few more times, the number gets bigger and bigger
and goes higher and higher and only arithmetic can tell you
what the number is when you decide to quit doubling.
Arithmetic is where you have to multiply -- and you carry the
multiplication table in your head and hope you won't lose it.
If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad, and you
eat one and a striped zebra with streaks all over him eats the
other, how many animal crackers will you have if somebody
offers you five six seven and you say No no no and you say
Nay nay nay and you say Nix nix nix?
If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she
gives you two fried eggs and you eat both of them, who is
better in arithmetic, you or your mother?
____________________________
Poetry by e.e. cummings
To use with Newly
"THE RUNAWAY"
"Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, 'Whose colt?'
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.
We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and gray,
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
'I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter-broken. It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, "Sakes,
It's only weather." He'd think she didn't know!
Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'
And now he comes again with the clatter of stone,
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
Ought to be told to come and take him in.'
by Robert Frost
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
Mary Oliver
The Sun
____________________________________________________
More poems at --
http://www.edutopia.org/blog/start-class-poem-each-day-brett-vogelsinger?utm_source=SilverpopMailing&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=031616%20enews%20poetmo%20ngm&utm_content=&utm_term=fea1hed&spMailingID=13981553&spUserID=MjcyNjE3MDU5MjcS1&spJobID=741193447&spReportId=NzQxMTkzNDQ3S0http://www.scholastic.com/teachers/article/grades-4-5-art-poetry?eml=Teachers/smd/20160419/Facebook/TeachersPage/INST/2100/grades-4-5-art-poetry&linkId=23567074
http://www.scholastic.com/teachers/top-teaching/2016/04/ekphrasis-poetry-about-art?eml=Teachers/smd/20160420/Facebook///SMO/Teachers/TopTeaching/AlyciaZimmerman/
