Poetry

poets
  • We love Poetry!!!
    (click here for some funny poems)

    The Standards we use in 4th grade when we write poetry are:

    Students will:
    *Engage the reader by developing reader interest through the use of literary language, image, sound, rhythm, and/ or topic.
    *Develop a controlling idea that conveys a perspective on the subject.
    *Create an organizing structure appropriate to a specific purpose, audience and context.
    *Include appropriate words and details.
    *Exclude extraneous and inappropriate words and details.
    *Carefully choose every word.
    *Use a range of appropriate strategies such as alliteration, assonance, consonance, imagery, line breaks, similes, metaphors, onomatopoeia, personification, repetition, rhyme, rhythm and literary language.
    *Provide a sense of closure to the writing.

    We put those standards into "I can" statements to make it easier for the students to meet those standards.

    The “I can” statements we use:
    *I can use beautiful language, images, sounds, rhythm to talk about my topic and get my reader’s attention because I don’t want them to be bored;
    *I can have one main idea that every part of the poem helps to explain/ describe;
    *I can use different poetry techniques (such as stanzas, line breaks, …) to organize my thoughts and help readers understand my poem;
    *I can keep in stuff that matters, stuff that is important;
    *I can take out stuff that doesn’t matter, that isn’t important;
    *I can choose every word I use very carefully;
    *I can use good poetry writing strategies such as alliteration, assonance, consonance, imagery, line breaks, similes, metaphors, onomatopoeia, personification, repetition, rhyme, rhythm and beautiful language
    *I can have a good ending to my poem.


    Some poems to consider...

    Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound's the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.
                                         by Robert Frost

    Fueled

    Fueled
    by a million
    man-made
    wings of fire—
    the rocket tore a tunnel
    through the sky—
    and everybody cheered.
    Fueled 
    only by a thought from God—
    the seedling
    urged its way
    through the thickness of black—
    and as it pierced 
    the heavy ceiling of the soil—
    and launched itself
    up into outer space—
    no
    one
    even
    clapped.
     
                     By Marice Hans


     

    Speech Class

    by Jim Daniels
                              for Joe
     
    We were outcasts—
    you with your stutters,
    me with my slurring—
    and that was plenty for a friendship.
     
    When we left class to go to the therapist
    we hoped they wouldn’t laugh—
    took turns reminding the teacher:
    “Me and Joe have to go to shpeesh clash now,”
    or “M-m-me and J-Jim ha-have to go to
    s-s-speech now.”
     
    Mrs. Clark, therapist, was also god, friend, mother.
    Once she took us to the zoo on a field trip:
    “Aw, ya gonna go look at the monkeys?”
    “Maybe they’ll teach you how to talk.”
    We clenched teeth and went
    and felt the sun and fed the animals
    and we were a family of broken words.
     
    For years we both tried so hard
    and I finally learned
    where to put my tongue and how to make the sounds
    and graduated,
    but the first time you left class without me
    I felt that punch in the gut—
    I felt like a deserter
    and wanted you
    to have my voice.

     

    I Love the Look of Words

    Popcorn leaps, popping from the floor
    of a hot black skillet
    and into my mouth.
    Black words leap, 
    snapping from the white
    page.  Rushing into my eyes.  Sliding
    into my brain which gobbles them
    the way my tongue and teeth
    chomp the buttered popcorn.
     
    When I have stopped reading,
    ideas from the words stay stuck
    in my mind, like the sweet
    smell of butter perfuming my
    fingers long after the popcorn
    is finished.
     
    I love the book and the look of words
    the weight of ideas that popped into my mind.
    I love the tracks
    of new thinking in my mind.
                              by Maya Angelou