By David L. Harrison

I know poets with Ph.D. in front of their names. They lecture about poetry, write books about poetry, and their poems appear in erudite journals and magazines. I know poets who learned their trade by taking classes and workshops, reading poetry, and writing a lot of their own. And I know poets who are tone-deaf, metrically challenged and have little chance of ever being published. But from the amateur to the renowned, all these poets write for the same reason: they love to write poems. There’s another category of poets I know: teachers, who find themselves facing the annual, obligatory poetry unit with the same enthusiasm with which they greet preparing their taxes. It’s one thing to write poems because you want to. Writing them because you have to, especially in front of a classroom of kids watching, can be quite another matter. But it doesn’t have to be, and it shouldn’t be.

When I made up my first poem, I was hungry and tired of waiting. My mother was frying fish in the kitchen and I was sent to the living room to wait for dinner. The words I thought of expressed my need. I liked the way they sounded. “Sometimes I wish/I had a fish/upon a little dish.” No one told me I had to make up a poem. I was six years old so I could do anything. Seven decades later I’m still making up poems. The reason hasn’t changed: it’s a fun thing to do. Writing poems makes me feel good. Writing well is neither simple nor easy but it provides me with a sense of gratification that drives my desire to do it again. I keep paper and pen close by. I stash them in my bedroom, my car, my pockets. If there’s anything I’m better at than finding enticing ideas at unexpected times and places, it’s forgetting them if I don’t quickly scratch out a note.

I write poems because I can’t not write poems. No other form of writing can do for me what poetry can. In a few words I can express my thoughts and feelings about anything that attracts my interest—from wanting a fish upon a dish to the day our daughter was born. This works across the board for everyone from beginner to old pro to teacher showing kids how to do it. What other genre of writing can give us such a range of opportunities?

None.

Unless our ultimate goal is to see our work published, how good we are at writing poems is not as important as the fact that we can write poems. Few people have time or fortitude to tackle a story, much less a novel, but anyone can write a poem and receive the rewards that only true self-expression can provide. Studies show that young people who write poems expand their vocabularies, feel more acutely the natural rhythms flowing through our language, and learn to think more clearly, become more fluent readers and better speakers. Who can say that adults don’t receive similar benefits?

The last few decades have attracted a growing number of poets who specialize in writing for young readers to help entice them to write poems of their own. Many such poems appeal to readers of all ages. Where is the line between “big kids’” poetry and “little kids”’ poetry? For sure some poems meant for adult readers are too dense or sophisticated for young readers. But in many cases, it’s hard to say where or whether a line exists. When children can understand the work of a poet laureate (such as Billy Collins or Ted Kooser) and adults can like poems by “children’s” poets, the issue seems moot. When poems can be shared by so many readers, that alone is worth celebrating.

Where does a love for poetry begin? For many, it starts in kindergarten. Teachers who “marinate” their kids in poetry, as Bernice Cullinan (2006) urges, never wait until their poetry unit rolls around to read a poem to their kids. They do it every day. They know the advantages of involving poetry in every aspect of their teaching. This is not new news. Kathy A. Perfect (1999) wrote, “I could not imagine teaching a day without poetry in my classroom. It starts our day, shapes our day, and sometimes helps us get through the day.” Fast forward to Susan Hutchens (2018, personal correspondence), a Colorado teacher, who urges, “Always make room for poetry with students during times other than the obligatory poetry unit. In fact, be willing to add poetry whenever an interest arises.”

Is so much attention to poetry making a difference among young adults? Sunil Iyengar, NEA director of research and analysis, reported in June, 2018 that “twenty-eight million American adults read poetry this year — the highest percentage of poetry readership in more than 15 years…Young adults and certain racial ethnic groups account for a large portion of the increase. U.S. poetry readers aged 18 to 24 more than doubled…Among people of color, African Americans and Asian Americans are reading poetry at the highest rates — which more than doubled in the last five years.”

When my mother got married as a young woman, she gave up her secretarial job to become a stay-at-home wife and eventually raise two children. One day in her 90s, she casually mentioned to my sister and me that she had been writing poems since before we were born. She produced a shoebox filled with her poems, each handwritten on lined tablet paper. Writing poetry had been her secret delight over a lifetime. Her work wasn’t written to be published. But her love for words and writing made her a perfect coach for a 6-year-old wishing for a fish upon a dish. Not all teachers write better poems than their charges may write one day. That isn’t the point. What matters is that teachers who write poems because they love to are the ones most likely to pass that love along through their kids into the future. What a gift!

© David L. Harrison

David L. Harrison.com

David’s Blog

Cullinan, E.B. (2006), Galda, L. and Cullinan, E.B. Literature and the child. Harcourt        Brace Jovanovich

Hutchens, S. (2018) Personal correspondence. Livermore, CO

Iyengar, S. (2018, June). Reading tends to be a portal to other types of participation and           other types of engagement, in the arts and outside the arts. PBS News Hour.    Available at https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/poetry/how-young-writers-are      leading-a-poetry comeback?utm_source=Publishers%20Weekly&utm_campaign=8909d8c26c            EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2018_07_12_09_58&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_0   b2959cbb-8909d8c26c-305355025

Perfect, K.A. (1999, April). Rhyme and reason: poetry for the heart and head. The           Reading Teacher. V. 52, N. 7, P. 728. Newark, DE. International Reading         Association. Available at    https://www.jstor.org/stable/20204675?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents.

By: Lester Laminack

I’m going to risk making the assumption that each of you, at some point, has heard someone say, “if these walls could talk…”  It has been my experience that folks say something like that when walking through historic buildings, old or abandoned houses, and in buildings where either tragedy or scandal has occurred. Yet, it occurs to me that the walls of our schools do indeed talk. In fact, I think they have much to say to anyone willing to listen.

Many years ago, I was given one of my most interesting and memorable tasks as a consultant. When I arrived at the school, I was met at the front door by the principal who held a digital camera in her hand. “School hasn’t begun just yet,” she said. “The children are still arriving, so I’d like you to take this (camera) and stroll about the building. Feel free to move in and out of any space, we are all used to visitors here. I’d like you to snap photos of anything that catches your attention, causes you to pause, puzzles or intrigues you, anything—positive or negative. Seriously, snap a photo of anything you value or question or wonder about. Then, around ten o’clock I’d like you to meet with me in my office. I want to download the photos on my computer and go through them with you. I want to hear what our school speaks to you, to know if we project what we proclaim.”

Seriously, this was my task for the first few hours of that day. It remains one of the most fascinating tasks I’ve been assigned as a consultant. No other administrator has ever asked this of me since. 

I moved through the hallways thinking that I would walk through the entire building and get a feel for the place before snapping any photos. As I strolled, I was struck again and again by the presence of student art on display. It was presented as if I were in a museum. There were display cases for smaller pieces including three-dimensional works, as well as paintings and sketches on easels. In corners and stairwells, I found pedestals with larger pieces that could be viewed from all sides. Then, I came upon a large section of the wall covered in matte black fabric to create a display space in a hallway. Hanging in the center of the display was a famous print, of generous proportion, from an artist with historic renown. The print was tastefully matted, like something you’d hang in your home. There were smaller pieces done in a style similar to the featured masterwork. These smaller pieces were the works of students and it was clear that they were created by artists ranging from four to twelve years of age. The student works were not clustered by grade or age level and they shared the spotlight equally. Each piece of student work was presented as a serious work of art, matted in a manner similar to the masterwork. Placed carefully among the various student pieces were small placards with statements noting how the student artist had employed a technique learned from a study of the renowned artist being featured. A length of yarn was attached to each student piece and ran to some point in the masterwork drawing the viewer’s eye to the stated connection. In addition, there was a placard (about 10”x14”) listing out the standards these artists were working on as they studied the renowned artist and created these pieces.

All this was so carefully displayed to center children in the creation of art. There was a clear celebration of the genius of childhood, the exuberance of creativity, and the joy of producing the work.

This was in contrast to what I found when exploring the writing of children on display. As I strolled through the halls, pausing outside the classroom after classroom the most typical presentation of writing was a collection of stories neatly written and organized around a shared topic (The Worst Day Ever, The Best Surprise, I Was Never More Frightened). Each piece in a given collection shared a common opening line, a set of transition phrases, the same general organization, and an obvious lack of spelling or grammar “errors.”

What struck me most in this contrast is how differently we view and celebrate children when the product of their effort is something graded for the report card and “valued” by a score on a standardized test. I was soaring with joy when I encountered the child in each piece of art. No two pieces looked the same. There was no obvious effort to have them attempt to replicate the masterwork. Instead, the focus was on the technique of the artist—the use of color and line, and materials to execute an intention. Those attempts were celebrated as they were evidenced in each piece. And the celebration of those attempts was given a place of honor and respect alongside the masterwork.

By contrast it was not the child being celebrated in the writing displayed in the halls. Rather, it was the standard/conventional spellings, the standard/conventional use of punctuation, the adherence to the organizational frame and use of the prescribed transition phrases that were centered in their writing. 

There were many other wonderful things those walls whispered, and chanted, and cheered about that morning. There was so much to celebrate in that school, but the best conversation was delving into an exploration of how we could center and celebrate the child in the writing work in a way that would parallel the pride and joy so obvious in the art.

“…if these walls could talk…” Well, friends, they do. Now the question is, “do they project what we proclaim?”

Lester’s books are on Amazon!

Learn more about Lester Laminack, check out his website!

Follow Lester on Twitter @lester_laminack

By: Jacob Chastain

Quality writing does not happen in a vacuum. Likewise, it is not improved by endless and boring worksheets, grammar practice, and writing in isolation from in-authentic sources.

         Writing, at least writing worth reading and doing, occurs when the writer has something they genuinely want to say, reflect on, or respond to. But how do writers gain the tools to do so? Many companies would like to tell you that a computer program (a modern-day workbook) is the solution. Just sit your students in front of a screen and have them correct sentences for thirty minutes a day and you too can have a writer who knows how to use a comma correctly! Teachers, ill-trained or supported in authentic practices accept these programs in the name of simplicity or mandates and move on. Meanwhile, they get to suffer as they read draft after draft of poor, lifeless writing from their students and lose faith over time that they can teach writing or that students can do it well.

         The interesting piece to this scenario is that the teacher using such computer programs (or worksheets) to teach writing are often ignoring what they are doing in reading. In reading, this teacher probably looked at a section of a story, article, or poem, asked some questions, and quite possibly even analyzed language to some extent, looking for meaning. These are all solid teaching moves within reading, but why not use those in writing as well? Why create two separate lesson plans, when the first can serve both sides of what needs to happen in a literacy class?

         Students should read like readers and read like writers. They should be tasked with experiencing the text and all that it offers, and then be challenged to look at it from a different perspective and ask the deep question, “How did the author do that?”

         By just focusing on reading as a reader, we train students to be consumers of information, and never creators or synthesizers of it. We passively ask students to consider what the author was meaning when we could also offer for them to create their own meaning using the model in front of them.

         Rather than just asking what the theme in a poem is, we can extend this to ask students how did the author convey that theme through language, symbols, and structure.

         Rather than just asking what the argument of a piece was and if it was effective, we could ask what is the most effective way for them to argue for what they are passionate about.

         Rather than just asking about text structures, we can invite them to try text structures we have seen to elevate their own pieces.

         Rather than just looking at a beautiful sentence or paragraph and discussing it, we can ask our students to look at the craft of writing, the use of commas, periods, and dashes, and get them to see grammar as a tool for meaning, rather than punishment and nuisance.

         If you are using great literature in your class, and we all should be, then the models are already there for you. Students don’t need worksheets, and you don’t need to be the greatest writer as their teacher. They need to see great writing in texts they can relate to, and you need to be equipped enough to be able to invite them into a multi-dimensional look at the examples all around them.

         This approach creates deeper thinking in students. Over time, they begin reading in a way that is far more critical than a reader that has had a one-sided education. Rather than just consuming news, for example, they will now be able to distance themselves away from the material long enough to ask, “What was the author doing here? Why did they write this headline like this? What was the point of this structure?”

         Teachers all over the world will bang their heads against the wall trying to get students to think about the author’s purpose and infer meanings in texts, but never offer students the chance to play those roles themselves and actually be the writer! It’s hard to grasp why someone might do something without ever stepping into their shoes. As students write more and think about their purpose for writing more, they will be able to read texts with more nuance and depth than they could previously. 

Experience crafts deeper thinking. 

Social media: 

Facebook—Facebook.com/teachmeteacher

Instagram—@teachmeteacherhost

Twitter—@jacobchastain_

By: Lester Laminack

We live on a twenty-two-acre portion of an old farm nestled in the mountains of western North Carolina. Our property has acres of woods and acres of open meadows where cows grazed, and hay was harvested. I keep those meadows mowed. It takes about six hours on a small tractor to mow all of them and I do that at least twice each month. Six hours sitting on a tractor, wearing sound-muffling-headphones, is a great time to think. It is actually one of my new revision tools and a great time for reflection. When I am writing and hit a wall, I start the tractor and mow and think. When something is troubling me, I mow and think. 

Recently I was obsessed with the words: critic, criticize, criticism, and critique. I was rolling them around in my mind noticing their similarities and reflecting on how we interpret them. It seems that we are in a time when critics are present at every corner and on every tweet and post. News outlets and social media seem to thrive on criticism. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I find all that negativity draining, and it has me thinking. 

Some may argue it is only semantics, but I believe we feel the difference between criticism and critique. In my mind, criticism almost always comes from a negative place. Criticism lifts up what is wrong, incorrect, missing; all the negatives. Criticism seems to delight in finding flaws and flaunting them. You aren’t likely to want to help if someone says: “Just stop, that’s not how you load the dishwasher. You don’t put the plates in like that. Good grief.” Negativity never helps me move forward, improve, or make change. In fact, I find my reaction to negativity is quite the opposite. Negativity most often leads me to pull back, to withdraw, to avoid. 

I view critique, on the other hand, as coming from a positive place. Critique is what my editor offers when we have a conference to talk about one of my projects. She points out the strong parts of the manuscript, she lifts up what is working well, she speaks to those places where the language “sings”, where the characters and the dialog move the plot along, and points where the story “shines.” Then, within the context of that safety net of support, she draws a tight focus on a couple of places that are not working as well. Any attention to negatives is presented within the context of what is working, and she shows how the negative bit she chooses to highlight is detracting from all that is working well. 

If you are thinking this is some sort of coddling or ego management, then so be it. I’d rather think of it as guidance. Within the context of what is working well, the negative can be seen more clearly, more objectively. That is to say when negatives are presented in this way, I am able to see more clearly why something isn’t working and how it detracts from the story I’m trying to tell. Critique helps me to understand what I do well, what I have under control and gives me a window into where, how, and why I can improve. I find that critique, when defined this way, actually makes me a better writer. The next draft is tighter because I can reflect on what is working as I address what is not. Because I understand the intentions of my editor, I am energized to jump back into the work knowing exactly where to focus my attention.

From this perspective, critique is an act of caring. It requires that you reflect on what works in addition to what doesn’t. It requires that you consider your comments within a context, to pause and recognize that something isn’t “wrong” simply because it isn’t the way you would do it (e.g. loading the dishwasher). It asks you to consider whether your suggestion is coming from a place of support and potential for growth.  Critique is the positive energy of a critic.

Of course, this line of thought took me to school. It gave me pause and nudged me to examine interactions with both students and teachers. It is easy to notice the flaws, to see what is not working. It is easy to point those out. But, is it helpful? Is criticism beneficial to our students or our colleagues? I don’t think so, especially when criticism is coming from a negative place.

I find that criticism most often becomes a default mode when we are operating under stress. I believe most of you will agree that this has been one of the most stressful periods in our memory for our schools, our teachers, our students, and their families. When we are stressed, we are less likely to think clearly, less likely to consider the impact of our intentions, and less likely to think through how our feedback may impede or facilitate growth and positive change.  With that in mind I invite you to pause and reflect the feedback you give your students when offering suggestions for growth.

Lester’s books are on Amazon!

Learn more about Lester Laminack, check out his website!

Follow Lester on Twitter @lester_laminack