My sixth grade class was a disaster today. Here's what happened. About 25 of my 35 had to finish up this round of OAKS testing, but because everyone in the building is testing their kids, the library (where they usually do the testing) was full. So Laura had to keep the 25 kids in the classrooms with the COW (computers on wheels, moo) while I took the 10 students who weren't testing out into the commons. I had planned a leisurely hour of poem writing, with just a few students. We were going to whisper because the commons is shared space with four other classrooms.
So we began. And things were just fine. But then other students kept finishing their tests (pesky students!), and Laura kept sending them out into the commons. As their numbers grew, my plan (which was for 10 kids) quickly became untenable, and then we didn't have enough paper or chairs or pencils, and then, of course, every time a new student arrived there was another round of "what are we doings?" and the little subsequent flare-ups, and, of course, they had just come from testing, which "sucks" (to use their lingo), so they were wired and a little off-the-wall, and so, with maybe fifteen minutes left in the period, I had 30 of 35 kids out in the commons--with not enough chairs and an insufficient plan and an ever-increasing decibel level. And of course I started to feeling extremely self-conscious about the noise they (we!) were making; why couldn't I control 30 11 year olds in an unfamiliar space without the proper furniture or materials! How bad does this make me look!
There came a moment when I was either going to laugh or scream.
So I laughed.
And then I put them into threes, and gave them all of these wordles I made from poems. I asked them to make poems using only words from the wordles. I had them sit or lie on the floor in the commons, with space between them and other groups.
And then something miraculous happened: they all started to talk and write.
I hesitate to say too much about the poems. I think they're amazing. And I have no idea how such interesting little poems emerged from the utter chaos that I oversaw between 10:52 and 11:50 a.m. today.
*
The postman likes creaky white branches.
He sleeps days and years.
His death was ancient.
He migrates into bitter bottoms.
The music is everything against his religion.
He runs laps through chump.
He plays in salty snow without getting news.
*
Time seems long
talking glass
*
Strong creaky octopus
Bitter things lie
Freedom sold away
Blueish sky loves bread
salty pink branches
staring onto better days
tears drop onto floors
Empty bohemian jars
Last night friends swept odd furniture
*
creaky bitter feel right
porch cup edge
white salty postman
*
The death is like broken glass
Everything sounds like waves
death loves wine
*
Death is a jar
a standing salesman raised the help
everything else is against old wooden father
The hallway is a wild edge
last night everything regrets freedom
*
The pink octopus swallowed the curtains
in the night,
then splashed into the salty waves.
leaping leaves swayed on creaking branches,
windy sounds drift across seas.
*
Strong suction cups
stick words away
like leaping octopus
went
turning echos
broken sand fields
pulled among bleached windy oats
pink welts threatened Ezra
wind ripped things
swallowed lost
feet splashed across
*
the ancient death is the treetops
of the darkness. Right flashing rooms meant
wolves wild dogs penetrate the darkness.
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