Where I'm From, 2015 extended dance mix

     Another poetry month has come and gone. In spite of state testing on the horizon, we spent some time creating our "Where I'm From" poems in order to get a handle on free verse techniques. I asked that children go heavy on the sensory imagery and gather facts from at least one family member of a different generation. 
     There are at least two other posts on my blog about this activity, but this year students chose a "golden line" to include in our collective/collaborative poem.
   If a line is indented, that means it belongs to the same person who wrote the preceding line. The students are very proud of their work, and we hope you enjoy reading our family history.

“Where I’m From”

I am from a stranger time

          from a bad war and an old compass

A man who put his country before him

          And became my hero

I am from military moves all around the globe

I am from the tendrils of the Vietnam War

And my grandfather’s homecoming

I am from C-130’s in Vietnam

          To Apache helicopters in Afghanistan

And keeping vendettas

I am from a broken down town

          Gun shells everywhere

From stitches in people

to stitches in stuffed animals

I am from collections of Indian arrow heads

I am from open fields and massive mountains

From sleeping under the stars

I am from long rides to county fairs

From hooves pounding against the ground

          To get to the open

I’m from factory fresh Rolls Royces

          and dusty Chevy step sides

I am from rusty trucks and muddy boots

I am from the scratches on my knees

I am from the acne on my parents’ faces

I am from sweet tea on the front porch swing

From a cheagle running

I am from slurred words and fast talkin’

I am from corn hole and fireworks

          Until the neighbors complain

Where pranks were part of our daily routine

I am from the country mile to the city limits

from blaring Bruce Springsteen out of the old stereo in the Blazer

Pushin’ the speed limit on dirt roads without a care in the world

I am from the North and the South

I’m from the smell of horses and fresh cut grass

I’m from the quick whiff of cookies baking

I am from Florida, Ohio, Virginia,

          Each with friendships broken and repaired

I am from Puerto Rican neat freaks

I am from the Naval base in Japan

          Two baby boys brought home

          To the giddy faces of their new family

          Fighting over who gets to hold them first

I am from New Orleans

          Where the gumbo smells like vegetable soup

I am from the salty smell of the Gulf

I am from Portugal

          With soccer fanatics and day long beach trips

I am from gauchos and riding bulls

I am from a small town with big ideas

From long, loving hugs

          To sweet, short ones

I am from the grunge sound

          Of Nirvana and 4 Non Blondes

I am from Kurt Cobain concerts

          And from Onyx blaring through the Walkman

I am from Def Leppard

Days of listening to 45’s

using my hairbrush as a microphone

Old school music and fancy car shows

          Never dull or boring, a bunch of Chatty Cathys

Family of blue and green eyes

I am from weekends spent in tomato fields

          Hoping that a sweet pecan pie was hot on the stove when I got home

I am from jars of lightning bugs we’d collect at sunset

From the political disagreements in the dining room

          washed down with sweet tea

I am from big meals and bigger hearts

I am from the sound of music and joined hands

From sitting in lonely hospitals

From calls to get a cat out of a tree

          To taking a tree off of a house

I am from the feet running off the starting line

          To oars gliding against the calm, cool water

To Friday night soccer

          To Saturday morning cheers

Wrestling instead of pageants

I’m from the smell of nicotine from lit cigarettes

to Mom and Dad smoking with the windows up

I’m from the 60’s and 70’s peace movement

And pinning dead bugs on cardboard

I am from old school hip hop and sick beats

And watching Netflix in my bed

I’m from soccer every weekend

From hustling to first base

          And playing infield

Feeling muscles getting stronger with every throw

I am from summer vacations in the OBX

From barefoot summer nights on the beach

I’m from cold ocean breezes and city smog

Warm, cozy and away from the freezing winter

Jumping on the trampoline in the cool rain

Blue water and chlorine

I am from standing on the pier

From the scent of freshly baked bread out of the oven

And dunking Oreos,

          But making sure the milk doesn’t drip

On

the

couch

I am from the smell of Lysol and bleach

I am from Sunday morning church

From fussy pajamas on Christmas Eve

From working hard and playing harder

Hand-me-downs were a necessity for some

From the smell of pasta made on Italian streets

From hot tea with too much sugar

I am from beautiful outcomes and tragic mistakes

I am from a caring grandmother

I am from the highs and lows of life

Motivated by my mother’s and father’s words

The dream is still alive

From parental love that will never fade

Sister to Jesus’s disciple, Buddha’s enlightened, and the lack thereof

And making my mark upon the world

          And touching the hearts of people

I’m from never forgetting

that family is everything

          and always sticking together

For they are

          My key

Brown Girl Dreaming

One of my Christmas gifts to myself was to read Brown Girl Dreaming from cover to cover. I read about a quarter of it when it first arrived in the library, but I wanted to wait until the winter break and after my Longwood classes were finished. I wanted a clear space in my head to fill with Woodson's poetry. I wanted to binge on everything I love about the South.

I am taking a break on page 191 to write this.

Page 191 opens with, "My grandmother's kitchen is the same/ big and yellow and smelling of the pound cake/ she's made to welcome us back."

Those three lines got me good, so I had to stop. And blow my nose. And pet my cat. And blow my nose again.

I miss my grandparents every day. Every single day. There's a special kind of longing when Christmas is around the corner. I bet you know just what I'm talking about. I know I'm not alone.

My grandmother's kitchen was the same throughout my memory. It was also yellow and often smelling of cake and full of welcome. It was the first room you came to as you stepped in from the porch. Desserts were often tailored to celebrate a holiday or family member. The happy yellow of that kitchen, the tall glasses filled with half-moons of ice waiting for the tea to pour, the perpetually operating oven, the bleach-clean white of the sink with the dish rag laid just so in between meals, the asparagus left forgotten in the microwave until the table was cleared, the breadbox with Mr. Goodbars inside. We all have those slivers of tiny images in our mind's eye that add up to something wonderful.

The magic of the kitchen. There's nothing like it. When their house was sold, the kitchen was still the same. It was a comfort and has become a place I often dream about, when I am not dreaming about their summer garden. I wish I had nicked a chip of the yellow wall, but I did my best to commit the small room to memory.

There's a strange satisfaction knowing that such a beloved place will become the backdrop for another family's memories. I loved driving past the house after it sold and imagining new folks eating in the kitchen, watching t.v. in the den and gazing at the traffic whizzing by just outside of the huge living room window.  Even if it wasn't the same, I could pretend that the kitchen hadn't changed.

The land where my grandparents' home stood.

When the house was demolished to build a Dollar General, I couldn't fantasize anymore. Even so, there's something comforting about being able to step back into their yard and choose an ice cream sandwich from the freezer. 

The Dollar General on Jefferson Ave.

But when I read those three lines tonight, I just wanted to pretend that tonight the dishes are all done. Tins of chocolate chip cookies, spiced pecans, divinity and other treats sit cooling on the porch. My grandparents are in the den watching the news. The light above the kitchen sink is glowing above the asphalt driveway. The Christmas tree in the living room is dressed and blinking. My grandparents are thinking about having a dish of ice cream, Breyer's vanilla in particular. And the sound of car tires cutting through water at 55 mph is on a continuous loop.


What a treat it is to have such lovely memories, to have a family that is so present and to have that nosey eye of a writer as a child. There are so many tiny details of everyday living that I have stored away. Now and then I polish a memory up a bit before sending it back to the archives.

Those "me too" moments are part of what keeps us reading, and I'm so thankful to Ms. Woodson for that bit of comfort tonight.

My grandparents' azalea is still thriving on the edge of the Dollar General parking lot.

Gotta Go Back in Time

Poetry Month has arrived again. 

My poster came in the mail today. Thanks, Penguin.

This year I asked my friends and colleagues 

to consider this question:

I know what Ponyboy Curtis would choose. 

So far, I have posted the following answers in our hallway:

"The Bagel" from Grace

"And Your Soul Shall Dance" from Susan

"The Girl Who Loved the Sky" from Susan

"The Swing" from Julie & "No Man is an Island" from Michele

Beth and I both like "Forever Young." It was on the first final exam I ever gave.

"You've Got A Friend" from Trish; "I Can See Clearly Now" from Jeff.

"Child of the Wild Blue Yonder" from Jennifer' "You Can Do Magic" from Heather.

"Phenomenal Woman" from Kate; "Alone" from Anne.

Everyone wants to to enjoy 24 hours of "Happy."
"Daffodils" from Susan; "To Live is to Fly" from Rob.

"It Don't Come Easy" from Donna; "Just A Girl" from Lori.

"One of These Things First" from Chris; "Eyes of the World" from Beth.

"The Road Not Taken" from Ruth, Alice & Laura.

"You Can't Hurry Love" from Joyce.

"Wasted on the Way" from Nat

We still have room for you!

If you would like to replicate this display, all you need are manilla folders, a glue stick, a stapler, scrapbook paper, multicolor printer paper, scissors, a photocopier, a printer and a few pals.

You can make QR codes here.

The ones I used here connect to performances of the songs on YouTube.

We have compiled a Spotify playlist for you to listen to here.

Where Tanner's From

If this post's title sounds familiar, it's probably because you remember an entry from a while back, Where Malik's From.   See the original writing assignment here.

I'm just stopping by to remind all of us that writers bloom throughout the year.   I get a whole lot of flowers in September, but I also get some children who are seeds, bulbs and tubers...and planted at different times.   That's pretty normal in 8th grade.

There's a whole lot of research about boys and language arts instruction, so go ahead and read it.   Don't discount what you know to be true from firsthand experiences either.   There's not one magic key that unlocks a joy of writing for boys.   The young men who are most successful in becoming writers with my style of teaching have these commonalities:

They listen to mini-lessons on writing skills.

They practice these skills in small bits of writing.

They then work these skills into larger pieces of writing.

They welcome feedback.

They recognize that writing is a craft.

They get downright metacognitive about their use of language.

They believe that the world around them is to be examined.

They know that a final draft means edits and revisions, not simply neatness.

Before you think that I am a "my way or the highway" kind of writing teacher, I'd like to say that I don't think that I am.   I can't be certain, but I am pretty sure that if I were reviewing student writing with Stephen King, Anne Lamott and Natalie Goldberg-- we'd at least recognize and agree upon bad writing when we saw it.   And...yeah...it's totally okay to see some bad writing from 8th graders.   I mean, they're 8th graders.   Sheesh.

I center September around some of Laura Robb's mini lessons for writers and Nancie Atwell's lesson on narrative leads.   If I can get kids using specific nouns, strong verbs, a variety of sentence starters, PARAGRAPHS, effective narrative leads and a unified topic...I feel pretty ding dang good about that.

(Pardon my shouting.   I'm still teaching perfectly kind children how to paragraph narratives.   It's December.   It hurts.   My eyes are bleeding from the dreaded BIG, FAT PARAGRAPH.   I might write a song about it.   Never mind.)

Back to Tanner.   He came into class on day one with a strong work ethic, unmatched tenacity, a kind spirit and some sharp writing skills.   Even so, his mom is pretty impressed with his current interest in getting all of his words in the right spots.   I sure do wish I could just let you see all of his various writing work from this year because he's a perfect example of a talented, developing writer who fits all of the qualities I listed above.   

Check this out.   Remember the two-sentence journal assignment I borrowed from a class I took at William and Mary?  Here's one of Tanner's entries, "It's the time of year when the smell of corn chaff and diesel fuel fill the air.  Visibility soon becomes low as the farmer takes the combine for another round."   You better believe I asked his permission to write that gem down for other grasshoppers to see.   It was feng shui perfection on the white board.

Here's where Tanner's from:

I’m from sunglasses in the rearview,

From tie straps and duct tape,

I am from eggs in the nesting box,

(Dry and Warm with a surprise inside)

I’m from orchard grass,

The yellow poplar,

Whose leaves fall every year just for me to collect.

I’m from fishbites and pellet guns,

From Pride and Horton,

I’m from the bluecollars and the hardheads,

From “How ya whole family doin’?”

I’m from “American born and Southern by the grace of God.”

I’m from Genesis and Communion,

3 inch slugs and ram rods,

From the man who died for our sins,

And the 10 commandments.

From the gray uniform stained with blood,

Whose owner long gone from Earth,

Waits patiently in the Promised Land for the ones who honor him most.

For those about to write

This year has been tough, but enough about that.

One benefit to our schedule is that my two fourth block classes are smallish.  This means 10-15 students most days.  Today I was enjoying myself so much; it almost felt like summer.  Almost.  We were down to 12 kids today because two of my students were on a band field trip; one was somewhere else.  All eighth graders spent their morning completing three intense timed Explore tests, so I thought I'd go easy on them.

This group loves independent reading time, so I made sure I gave them 20 minutes for that.  During that time I was also to get a child started on the audiobook for Frindle. Sadly the archaic technology of the cassette tape requires 1:1 instruction.  (Other books being read in that room include: the Lunch Lady series, the Vampire Kisses series, the Bone series, the Bluford series, the Wimpy Kid series, the Harry Potter marathon, World War Z, The Dead and the Gone, Cobra Strike, The Running Dream, Twilight, On The Run. The last title is part of, you guessed it, a series! It's Korman's Chasing the Falconers-- a sure sell for reluctant readers who can get bogged down by their reading pace. It's Friday night; I'm sure I'm forgetting someone.) Most children are reading good old-fashioned books.  One is reading on her cell phone.  By the way, if you haven't yet fallen completely in love with helping kids develop an individualized reading life, let the lovely Neil Gaiman  help you with that.

Back when I started this blog I had twice the amount of instructional time with all language arts students.  I've had to cut out some of the activities I enjoy.  On days like these when the children are a little spent or we have several absences, I try to move some of those lessons back in.

Today we created the My Name Is...  poems that I used to do the first week of school.   With only twelve students I was able to keep the art mess to one side of the classroom to make it easier on our custodians.  Students who finished first explained the secret second step of the assignment to their classmates as they were ready to pen their creations.  When they completed their work, we "published" by posting their poems on the magnetic white board with some cheap fridge magnets from Wal-Mart.   After that, I could move students around the room in order to give them other enrichment activities.

Some took Accelerated Reader tests and got new library books before the weekend.  Some played with my deck of I've Never cards.  Students sharpened our classroom supply of pencils.  They cleaned up after themselves and others. They used my school-provided iPad to play Chicktionary. They read their classmates' Six Word Memoirs as well as today's poems.  Two students helped cut apart my circus-sized copy of Chicken Soup with Rice.  (I want to create classroom posters with the pages.)  In short, we all just enjoyed each other.

I know that there is some research that negates class size as a positive variable in student achievement, but maybe it's all about the size of the room.  When I can plug learners in to different spaces with different activities when appropriate, my job is easier, and learning can be individualized.  I miss the days of being able to take my class to the technology lab in our former school building.  There were tables, a whole bank of computers, floor space, traditional desks, AND IT WAS RIGHT ACROSS FROM BATHROOMS AND A WATER FOUNTAIN.  The instructor was so cool about letting me have my class there during his planning period.  Think kindergarten classrooms for teens.

Back to reality...

So after the first student's poem was done, our assistant superintendent dropped by for an unannounced visit.  Stay calm.  It's okay.  It's always fun to see another adult in the room.  With the student's permission, I was able to show him a finished product while explaining what was going on.  He asked a young man what we were doing; the young man was additionally cutting out a snazzy moustache and other oddities while completing his 20 word collection.  I pointed out that wasn't quite what we were doing, but the assistant superintendent did remark that the child was engaged.  True.

Allowing children some time to socialize through appropriate, guided play can foster a love of language.  It helps balance out your classroom climate as well.  The classroom needs to be a place of play and experimentation in order for everyone to stay healthy and energized.  Play can build community.  Please resist allowing kids to plug into their iPods to listen to music while all of this is going on.  Believe me-- they will get all of their daily iPod time in later.  I love music too, but allowing them to detach from the "now" prevents them from connecting with friends through language and listening.  It will also dull their observational skills that you are trying to build for their writing lives.  Please don't let them disengage through isolation.  Besides, it will wreck all your feng shui up one side and down the other.

(It may be a bias that I think personal listening devices are for alone time, cutting the grass, going to sleep and pretending to be busy to avoid talking to strangers on planes.  I like my music loud and shared. \m/ )

Roasting Pan Poetry

Since we last spoke, most of my time has spent planning how to keep students busy during non-testing time before or after state tests.   This means three hour stretches with many students that I do not teach.   Thank goodness for the Jumble, Sudoku, Dover coloring books (4 for 3 on Amazon), crossword puzzles, Bananagrams, Apples to Apples, Find It, illustrated AR books, picture puzzles and Magnetic Poetry on my roasting pan.

I bought that speckled enamelware roasting pan at Macy's and got a screaming good deal...Martha Stewart on clearance.   When I got home, I noticed that it was chipped.   Back into my truck it went.   Thank goodness I never got around to returning it.   So many whiteboards are not magnetic these days.   Why not keep a roasting pan handy?   If kids create magnetic poetry on the insides of the roasting pan and the outside of the lid, you can tip the lid upside down to make it fit better into a bag for traveling to your next gig without losing a magnet.

Ridiculous?   Yes.   But when you're in a pinch, any option is a good one.

Guerrilla Poetry Bombs

Something tells me that many of you are about to have a lot of empty plastic eggs at your disposal.   How about some Guerrilla Poetry Bombs?   (Relax...no explosives needed.)

This is an activity I tried out with the Eastern Virginia Writing Project Fellows of 2009.   It's simple.   Pick some favorite poems.   Print them out.   Fold them up.   Tuck them inside a plastic egg.

Now for the fun part.   Where are you going to leave these little bits of magic?   It's up to you.   You could have a friend ride shotgun with you after sundown and launch these babies in random lawns.   I guess it could be called littering, but wouldn't Smokey and Junior enjoy a bit of surprise Shel Silverstein?   Who wouldn't?  

Don't limit yourself to the canon of lit-tra-ture.   Consider songs too.   Willie Nelson's "Always on my Mind" strikes me as the kind of lyric that would hit someone just right.   Van Morrison.   Lennon & McCartney.   Otis Redding.   Leiber & Stoller.   Brian Wilson.   Dolly Parton.   Robbie Robertson.   Bob Dylan.   Bruuuuuuuuce.   Just be sure to include the names of the poets/ lyricists.

Even a song we've experienced a billion time's before like U2's "Beautiful Day" shows a different kind of beauty in the quiet of reading the words without hearing the tune.

Here's an old classic that would be a lot of fun on paper.

Let's illuminate our little corners of the world with uplifting and lighthearted words.   Here's a free, printable bookmark from your old pal, Shel Silverstein, to inspire you.

Where Malik's From

Not so long ago I told you about a poetry exercise called Where I'm From.   I found it in Nancie Atwell's book Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons.   I have to tell you that it is my favorite writing activity that I have ever done with my students...ever.  

Why?   The students dug deep.   They thought about themselves.   They talked to their families.   They revised.   They edited.   Many even allowed me to make copies of their poems to put in a binder to share with classmates and teachers.   Some were asked to publish their work in the school literary magazine.   I wanted to publish one here for you to enjoy as well.

A big part of what I like about Atwell's book is the fact that she has published student samples alongside the bona-fide, gen-u-ine poem that inspired the lesson.   The poem I chose to share with you, with his mother's permission, is written by a young man who has a natural ear for language.  At the same time, he would agree with Thomas Mann's statement, "A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."  

Malik is about the craft.   His poem was a process.   Believe it.   I was there.   His first draft was flat but intriguing.   I know when he's "in the zone."   But I hadn't seen it yet with this activity.   It took having the poem knocking around in his brain for a day for the pieces to start falling into the right places.   He opened with a general line about slavery and moved quickly to the next subject.   I had a feeling that there was more there, but he wasn't able to come up with it until he had a chance to talk with family.   He did.   The poem really opened up after that.   See what you think.

“where i’m from”

i’m from slaves working in the hot fields of gloucester
to whites only and piles of found jewelry.
i’m from farming crops and hard work to
“when will we be free from this misery?”
i’m from families being torn apart
to  wondering if relatives will be found,
dead or alive.

i’m from newport news to a family of 5
i’m from "that’s dope" and billy jean,
to the greatest love of all.
i’m from the the jeffersons and moving to the eastside,
to finally getting a piece of the pie.
i’m from the sweet taste of butterfingers
to playing with barbies and kens.
i’m from the witches and mysteries
to playing softball in the warm dusty summer of ’90.
i’m from stacks of poems and books,
to barking dogs and purple soda.
i’m from a ripping eye and pain,
to doctors working to fix it.

i’m from a lost boy living in hawaii
to a military woman with no children.
i’m from that boy found and loved
to that woman who’s now a mom.
i’m from a calm, peaceful place
to the concrete jungle of new york.
i’m from winters spent in maine
to the sunny city of los angeles.
i’m from the flow and rhyme of a
lonely soul,
to slick rick reading
a
fairy tale.

The Heart of Rock and Roll

This one's on my bucket list for later, but maybe you want to get to it sooner.   Every summer the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum invites teachers to Cleveland for a week to learn how to use popular music to enhance their lessons.  
You are responsible for paying for the class as well as food, lodging and transportation.   You can also earn graduate credit through Ashland University...for a fee.   If you're a local, maybe you just want to hang out at their library and enjoy the archives.   Explore the previous years' institutes to see what a typical week involves before you fork over your funds.  

Too busy (broke) to travel this summer? Dress in pleather, play your own music collection and peruse some pre-made lesson plans.  

Maybe you want to donate your stage costume from your world tour...you can do that too.   You've really made the grade.

Blackout Poetry

If you have a newspaper and a black marker, you have some poems on your hands.   Just ask writer/artist Austin Kleon.   

Choose a spot in the newspaper, decide which words are getting in the way of your emerging poem and mark right through them with your black Sharpie.   Left behind are the lines of your new creation.   Magic!

In order to simplify this exercise for 8th graders, I added a couple of steps.   Students used pencils first to identify words to cover with their markers.   Also, I asked that they glue their chosen text into their journals before using the marker.   This was an effort to keep ink from bleeding onto the desktops.   Make sure they use gluesticks in their journals, not liquid, as the paper is delicate.

Some kids will also eliminate words until a news article is basically summarized.   The idea is for a transformation to take place.   You will want to show them samples to help writers' imaginations run free.   These creations could also make beautiful art for your classroom walls...

It looks like censorship, but it's a lot closer to upcycling. 

Paint Chip Poetry

I have to confess that I have always loved standing in the middle of those paint chip displays at hardware stores.   It's like being inside a no-maintenance flower garden.   And Lowe's sometimes opens at 6 A.M. on weekdays.   Let's say you wake up after a rough night without a lesson plan.   Swing by Lowe's.   I've got you covered.

Some of the chips come in a single color, some have several variations of a similar hue.   Take the number of students you teach and offer twice the number of paint chips for their selection.   They are free.   Just be polite about it.

To tell you the truth, my paint chips are still in the console of my truck because I kept forgetting to bring them inside to use.   I have a plan for the coming year though.   Simply writing while being inspired by a color may be a little too unstructured for eighth graders, so I think I'll make a pattern for poets to follow for those who choose to use it.

I should probably tell you now that I am not a huge fan of rhyming poetry generated by 8th graders.   Every now and then my best writers will surprise me with something artfully crafted, but most often finding a rhyme blows the whole point of careful word choice.   A desperate rhyme jolts the reader out of the poem.

Colors evoke memories.   This is a good activity in teaching tone, specifically nostalgic tone, and sensory imagery.   Pick one paint chip that reminds you of a person, place or object from your childhood.   (For writing purposes, I consider an 8th grader's childhood to be 5th grade or earlier.)  

Arrange the chips in groups of blues, greens, yellows, oranges, etc. and allow the writers to choose their own colors.   Students usually choose happy memories, so their tone easily translates into nostalgia.   If some children want to write about a negative memory, give him that opportunity.   It's a great moment when those memories are ready to have a voice.

Here's a general idea for the structure of the poem, but please modify it to make it work for you.   I also included a rough sample of something that I could have written as an eighth grader.   When I model writing for students, I try to choose from the topics that I would have had on-hand at their age.

[Paint color's name] is the color of __________________
I remember __________________
and how it felt to__________________
I can still hear__________________
I can still see __________________
I miss__________________
[Paint color's name] is the color of __________________

Summer Sigh is the color of July
I remember mint chocolate chip birthday cake
and how it felt to be able to invite everyone I knew
I can still hear my mom wondering aloud if we had left anyone out
I can still see my dad showing off the severed thumb trick...again
I miss my grandparents gathered around the picnic table waiting for my wish
Summer Sigh is the color of days melting away

With your writers' permission, it would be fun to post the colors and poems around the room for their classmates to enjoy. 

I've also seen paint chips turned into simple bookmarks.   Just punch a hole and add some ribbon.   Thread a bead, but only if you are feeling fancy.

My Name Is...

Here's something for you to try in place of stale, awkward meet-and-greet activities.   If you don't want to wait until the beginning of the school year to try this activity, it will also work now.  

It's inspired from Susan G. Woolridge's book Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life With Words.   (http://amzn.com/0609800981)   You will need magazines, scissors and glue.   This activity always seems to take longer than I think it should, but it's another example of tricking students into reading.

Ask the students to cut out 20 words that appeal to them from the magazines provided.   Their goal is to focus on adjectives on nouns.   Don't tell them what the activity is ahead of time as it will cut down on the fun.

Come closer, and I will tell you where all of this is going.

Once most of their words are found, they will copy the following incomplete lines of poetry into their journals.   Depending on the size of the words they have found, they may want to orient their paper sideways, or landscape.

Yesterday my name was...

In my dreams my name is...

My friends think my name is...

My mom/dad/brother/sister thinks my name is...

My teacher thinks my name is...

I know my name is...

Tomorrow my name will be...

You get the idea.   You can change up the prompts to fit your purposes.   Take the number of lines that you want students to use, double it and add six.   That's about how many words the students should cut from magazines in order to have enough choices to work from.  

Students will choose two words, usually an adjective and a noun, to paste at the end of each line.   And I don't let students trade or share words.   It's more fun trying to make their own words fit.   This is a little like Magnetic Poetry.   Students who thrive on worksheets and the comfort of one correct answer will tense up and try to make sense for a while.   They want to know that they are "doing it right."  

Once everyone relaxes and enjoys the silliness of the exercise, you will get some great poetry.   Also, writers will want to share it with their peers, in front of the whole class, even though it's the beginning of the year.   That's magic.

Please note: You will need to warn your students to keep their cut words tucked away under something heavy-ish until the glue comes out.   Kids will be breezing all over the classroom sharing supplies and magazines, and someone...at least one person...will sneeze their words all over the floor.  

Thank you to Christopher Newport University's Teacher Preparation Program for donating a copy of Poemcrazy to my new classroom!