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In an education landscape that dramatically deemphasizes creative expression in favor of expository writing and prioritizes the analysis of non-literary texts, high school literature teachers have to negotiate between their preferences and the way the wind is blowing. That sometimes means sacrifice, and poetry is often the first head to roll.

Yet poetry enables teachers to teach their students how to write, read, and understand any text. Poetry can give students a healthy outlet for surging emotions. Reading original poetry aloud in class can foster trust and empathy in the classroom community, while also emphasizing speaking and listening skills that are often neglected in high school literature classes.

Students who don't like writing essays may like poetry, with its dearth of fixed rules and its kinship with rap. For these students, poetry can become a gateway to other forms of writing. It can help teach skills that come in handy with other kinds of writing-like precise, economical diction, for example. When Carl Sandburg writes, "The fog comes/on little cat feet," in just six words, he endows a natural phenomenon with character, a pace, and a spirit. All forms of writing benefits from the powerful and concise phrases found in poems.

I have used cut-up poetry (a variation on the sort "popularized" by William Burroughs and Brion Gysin) to teach 9th grade students, most of whom learned English as a second language, about grammar and literary devices. They made collages after slicing up dozens of "sources," identifying the adjectives and adverbs, utilizing parallel structure, alliteration, assonance, and other figures of speech. Short poems make a complete textual analysis more manageable for English language learners. When teaching students to read and evaluate every single word of a text, it makes sense to demonstrate the practice with a brief poem-like Gwendolyn Brooks's "We Real Cool."

Students can learn how to utilize grammar in their own writing by studying how poets do-and do not-abide by traditional writing rules in their work. Poetry can teach writing and grammar conventions by showing what happens when poets strip them away or pervert them for effect. Dickinson often capitalizes common nouns and uses dashes instead of commas to note sudden shifts in focus. Agee uses colons to create dramatic, speech-like pauses. Cummings of course rebels completely. He usually eschews capitalization in his proto-text message poetry, wrapping frequent asides in parentheses and leaving last lines dangling on their pages, period-less. In "next to of course god america i," Cummings strings together, in the first 13 lines, a cavalcade of jingoistic catch-phrases a politician might utter, and the lack of punctuation slowing down and organizing the assault accentuates their unintelligibility and banality and heightens the satire. The abuse of conventions helps make the point. In class, it can help a teacher explain the exhausting effect of run-on sentences-or illustrate how clichés weaken an argument.

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In an education landscape that dramatically deemphasizes creative expression in favor of expository writing and prioritizes the analysis of non-literary texts, high school literature teachers have to negotiate between their preferences and the way the wind is blowing. That sometimes means sacrifice, and poetry is often the first head to roll.

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Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins | Poetry Foundation

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Nobody processes poetry as Pádraig Ó Tuama does.

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Your new ritual, in podcast form: Immerse yourself in a single poem, guided by Pádraig Ó Tuama.

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Krista Tippett has wonderful poet guests from time to time on On Being.

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Experience Poetry | The On Being Project

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Poetry, Audre Lorde tells us, names "the nameless so it can be thought." On Being features poets across our media and public life offerings because poetry, for all its craft, is more than a craft. It is a necessary art. Poetry speaks to the way we could be.

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Poem a day Tumblr

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My old grandmother, Tekapay'cha
stuck an ax into a stump
and diverted a tornado.
In minutes we would have been destroyed.
It struck the little town of Porter
ripping up the railroad tracks,
twisted the rails and stood them up.
There was power in that twister.
There was power in my grandmother.
Those who doubt, let them doubt.

Because I had loved so deeply,
Because I had loved so long,
God in His great compassion
Gave me the gift of song.

Because I have loved so vainly,
And sung with such faltering breath,
The Master in infinite mercy
Offers the boon of Death.

Children, when was
Napoleon Bonaparte
born? asks the teacher

A thousand years ago, say the children.
A hundred years ago, say the children.
Nobody knows.

Children, what did
Napoleon Bonaparte
do? asks the teacher.

He won a war, say the children.
He lost a war, say the children.
Nobody knows.

Our butcher used to have a dog,
says Frankie,
and his name was Napoleon,
and the butcher used to beat him,
and the dog died
of hunger
a year ago.

And now all the children feel sorry
for Napoleon.

(Note: In a classroom in a Negro school a pupil gave as his news topic during the opening exercises of the morning, a report of the Princess Anne lynching of Oct. 18, 1933. A brief discussion of the facts of the case followed, after which the student in charge gave this direction: Pupils, rise, and give the flag salute! They did so without hesitation!)

" I pledge allegiance to the flag"-
They dragged him naked
Through the muddy streets,
A feeble-minded black boy!
And the charge? Supposed assault
Upon an aged woman!
" Of the United States of America"-
One mile they dragged him
Like a sack of meal,
A rope around his neck,
A bloody ear
Left dangling by the patriotic hand
Of Nordic youth! (A boy of seventeen!)
" And to the Republic for which it stands"-
And then they hanged his body to a tree,
Below the window of the county judge
Whose pleadings for that battered human flesh
Were stifled by the brutish, raucous howls
Of men, and boys, and women with their babes,
Brought out to see the bloody spectacle
Of murder in the style of '33!
(Three thousand strong, they were!)
" One Nation, Indivisible"-
To make the tale complete
They built a fire-
What matters that the stuff they burned
Was flesh-and bone-and hair-
And reeking gasoline!
" With Liberty-and Justice"-
They cut the rope in bits
And passed them out,
For souvenirs, among the men and boys!
The teeth no doubt, on golden chains
Will hang
About the favored necks of sweethearts, wives,
And daughters, mothers, sisters, babies too!
" For All!

Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question by Diane Burns

How do you do?
No, I am not Chinese.
No, I am not Spanish.
No, I am American Indian, Native American.

No, not from India.
No, not Apache.
No, not Navajo.
No, not Sioux.
No, we are not extinct.
Yes, Indian.

Oh?
So that's where you got those high cheekbones.
Your great grandmother, huh?
An Indian Princess, huh?
Hair down to there?
Let me guess. Cherokee?

Oh, so you've had an Indian friend?
That close?

Oh, so you've had an Indian lover?
That tight?

Oh, so you've had an Indian servant?
That much?

Yeah, it was awful what you guys did to us.
It's real decent of you to apologize.
No, I don't know where you can get peyote.
No, I don't know where you can get Navajo rugs real cheap.
No, I didn't make this. I bought it at Bloomingdales.

Thank you. I like your hair too.
I don't know if anyone knows whether or not Cher
is really Indian.
No, I didn't make it rain tonight.

Yeah. Uh-huh. Spirituality.
Uh-huh. Yeah. Spirituality. Uh-huh. Mother
Earth. Yeah. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Spirituality.

No, I didn't major in archery.
Yeah, a lot of us drink too much.
Some of us can't drink enough.

This ain't no stoic look.
This is my face.

There as a hole in the ground once; there was a manhole
I used to get inside. I lowered a rope
and kicked my way down. The walls were two feet thick
and there was at most a foot of leaves where somehow
the wind had crept in, but there was no water. I felt for
the pipe, there was a little ledge-with matches.
I tried to get out. The truth was I fell. My mind
was on vipers, I called my enemies vipers, it was
an old honorific word but now I shook,
they were not just snakes-they were adders-their bodies
were flat, their fangs were huge, my enemies
strike like they do-their heads are triangles,
their eyes are in their skulls. I screamed for rope,
I needed rags, I had to save my skin
from burning-my chest and upper arms.
The hole
is our greatest fear; I grab the air behind me
and stiffen my legs. The greatest joy is rising,
the greatest joy is resting your arms on the ground
and getting ready to swing your body up
and seeing the clouds again and feeling the wind
on your white legs, and rubbing your eyes. I ran
to touch a tree, I stroked the bark, there was
one stone, it was half-pitted, the sun had turned it
into a pillow; I lay on my back recovering.

Jesus, I am cruelly lonely
and I do not know what I have done
nor do I suspect that you will answer me.

And, what is more, I have spent
these bare months bargaining
with my soul as if I could make her
promise to love me when now it seems
that what I meant when I said "soul"
was that the river reflects
the railway bridge just as the sky
says it should-it speaks that language.

I do not know who you are.

I come here every day
to be beneath this bridge,
to sit beside this river,
so I must have seen the way
the clouds just slide
under the rusty arch-
without snagging on the bolts,
how they are borne along on the dark water-
I must have noticed their fluent speed
and also how that tattered blue T-shirt
remains snagged on the crown
of the mostly sunk dead tree
despite the current's constant pulling.
Yes, somewhere in my mind there must
be the image of a sky blue T-shirt, caught,
and the white islands of ice flying by
and the light clouds flying slowly
under the bridge, though today the river's
fully melted. I must have seen.

But I did not see.

Of course, of course.

What I meant when I said "soul"
was that there should be a place.

On the far bank the warehouse lights
blink red, then green, and all the yellow
machines with their rusted scoops and lifts
sit under a thin layer of sunny frost.

And look-
my own palm-
there, slowly rocking.
It is my pale palm-
palm where a black pebble
is turning and turning.

listen, I am holy.

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My old grandmother, Tekapay'cha stuck an ax into a stump and diverted a tornado.In minutes we would have been destroyed.It struck the little town of Porter ripping up the railroad tracks, twisted the rails and stood them up.There was power in that twister.There was power in my grandmother.Those who doubt, let them doubt.

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Paul invents new forms of poetry.

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Poet James R. Scrimgeour

People who read this blog regularly may be familiar with the Virtual Poetorium, a unique monthly online poetry journal in transcript form that is actually the pandemic version of the Poetorium at Starlite, a live pre-Covid poetry reading series in Southbridge, Massachusetts that was founded and co-hosted by myself and Ron Whittle. One of my favorite aspects of both the Virtual Poetorium and the Poetorium at Starlite are the interviews Ron and I conducted with our featured poets. Today I thought it would be fun and informative to repost in its entirety one of these interviews taken from the Virtual Poetorium for July 28th, 2020 when we questioned-via email-the poet James R. (Jim) Scrimgeour... James R. Scrimgeour received his BA from Clark University, his MA and PhD from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and is Professor Emeritus at Western Connecticut State University. He has served as Editor of Connecticut Review, published ten books of poetry, been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes, and given over 250 public readings of his work, including one at an International Conference on Poetry and History, Stirling, Scotland. He has, in addition, participated in NEH Seminars on Modern Poetry at NYU and Princeton and has recently served on panels at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. He currently conducts poetry programs in libraries, both in New Milford CT and in Rockport MA, where he and his wife spend much of their time. His most recent book, Voices of Dogtown: Poems Arising Out of a Ghost Town Landscape (Loom Press, 2019), was listed as a "must read" by the Massachusetts Center for the Book and can be purchased at the Loom Press online bookstore by clicking here.
A Virtual Poetorium Interview With Poet James R. Scrimgeour

RON: Paul and I really appreciate you agreeing to do this. You know, Jim, I too, spend as much time on the beaches and shoreline as I can. Our attachment to the ocean is probably much the same. I have a great deal of respect and fear of its capabilities, but I also love it. My question is "Was there any single reason that made you fall in love with the ocean?"

JIM: No single reason - don't think there is a single reason you fall in love with anything (or anyone). Love is more complex than that. But I've always been attracted to the ocean (since I first saw it as a kid - love at first sight?) My wife and I have been living at the ocean in Rockport MA for five months of the year for the past nine years, and so it is not surprising that the ocean has seeped into so many of my poems or that my son, who, as you know, also writes poems, said one day: "Dad, haven't you used up your quota of ocean poems?" And, of course, I had to write another ocean poem to answer his question.

RON: After reading some of your poetry, I couldn't help but notice how you seamlessly blend history into much of your poetry. What do you call your style of poetry?

JIM: History is a part of life, and I believe that it is an important task of the poet to keep the past (including the child within us) alive, to provide some continuity between past and present (and our past and current selves). This is a task that I have always taken seriously. As far as style goes, I am who I am. My poetry is what it is. It is, I believe, my job to write my poems; it's the critic's job to try to define my style. I wish him/her all the best.

RON: You also write as though you were from a different era in time, such as in the Sunset 1904. That must require a considerable amount of research to depict the scene you write about accurately. Is that a fair question to ask?

JIM: I think that any author (poet or prose) has to do the research necessary to create a world that is distinctive, original, and his/her own, a world that the reader may wander around in for a while and maybe even learn something before returning to life in early 21st century America. I hope that I have created such a distinctive original world in all of my books, but especially in the Dogtown one.

RON: Who are your favorite poet or poets and why?

JIM: In alphabetical order: Emily Dickinson (explosive imagery and word choice) John Keats (musical language - sound and content seamlessly merged) Robert Frost (for being his cantankerous self) Mary Oliver, William Wordsworth and so many others (for experiencing and sharing the divinity in the natural world) William Carlos Williams (for showing that poetry can be found everywhere and in everything) William Butler Yeats (for his musical language, vision and willingness to tackle political issues). There are, of course, many others but I have to stop somewhere.

RON: Being a professor you must have seen a great deal of talent from authors and poets in your classes. Did you ever teach anyone who went on to be famous? If so who?

JIM: No - I have taught many who went on to prestigious MFA programs (including Iowa, Emerson, and UMass) and who published books of poetry and poems in well known journals, and are currently teaching at universities, but no one I would call "famous."

RON: If you had to chose a book of poetry to tell someone to read, who would be the author and what would be the title of the book?

JIM: It depends on who the someone is. I would recommend different books for different people. A person should, I believe, begin with poetry that connects with his/her life in some significant way. If I didn't know a person well enough to make this kind of connection for him/her, I would say "See my answer to the question about my favorite poets and throw a dart!"

RON: Who was the biggest influence in your becoming a poet?

JIM: My wife has always been my muse, and all of the above mentioned "favorite" poets have been significant influences, but there also have been others, Walt Whitman, Wallace Stevens, Langston Hughes, Elizabeth Bishop, e.g., come immediately to mind. I don't think there was a "biggest" - they were/are all big; they were all there when I needed them.

RON: What could you tell us about your own poetry, I guess what I'm asking you to do is define your work?

JIM: I'm not comfortable with defining my poetry, but I'll be glad to tell you a little bit about my writing process and my work. Like Monet, I like to work "in plain air." I like to take my camera, my notebook, my five senses and go out into the natural world "fishing" for poems. Whenever I come across something odd, unusual or beautiful (or all of the above) I snap a photo or two and then sit down in front of it and write a first draft of a poem in my notebook. Then later, as I revise, tighten, and type it into my computer, I will, if I am lucky, come to a realization as to WHY this experience was significant and then I will have the focus necessary to finish the poem.

RON: Okay...Paul, do you have any questions you'd like to ask Jim?

PAUL: Yes, I do. Thanks, Ron! Congratulations, Jim, on having your book Voices of Dogtown: Poems Arising out of a Ghost Town Landscape selected as a "must read" by Massachusetts Center for the Book! Could you talk a bit about the history of Dogtown itself and what about it that inspired you to write this book?

JIM: Dogtown is a ghost town located in the highland of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. I became bitten by the Dogtown bug shortly after I first began visiting Cape Ann over 20 years ago; I was especially interested in the lives of the last inhabitants who lived there from the end of the Revolutionary War until 1830 when the last inhabitant was taken, shivering and cold, to the poorhouse. The more I read about them, the more interested I became, and I started to take contemporary walks over this semi-mythical terrain with my notebook and camera in hand. I'm not sure exactly when it was that I began to hear the voices of some of these old settlers speaking to me.

PAUL: What was your process for writing this particular book like, and did it differ in any way from writing your previous volumes of poetry?

JIM: Many of my previous projects (like my long poem "The Route" in which I retrace the route in modern day Salem that the authorities took my great great great great great great grandmother on when they hanged her as a witch in 1692) involved significant historical research, but, as I see it, the main difference between this book and my previous ones is one of degree, is the amount of historical research involved. I still took my camera, notebook and five senses with me as I strolled the boulder strewn Dogtown terrain, but this book contains a couple of new dimensions - one of ordinary historical research, of course, but another dimension was made possible by my feeling of kinship with all the other poets and writers who had become fascinated with Dogtown over the years. Also, this is the first time that I "channelled" people who had died many years ago and made them an important part of my work. And, one final difference, another important dimension of the Dogtown book is that it contains a perceptive, well-written introduction by Carl Carlsen.

PAUL: How would you personally define "Poetry" and what do you feel are its most important aspects (imagery, rhythm, word choice, etc.)?

JIM: As noted previously, I usually resist attempting to define my poetry, but here is a working definition: "Poetry is the sharing of significant, valuable, intense human experience." I believe the most important thing is for a poet to have the courage to share his deepest and most intense feelings openly and honestly with others. Imagery, rhythm (the sound of the language) and precise word choice are all important tools (but only tools) that help the poet say what he/she has to say, that help the poet write his/her stanza in the great poem of the world.

PAUL: In your many years of writing, have you developed a regular writing routine, and if so, can you describe it to us?

JIM: See my answer to Ron's question about defining my work for a routine that I have found useful, but some of my strongest poems have arisen suddenly and unexpectedly from many different situations. For example: being assigned to do a lecture on Kafka, talking with my father-in-law over his kitchen table, picking up an old photo of my grandfather, sitting in the waiting room of an urologist's office, or trying to find a can of chicken soup in a cupboard are a few of the situations that triggered some of my best poems.

PAUL: My final question for you is what advice would you give to someone who is just beginning to write poetry?

JIM: I would advise a beginning poet: 1) to be very careful with your diction, your selection of words. Keep in mind the words of Mark Twain: "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." 2) to ground your poems in actual lived human experience and avoid philosophical abstractions - remember "nesses are messes," i.e., don't write about "lonliness," write about human beings who are lonely, 3) to pay some dues, to spend some time thinking seriously about the ultimate questions of human existence. As Socrates said long ago, the unexamined life is not worth living; as I say today, the unexamined life is not worth writing about, and 4) to keep your senses and your notebook open - wherever you are, wherever you go.

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People who read this blog regularly may be familiar with the Virtual Poetorium, a unique monthly online poetry journal in transcript form that is actually the pandemic version of the Poetorium at Starlite, a live pre-Covid poetry reading series in Southbridge, Massachusetts that was founded and co-hosted by myself and Ron Whittle.

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Our wonderful community poem!

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Another generous poet with loads of writing ideas and suggestions.

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Our world has plenty of bad news these days. But we also have sunrises, science, and stories (and donuts!). I believe in reading something small each day to feel more connected, hopeful, and grateful.

Teaching virtually? I've gathered readalouds of some of my books here!

I write small reads for kids (but grown-ups like them, too!). I am a visiting author, a speaker, and the creator of Writer in Progress, where educators and writers can follow along as I draft and create. Please explore my website to learn more, connect with me on social media, sign up for my educator newsletter, or join my writing community.

Thanks for dropping by!

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Children's picture book author Laura Purdie Salas writes mostly nonfiction, poetry, and rhyming books. She says our world has plenty of bad news, bullies, and hard things. But there are also sunrises, science, and donuts! Reading something each day makes us more connected, hopeful, and grateful.

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Amy's site is filled with all kinds of poetic inspiration!

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Poetry and lessons for children of all ages by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater for classrooms or homeschools to teach literacy and writing workshop instruction