You Are Already Poets

Right to Read Week Kickoff Presentation
Walnut Creek Elementary

This morning, I spoke to a group of students who had just finished some very rigorous testing at a time when most human beings would rather be climbing a tree, or riding a bike, or eating soup. I started the presentation by asking the school's principle, Mr. Ken Miller, to read the following poem, which nearly caused a riot (Children can very quickly become a mob, if one is not careful):

Good Morning, Dear Students

BY KENN NESBITT

“Good morning, dear students,” the principal said.

“Please put down your pencils and go back to bed.

Today we will spend the day playing outside,

then take the whole school on a carnival ride.

“We’ll learn to eat candy while watching TV,

then listen to records and swing from a tree.

We’ll also be learning to draw on the walls,

to scream in the classrooms and run in the halls.

“So bring in your skateboard, your scooter, your bike.

It’s time to be different and do what you like.

The teachers are going to give you a rest.

You don’t have to study. There won’t be a test.

“And if you’d prefer, for a bit of a change,

feel free to go wild and act really strange.

Go put on a clown suit and dye your hair green,

and copy your face on the Xerox machine.

“Tomorrow it’s back to the regular grind.

Today, just go crazy. We really don’t mind.

So tear up your homework. We’ll give you an A.

Oh wait. I’m just kidding. It’s April Fools’ Day.”

(At this point, I apologized for my cruelty, admitting that it was unfair to present such a poem when April Fool's Day was a month ago. And then I began my talk)

I'd like to start off by saying that, during this presentation, I'll be addressing the students here, not hte adults. But adults can listen in; however, I apologize in advance if I insult your species.

(To the students) How many professional poets do we have among us?

(A few hands)

By "professional," I mean someone who does poetry for a living. Someone who gets paid to be a poet, and pays their electric bill or grocery bill or mortgage with that money. 

(A few more hands)

Good. Not many. 

I mean, eventually, I hope at least half of you will raise your hands when someone asks you that question, but today, I'm relieved.

I'm relieved because, to be honest, I'm quite nervous about this presentation. I dreamed about it a lot last night. Nightmares, actually. I dreamed that you were all gathered in my bedroom, and it was very messy there (because it's very messy there), and I couldn't find my notes, or my books, or my poems, or my phone. There was one girl, a tall, strong blonde, who kept hugging me and picking me up and spinning me in circles. Mind you, I like hugs. I don't, however, like being spun in circles, unless I'm on a tilt-a-whirl or a merry-go-round, but, even then, not so much. 

One other reason I'm nervous is because I know I only have a little bit of time to talk to you today about how fabulous words are. I wish I had hours and hours to spend with you discussing poetry and words and stories and songs! Clocks are terrible, terrible things! I wish we could throw every single one of them into the sky and the wind would sweep them up and take them to some everlasting storage facility so we would never have to set eyes on their hands again! 

I was nervous enough about sharing with you today that I wrote a poem to remind me of everything I needed to do to prepare. 

Whatever You Do

by Denice Hazlett

Don't forget to pack your books, 

your stories and your rhymes 

Don't forget to check the date

At least nine hundred times. 

Don't forget to gas the car. 

Don't forget to eat. 

Don't forget to type your notes

So they'll all be nice and neat. 

Remember to be get lots of rest

the night before you talk, 

And before you go to sleep,  

to set your alarm clock.

And, maybe, most importantly, 

because there always is a chance...

Oh, please, Denice, whatever you do,

please don't forget your pants.  

And here's the big reason why I'm so nervous. Because you, all of you, even if you're not professionals, are already poets. You, and you, and you, and you. You were born that way, poets every one.  

From the time you were born, you have paid close attention to everything. You study things. That's how you learned to walk and talk and sing.  

You remind me of this poem by one of my favorite poets, Billy Collins: 

My Hero

by Billy Collins

Just as the hare is zipping across the finish line,

the tortoise has stopped once again

by the roadside, 

this time to stick out his neck

and nibble a bit of sweet grass,

unlike the previous time 

when he was distracted

by a bee humming in the heart of a wildflower.

Here's another way I know you're already poets. 

You ask a lot of questions, which is fabulous. You are curious about so much stuff. You could spend hours and hours sitting under a tree playing with your dog's ear, or reading a book, or pretending to be a pirate, or playing Minecraft. You study clouds and dirt and bugs, and maybe even make them into pets. Do you know about A.A. Milne? He wrote Winnie the Pooh. He also wrote poetry, like this piece: 

Forgiven

by A.A. Milne

I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was his name,

And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same.

I put him in a match-box, and I kept him all the day ...

And Nanny let my beetle out -

Yes, Nanny let my beetle out -

She went and let my beetle out -

And Beetle ran away.

She said she didn't mean it, and I never said she did,

She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid,

She said that she was sorry, but it's difficult to catch

An excited sort of beetle you've mistaken for a match.

She said that she was sorry, and I really mustn't mind,

As there's lots and lots of beetles which she's certain we could find,

If we looked about the garden for the holes where beetles hid -

And we'd get another match-box and write BEETLE on the lid.

We went to all the places which a beetle might be near,

And we made the sort of noises which a beetle likes to hear,

And I saw a kind of something, and I gave a sort of shout:

"A beetle-house and Alexander Beetle coming out!"

It was Alexander Beetle I'm as certain as can be,

And he had a sort of look as if he thought it must be Me,

And he had a sort of look as if he thought he ought to say:

"I'm very very sorry that I tried to run away."

And Nanny's very sorry too for you-know-what-she-did,

And she's writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the lid,

So Nan and Me are friends, because it's difficult to catch

An excited Alexander you've mistaken for a match.

You're poets because you can tell people how you feel--when you're happy, when you're sad, when you're angry, and what you're angry about. And you can use your words to solve problems the best way possible, and you can forgive. Even if Nanny lets your beetle out. 

And you like to do fun things. Poets love doing fun things! You like riding tilt-a-whirls and merry-go-rounds and large dogs. Most of you can probably really identify with this poem:

The Swing

by Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,

   Up in the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

   Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

   Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

   Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green,

   Down on the roof so brown—

Up in the air I go flying again,

   Up in the air and down!

Here's another way I know you're already poets. Because you probably have the same problem I do. You get so distracted by beautiful things that you forget to do your chores. Poets do that, too! Not all poets, of course, but some of them. Like this guy: 

I Meant to Do My Work Today

by Richard Le Gallienne

I meant to do my work today—

   But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,

And a butterfly flitted across the field,

   And all the leaves were calling me. 

And the wind went sighing over the land,

   Tossing the grasses to and fro,

And a rainbow held out its shining hand—

   So what could I do but laugh and go?

Laugh! LAUGH! That's another reason I know you're a poet! Because you know how to laugh! You LIKE to LAUGH! In fact, if I read this poem to you, you'll probably laugh at it:

Willie's Wart  

by Linda Knaus and Kenn Nesbitt 

   

Willie had a stubborn wart

upon his middle toe.

Regardless, though, of what he tried

the wart refused to go.

So Willie went and visited

his family foot physician,

who instantly agreed

it was a stubborn wart condition.

The doctor tried to squeeze the wart.

He tried to twist and turn it.

He tried to scrape and shave the wart.

He tried to boil and burn it.

He poked it with a pair of tongs.

He pulled it with his tweezers.

He held it under heat lamps,

and he crammed it into freezers.

Regrettably these treatments

were of very little use.

He looked at it and sputtered,

"Ach! I cannot get it loose!"

"I’ll have to get some bigger tools

to help me to dissect it.

I’ll need to pound and pummel it,

bombard it and inject it."

He whacked it with a hammer,

and he yanked it with a wrench.

He seared it with a welding torch

despite the nasty stench.

He drilled it with a power drill.

He wrestled it with pliers.

He zapped it with a million volts

from large electric wires.

He blasted it with gamma rays,

besieged it with corrosives,

assaulted it with dynamite

and nuclear explosives.

He hit the wart with everything,

but when the smoke had cleared,

poor Willie’s stubborn wart remained,

and Willie’d disappeared.

And this one!

Fancy Dive

by Shel Silverstein

The fanciest dive that ever was dove

Was done by Melissa of Coconut Grove.

She bounced on the board and flew into the air

With a twist of her head and a twirl of her hair.

She did thirty-four jackknives, backflipped and spun,

Quadruple gainered, and reached for the sun,

And then somersaulted nine times and a quarter-

And looked down and saw that the pool had no water.

Here's another reason I refuse to believe you're not already poets.  

You talk in metaphors! You've done it from the time you were very young! 

Can you guess how many children I have? I have five.

My eldest son, who is now 23, once was two, which is how growing up goes. When he was two, he saw something he couldn't quite describe as we were driving down the road, and this is what he said about it:

"LOOK! Mama! LOOK!

It…it…it…has a long tail!

And a lot of pages!"

What do you think he saw? 

No, it wasn't a book. 

No, it wasn't a fairy tale. 

No, it wasn't a squirrel. 

It was a train! Long tail? A lot of pages? He didn't know what to call it, so he used the words he had. For you, that comes naturally. For grown-ups, we have to work at it a little harder. 

Metaphors give us a picture of something without telling us exactly what that something is. For example, if I were to say to you, "I'm so nervous! Look at my hand! It's a little hummingbird!" What would you think that would mean? You can see it in your brain and know how I feel without me shaking my hand like a vibrating little creature. 

There's a lot of metaphor in poetry. Often, poems are long. Willie's Wart was a long poem. Sometimes, poetry is toooooo long. Rarely is poetry too short. Here are two short poems. See if you can spot the metaphor or the simile (a simile is LIKE a metaphor): 

You

You are a cat

who wants a fish

but is afraid

to wet her paws

Or this one: 

I'd Rather 

I'd rather drink muddy water, sleep in a hollow log,

Than to stay in this town, mistreated like a dirty dog.

And you, my friends, are poets--yes, you are--because you can get the idea of poetry, get the feel of poetry, you can understand poetry, even if the words don't make any sense at all! Here's a very famous poem that doesn't make a bit of sense, but makes lots of sense, too. 

JABBERWOCKY

by Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

  Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

  He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

You know what that poem was about even if those words don't make sense to anyone at all in the whole world. Was that poem about a fuzzy, harmless little bunny? Of course not. But you already knew that.

Because you're a poet.

 

And you like good stories, which can also be poems, which, of course, don't have to rhyme. Did you know that? Good. I'm glad you have good teachers who teach you the truth. 

Sure, it's fun to rhyme. But sometimes, it's fun to write or read a poem that does a good job of paying really close attention to one little (or gigantic) moment in time, or one little (or humungous) place, or one little (or enormous) idea.

Here's a poem by one of my favorite writers, Neil Gaiman. Did any of you see the movie Coraline? That's Neil Gaiman. Neil Gaiman wrote that book. Here are Neil Gaiman's instructions for you in case you ever find yourself inside fairy tale--or in case you'd like to write one:

Instructions

by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat

nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's

realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one's lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

There are a lot of metaphors in there, too, but you might have to read it a few times or wait a while before you get them all. 

So, yes, you're all poets right now. You get it. You understand it. You can see it, because it comes to you naturally. You were born a poet. 

What you need to do, though, as you're growing up, is hold onto that part of you that makes you a poet. Sure, you can do other things. You can be a carpenter, or a welder, or a doctor, or a lawyer, or a librarian, or a baseball player, or a teacher, or a computer programmer, or a barista, or a world traveler, or a mechanic, or an astronaut, or a nanny, or a beetle. But keep being a poet, too. Keep finding the metaphors, because, as we get older, we forget to describe things they way we see them. Sometimes we forget to do all those things poets do when they're born. 

You don't need to write things down to be a poet. You can make poetry in your head. You can make poetry with your mouth. You can sing a song, or tell a story, or act out a play. Those things can be poetry, too. You can tell poems to make someone laugh.

Last night, I was feeling a little down, because sometimes, even when you're a poet (especially if you're a poet), you feel down after you have a "disagreement" with someone from your family, or you're nervous about talking to a roomful of poets, or you're worried about forgetting to put on your pants. So my friend Ellen shared this funny poem with me, which is called a limerick, and it made me feel better, because poems can do that. So I'll share it with you, too. 

A sleeper from the Amazon

Put a nightie of his gra'mazon.

The reason was that

He was much too fat

To get his own pajamazon.

Writing your poems down is fun, too, because then you can share them with other people. And they can share them with other people. And they can share them with other people. 

Now, don't get me wrong. Grownups can be poets, too. As a matter of fact, when I was getting ready to share with you today, I asked a bunch of grownups what poems they loved, and most of the poems I've shared today came from them. From grownups! In fact! The poems I've shared today were even WRITTEN by grown ups! It's true! It's possible! You can become a grownup and still stay a poet!

And you know what else? You can grow up and be a PROFESSIONAL poet! That's someone who makes a living by paying attention, studying things, asking a lot of questions, being curious, telling people how they feel, laughing at life, getting distracted by beautiful things, making metaphors. You can even be hired by the whole United States of America to be the official poet of your country, like Billy Collins, who used to be our country's Poet Laureate, or Natasha Trethewey, who is our country's Poet Laureate today. A Poet Laureate writes poems for special events in our country and sometimes comes up with ways to teach people about poetry.

You can also be the Poet Laureate of your state, although Ohio doesn't have one yet. Sad face. Forty-four other states do. Maybe you'll be the first one in Ohio. Yes, you. 

I know poets who do competitions. They write poetry and show up on stages and win prizes. There are poets who write books. There are poets who write music that people go to concert halls and listen to. There are poets who travel the world and trade poetry with other countries, because poetry is everywhere.  

Sometimes grownups try to make poetry too difficult. They worry too, too much about things like rhyming, and meter, and line breaks. Of course, you can use those things if you want to, but you don't have to, and you certainly shouldn't worry about it. And if you are worried about it, you can deal with that worry by writing a poem.

This last poem isn't for you. It's specifically meant for the grownups in the group (but you can listen, too). 

Introduction to Poetry

BY BILLY COLLINS

I ask them to take a poem   

and hold it up to the light   

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem   

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room   

and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski   

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope   

and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose   

to find out what it really means.