Sunday, November 9, 2014

Turtles and Cars, Antlers and War

This poem builds in fragments of Robert Foote's poem, "An Interrpution," which the poet, Will, recently read in his ninth-grade English class. The borrowed lines are marked with quotation marks, and if you read the original poem from which the lines were taken, you will no doubt be intrigued by how he crafted a poem about war inspired by a poem about a turtle crossing the road.

On the Horizon

The sun’s golden reflection pierces my eyes
I squint in time to see a set of antlers leaping across the plains
They fade
“Till it [is] just a rustle in the grass”
But nothing gold can stay…

That’s when the first scream burst out,
So sudden, even the wind stopped to look
The screams of dying men

The constant sounds of explosions
The whizzing of metal stabbing through the air

All the sounds of pure evil
Coming together to form this orchestra of pain
I feel a small burst of fire shoot through my legs
Gravity is my enemy as I crumble to the ground
Ending all sympathy
“I had for man"

All the explosions and screams suddenly go deaf
I look up
Only to see the clouds begin to cry
At the sight
Of men, who don’t know
"To let life go on where and when it can”

And as my eyes begin to creep shut
I am able to see
The beautiful golden antlers dancing on the horizon

by Will L. 
Grade 9

artwork by Kristin R.
Grade 9

Saturday, November 8, 2014

A Found Poem

Tuesdays With Morrie is an inspiring read for eighth-graders at Holicong, and recently students in Mrs. Schmidt's class created "found poetry" using the words of Mitch Albom and Morrie Schwarz to craft their own insights.  The goal is this: create something new (a poem) with scraps of something published (Mitch Albom's book) with an eye for wisdom and an ear for rhythm.  This is just one example of the poetry students were able to craft.

Running Out
lines discovered in Tuesdays with Morrie

My old friend, you’ve come back at last
I want to tell you about my life
I give myself a good cry if I need it. But then I concentrate on all the good things still in my life
We’re so wrapped up with all the egotistical things
Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel
To know you’re going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time
“Dying” was not synonymous with “useless”
I don’t want to leave this world in a state of fright.

I want to know what’s happening, accept it, get to a peaceful place, and let go
Dying is only one thing to be sad over
I’m on the last great journey here—and people want me to tell them what to pack 
I’ve had a good life, and we all know it’s going to happen
I had the coldest realization that our time was running out

by Gage M.
Grade 8

artwork by Paige K.
Grade 8

Friday, November 7, 2014

Mirror Dancer

Are you really good at some things?  Or do you just enjoy imagining that you are? This seventh grade writer happens to be a good dancer, even if it's only for an audience of one. What are you good at?  Write to us in the comments!

Mirror Dancer

Late afternoon --
The slow and weary time of my day
Like a broken watch with the soft tick melting weakly each time it sounds.
I open my bedroom door
With a creak and a squeak
And I feel the fuzzy pumpkin-orange carpet in between my toes.

I look at the books resting quietly on my shelf,
At my bed with the welcoming blankets
And smell my dinner cooking in the kitchen downstairs.
Hunger resides in my belly
As I flip the switch on my milk-chocolate-brown radio with a click. 
I listen to a DJ gossiping as I sit down to read.
But then I hear it:

The performers singing, yelling and calling out to me.
And music fills my ears like the refreshing bubbling soda I had at lunch.
I stand up and start to move to the ever-pulsing rhythm
The beat, beat, of percussion
And I see myself in the mirror
Graceful as a swan pirouetting amid its shimmering waters.
Me, a dancer on a dark, silent, and lonely stage
Caramelizing her competition.

But then, I hear a quiet knock
And then two
Louder and louder each time
Knock, knock, knock.

My mother opens the door to tell me that my dinner is ready,
And crimson-red is the face of the mirror dancer,
Swaying silently in the late afternoon.

by Julianne M.
Grade 7

artwork by Justin H.
Grade 7