teaching poetry

Tomorrow I teach my second of three poetry workshops for a local elementary school's after-school program. I love to watch the reluctant eagerness of a fourth or fifth grader emerge during the hour of writing and sharing. Maybe I am drawn to kids this age because they are still young enough to be silly and open; or maybe it's because they're a dichotomy of vulnerable and worldly-wise; or maybe it's simply because it was at that age my life was thrown into upheaval when my parents split up. Whatever the reason, every time I get some kid a little more psyched about poetry so they feel a little less alone in the world, I sigh. It's like this...

Teaching Poetry in the Fifth Grade

Camilla hugs you.
She doesn’t ask permission or even hesitate.
You are reviewing metaphor,
preparing a poetry workshop
for the fifth grade.
She swoops over, and in one gentle motion
takes you in her bird-leg arms,
nuzzles into your waist
and sighs.
Hi, she breathes.
She smells of cold air, static electricity and sleep.
Her turtleneck is on backwards.
Hi, you smile.
I am wondering what you’ll teach us today, she says,
carefully, eagerly,
and with the smallest sadness, as if
one of her downy feathers has been plucked
and is floating to the ground.
You long to thrust out your hand,
to return the feather
and prevent the scales from forming.
You want this love to endure.
The world knows too little of it.
Instead,
you answer
while you lay your hand on her precious little wings
and pray for a new feather to grow.

(c) 2003 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni