“POETRY: It’s like regular writing, but with even more rules!” No wonder some kids go from enjoying poetry, to (thinking they) hate it, to (knowing they) can’t stand it. Without a larger context, experiencing poetry solely through prefab formal structures like haikus, acrostics, cinquains and diamante poems could make students feel like poetry is just some sadistic fiend’s attempt to make English even more complex and irritating. Still, for parents and for the three or four districts out there that do fully fund their schools, here’s my thought. “If we can help kids think of poetry as expansive rather than constrictive, they can discover just how many directions there are to explore.” And when teachers in most states these days barely have the funds for a piece of paper on which to print out a request for more funding, there are bigger issues to deal with than reexamining our methodology on poetry. It also must be refreshingly simple to teach. Then again, My Dinner with Andre has a simple format, but I’m guessing it doesn’t play gangbusters at a nine-year-old’s birthday party. I imagine it’s popular in grade schools because it’s a simple format. Quietly, meditatively drawing a line between nature and the human experience, they’re easy to write, but tough to get right. Haikus in the right hands-a category which emphatically does not include my own hands-can be transcendent. I don’t mean to body-slam a several-hundred-year old art form that will long outlive anything I’ll ever do in my own pathetic lifetime. In nearly every area, the idea is to ignore the details and start by letting kids get their hands dirty-literally in the case of finger painting-because the first step in mastery is gaining confidence and real experience. And in sports like T-ball, “everyone gets on base” and there are no official scores (although unofficially, I knew who won every single game my kids played). actually, I still don’t get Singapore math, even though it seems cool scratch that one for now. In writing, the trend is toward “creative spelling”: when you’re an early writer, there’s noo rong wa tu spel ennythgn. In art, we start with finger painting and materials exploration there’s no bad art. So what happens? That question got me thinking about how kids often encounter poetry in schools, versus how other topics are taught. They’re surrounded by it in their early years: nursery rhymes picture books that stupid song about what the fox says. I’m pretty sure kids aren’t born hating poetry. It reminds me of that classic parental con line, “You might not like most vegetables, but this vegetable is delicious-try it!” When did poetry become literary broccoli? What’s next, cheerfully singing, “Here comes the airplane!” before we start reading a sonnet into our kids’ ears? On the other hand, when we tell kids “You won’t hate this poetry,” I wonder if we’re subtly telling them that they should hate most poetry. On the one hand, yes, this book is for you, please buy it. The closest, unintentionally, may be a few lines on an early edition of the back cover: “Hey kids! / Do you (think you) hate poetry? / This book is for you.” I have mixed feelings about that message, and not just because it’s a terrible haiku. There are no haikus in my own collection. So far, there’s one answer I’ve heard at every single school. I also ask the students if they’ve done any poetry-related activities in class lately. At each stop I share poems from my own book of children’s poetry and beyond, sweat way too much for an experienced public speaker, and try to convey my enthusiasm for poetry to children besides my own, who’ve suffered enough over the years. Because April is National Poetry Month, I’ve been spending the past few weeks speaking at grade schools.
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