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Poetry Musical Chairs

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Materials and Directions

  • Poems
  • Playlist of songs
  • Graphic organizer
  • Clipboards
  • Hang poems around the room and on the desks
  • Play the music and students walk around in pairs
  • When music stops, they stop at the poem and fill out the graphic organizer
  • Repeat every 2-3 minutes for 20 minutes
  • Debrief by asking students what they learned.

DIRECTIONS FOR MARCH 13:

Fill out the graphic organizer for each poem.

Be sure to provide a proper citation for the last column.

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Poetry Musical Chairs Graphic Organizer

Title and Author

Summarize the Poem

Identify one element from your notes. Name it and quote it.

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Poetry Musical Chairs Graphic Organizer

Title and Author

Summarize the Poem

Identify one element from your notes. Name it and quote it.

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“The Yellow Light” by Jason Reynolds

From Long Way Down

The Yellow Light

that lined the hallway

buzzed like the lightning

bugs me and Shawn

used to catch when

we were kids.

We scooped them

into washed-out mayo

jars four or five

at a time.

Shawn would twist

the lid tight, and the

two of us would sit

on a bench and watch

them fly around,

bumping into each other,

trapped , until

one by one

their lights went out.

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“I don’t think I’ll Ever Get used to” by Kwame Alexander

From The Crossover

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to

walking home from school alone

playing Madden alone

listening to Lil Wayne alone

going to the library alone

shooting free throws alone

watching ESPN alone

eating donuts alone

saying my prayers alone

Now that Jordan’s in love

and Dad’s living in a hospital

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“That Book I’ve Been Reading ” by Ron Koertge

From Shakespeare Bats Cleanup

That Book I’ve Been Reading

is big on revision, which means, by

the way, not just doing something over

but seeing it again. That’s kind of cool.

So I re-visioned that sonnet. I didn’t

change much, but I did remember how

when I was looking for rhymes I was like

some guy pawing through his sock drawer

for a pair that matched

But about halfway through, things started

to go smoother. I didn’t have to try so

hard. The words kind of found me. I was

in the zone. Yeah, that’s it.

Man, I’ve walked up to the plate knowing

I was going to get something I could hit. I’ve

shifted toward second because I just knew

that was where the ball was going to be.

That’s the zone! Where you can do no

wrong. And I was in it again.

Just sitting at my desk.

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“Ghost” by Kelly Bingham

From Shark Girl

Sometimes

I can still feel my right hand,

like a best friend;

weighted,

Warm.

Sometimes

Mom looks for a tissue

or the book

lying among my covers

and I reach for it,

then I remember

I cannot reach with that hand

ever again.

Sometimes

a prickle crawls across my cheek,

and that right hand tried to

rise from the grave,

moved to scratch.

The fingers, palm,

wrist, and arm

that I remember

don’t know enough

to know

peace.

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“The Disappearance of the Seahorse” by Graeme Base

From The Sign of the Seahorse

Above the ragged reefs they soared, exquisite and serene,

Through slanting shafts of sunlight, tiny jewels of blue and green,

Performing little pirouettes, then sailing side by side:

An ever changing ballet danced upon the turning tide.

Beneath a sweeping canopy of undulating hue,

Forms wells of limpid turquoise to the deepest midnight blue,

The Seahorse ballet rose and fell--a silent symphony

Played out against the backdrop of a vast and fragile sea.

Then came a day the sea went dark, the reff began to change,

The coral gardens lost their glow, the seaweed tasted strange.

The shifting ocean currents brought a slowly spreading blight,

And every single Seahorse simply disappeared overnight.

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“The Wall” by John Grandits

From Blue Lipstick

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“Jack” by Sharon Creech

From Love that Dog

ROOM 105--Miss Stretchberry

SEPTEMBER 13

I don’t want to

because boys

don’t write poetry.

Girls do.

SEPTEMBER 21

I tried.

Can’t do it.

Brain’s empty.

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“Flying to Vermont” by Marilyn Hilton

From Full Cicada Moon

I wish we had flown to Vermont

instead of riding

on a bus, train, train, bus

all the way from Berkeley.

Ten hours would have soared, compared to six days.

But two plane tickets--

one for me and one for Mama--

would have cost a lot of money,

and Papa already spent so much

when he flew home at Thanksgiving.

Mama is sewing buttons on his new slacks

and helping me fill out the forms

for my new school in Hillsborough, our new town.

This might be a new year

but seventh grade is halfway done,

and I’ll be the new girl.

I am stuck at the Ethnicity part.

Check only one, it says.

The choices are:

White

Black

Puerto Rican

Portuguese

Hispanic

Oriental

Other

I am

half Mama

half Papa

and all me.

Isn’t that all anyone news to know?

But the form says All items must be completed,

so I ask, “Other?”

Mama pushes her brows together,

making what Papa calls her Toshiro-Mifune face.

“Check all that apply,” she says.

“But it says just one.”

“Do you listen to your mother or a piece of paper?

I check off Black,

cross out Oriental

and write Japanese with a check mark.

“What will we do now Mimi-chan?” Mama asks,

which means: Will you read

or do algebra, so you’re not behind?

“Take a nap” I say.

Mama frowns,

but I close my eyes

and pretend we’re flying.

The bus driver is the pilot

and every bump in the road

becomes an air pocket in the sky.

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“Two On Two Out” by Ron Koertge

From Shakespeare Bats Clean Up

Not the bottom of the ninth, though.

The game is not on the line. It’s the top

of the fifth on a Wednesday evening.

I’m up. The guys are on their feet, yelling

for me. “Over the fence, Shakespeare.

Bring ‘em home, baby.”

I’ve got this pitcher figured out: slider,

fastball, curve. Slider,, fastball, curve.

Like meter in a bad poem--no surprises.

I take a strike, foul one off, take a ball.�Then stroke that tepid slider into left.�It’s a ling single. I run hard, pull up

Halfway to second, jog back, and stand on the bag.

Mira and Dad are on their feet. He’s

Pointing and nodding. She says something

And they both laugh.

I like feeling my heart beat. I like sweating.

I’m well now. Totally. Like before. Maybe

Better.

I’m thinking seriously about reading

When Dad reads. Like one poem. Maybe

Something I wrote when I had mon.

Maybe something new.

Maybe something just for Mira.

It scares me, But in a good way.

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“Seal” by William Jay Smith

From Reflections on a gift of Watermelon Pickle