Poetry Musical Chairs
Materials and Directions
DIRECTIONS FOR MARCH 13:
Fill out the graphic organizer for each poem.
Be sure to provide a proper citation for the last column.
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.
“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
“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.
“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.
“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.
“The Wall” by John Grandits
From Blue Lipstick
“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.
“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.
“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.
“Seal” by William Jay Smith
From Reflections on a gift of Watermelon Pickle