I can’t explain the butterflies,
worries about asking kids to find poems
in the old man’s beard, the chance tracks of bear,
or the one deer print in the sand exposed between flakes of last year’s leaves.
Why are some grey like wasp’s nests,
while their sisters are rust leather?
The forest smell takes me back thirty years to when I lived outside,
as if it had been stashed in sealed pouches in forgotten safe places
and now suddenly rediscovered.
Kids are so loud. Even by the river, their voices carry.
The woodpecker on the loudest deadwood can’t compete.
But now in the evening, the only sounds
are the tapping of pencils, the rustling of sleeves
across paper. Children settle, reflected in fresh air.
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
-
Outdoor school? What are you Canadians some kind of fucking communists?
You lived outside for a stretch? Do tell.
-
-
Yes, commies. Eat your heart out.
http://www.nvsd44.bc.ca/programs/outdoorschool.aspx
I was there for a week with a hundred sixth-graders, along with 3 other teachers, a bunch of high-school counsellors, and of course the Outdoor School staff, who are also teachers, if they're not cooks or first aid attendants.
The teachers had their own cabin, and we partied copiously. We were only outside during the day. The food was mediocre, but hey, we didn't have to cook. Club Med, really. Without the Med.
-
-
Duh I just read Gill's comment about the lines and the grey and it relates to the butterflies? Actually it doesn't really matter to me the way I read it what it relates to or if it just sort of hangs there like a moth or a leaf in camouflage on a tree trunk or if it is someone's beard or hairs or a symbol of age and crinkling- fitting in with everything else and standing out etc. Now I have confused myself.
-
-
No, your take on it was right in the first place. Deconfuse, you're okay.
-
-
Oh shit. I just realised I commented on [2] and then the penny dropped that there might be a [1] and then I would look very silly. No change there then.
Anne, you had me there, nerves and all with this. Knowing that you need to, have to, try to infect other people and children at that with those things that make your eyes glow to think about and to shine fanatically when you talk to people about, but with the knowledge that they all probably think you are stark raving bonkers. Thing is, adults are mainly polite enough to back away mumbling but children can be awfully cruel when you expose yourself in his way and ask them to try to share that fantastic feeling too. But that, M'Dear is what makes a teacher- and it is the sheer bravery that makes a good teacher, as oppposed to an instructor, one that makes a difference because they show some fucking human-ness to the kids. Now I'm doing it, trying to share that passion when you just KNOW and you have to get it across and you feel your face and eyes going all weird.
Anyway, I get this. I get the worry about whether you can explain, or tell, or show or somehow connect and make them see the small things, because it is one of those things where timing and everything must be right.
I love this
Why are some grey like wasp’s nests,
while their sisters are rust leather?
Assuming the description relates immediately to leaves, those still hanging around on the ground from last year and not yet absorbed or covered by new seasons undergrowth, because that was the last'subject, but it also defines the trope of the whole poem-idea, doesn't it, and as such that is very spine shivery for me, expanding the image. To me if an image expands before your eyes like spilt liquid it has to be pretty effective innit.
It's chilly in the woods by the river in the evening. I think there is a little mist coming up and weaving those leaves, rustling like tired sleepy kids fighting excitement at being away, writing their journals , doodling and dealing with their own inner insecurities.
-
-
Stef, that's the nicest thing someone's said to me in a long time.
One great thing about kids is that they have a certain appreciation for "bonkers" in adults. Another is that they still attribute knowledge and wisdom to us, so we can lead them just about anywhere, if they trust us.
Being with fifty silent, writing kids is the most amazing experience - the air becomes charged. I haven't come down yet.
-
-
"Why are some grey like wasp’s nests,
while their sisters are rust leather?"
I couldn't get passed these lines when I first read them.. as the singular use of grey seems stilted and awkward, it's not good english ... LOLOLOL ... sorry
but I came back to comment, as I think I should now
why [are some] is? grey like a wasp's nest
I dunno... ??? what the hell do I know, I only live in England, perhaps I don't speak it well enough
but the thoughts and why this piece happened are what makes it good.. and the trip away with the children must have been amazing
Gilly.x
-
-
Oh, didn't think of grey as a noun. I could write that sentence as "Why are some leaves grey..." (or ..."some butterflies" even). I'll have to think on that, if it's so unclear.
Thanks for your input, GillyGill. It helps.
-
-
have I told you how much I love you Lady..
well I do
-
-
-
I love this. To be a kid again.
My lady is a teacher and says
she can relate to this.
peace and love,
rooster.
-
this sounds like a great adventure. Will you write more about the progress of this school?
It's a wonderful poem, full of Spring.
Makes me want to hunt hornets nests!
D
Adding your comment:
1 - 11 of 11
