Having a great fondness for Heidi Mordhorst’s definito form, last month I tucked away a mental note to write one for the Poetry Pal’s shared challenge for today. In Heidi’s words, “the definito is a free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which always ends the poem. I’ve written definitos before (here), but it had been quite a while since I’d played with the form. As usual, I wish I’d had more time!
Half the fun of writing a definito is choosing the word you want to highlight. With butterflies on the mind in my classroom this week, emerge was an easy win.
Emerge
A scuba diver bubbles up from turbulent seas. A skyline materializes as coastal fog fades. From a too-tight chrysalis a butterfly steps and spreads its crumpled wings. To move out or away from To come into view To emerge.
Make sure to visit The Opposite of Indifference where Tabatha Yeatts is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup. There are sure to be other definitos for you to enjoy, along with an assortment of other poetry.
In the past, most of my students have known all about the monarch life cycle. They got excited when they see the J form, knowing it wouldn’t be long til there was a dangling chrysalis in its place. This year, like every year, the kids have been utterly entranced watching the caterpillars roam around in their butterfly tent. I’ve already written about some of our caterpillar adventures (here), but what’s really struck me is that my students seem much more unaware of the process of metamorphosis than in the past. Instead of confident comments and shared knowledge, there have been a slew of questions: What’s it doing? Why’s it doing that?
With this in mind, the other day I read to them all about the caterpillar lifecycle. We spent a long time examining a series of pictures of the final skin shed, when the dark striped skin splits down the back of the caterpillar and the green skin below emerges.
We wondered at the idea that this final skin would actually harden into the pupa. Minds blown! We had a grand time talking about the process and about having green skin in general. Finally, I glanced up at the clock. Oops.
“Ok, everyone, we’ve got to get going. It’s time to head to Specials.”
The kids got up off the carpet and moved toward the doorway. L, who was ahead of us all, suddenly cried out, “Hey, it’s doing it right now!”
We all briefly froze in our tracks, then raced across the room to converge around the butterfly tent. Sixteen pairs of eyes focused on the caterpillar dangling from the top. Sixteen mouths dropped open. Sixteen people started talking simultaneously.
What had been a striped monarch caterpillar before we began our read aloud was now undergoing a transformation. Green skin was visible over about half of it. The kids burst into excited chatter, hopping up and down and pointing.
“Look at that!”
“Wait! What’s it doing?”
“It’s pupating!”
“Ew!”
We watched as the caterpillar squirmed and wiggled and more and more green skin emerged.
“Look how much it’s moving!”
After the shed skin was finally gathered at one end, the caterpillar continued to wriggle dramatically until…
Plop!
The discarded skin dropped to the floor of the tent.
“Ah!” shrieked K, stepping back. “Did its head just fall off!?!”
We reassured K. and kept our eyes glued on the caterpillar. What was it going to do next? Finally, its intense wiggling ceased and it slowly stopped moving altogether.
The caterpillar may have been still, but the energy in the room remained electric. Kids chattered, their voices and comments tumbling over each other.
At this point it was definitely past time to head to Specials. The kids got into line, wriggling with excitement, transformed by this experience. Eyes wide. Faces aglow. More than once I heard one of them whisper again, with a big grin on their face, “That was amazing!”
The monarch caterpillars are the first and last things the kids look at every day. It’s been a long time since I’ve had caterpillars in the classroom, and I’d forgotten that they are a continual source of wonder and conversation. They are a total distraction, yet totally delightful.
It hasn’t all been smooth sailing though, as we’ve already had some high drama. One afternoon, we thought for sure one of them was a goner. It hadn’t moved or eaten for quite a while. All afternoon it stayed in one spot, far away from tempting milkweed. Never moving. The kids snuck over occasionally to peek. Nothing changed. It didn’t move. At all. Then a dark substance appeared behind it. It still wasn’t moving. Uh oh.
“Is it dead?” several kids asked later, as we passed the tent on our way to the buses.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It doesn’t look good. We’ll see what’s happening in the morning.”
Silently, I was already contemplating how we could tuck a caterpillar funeral into our schedule.
We left school with heavy hearts.
The next morning, as I greeted kids at the door, two boys approached me.
“Is it…?”
“Did he make it?”
“It did!” I enthused. ” Go see!”
The boys ran over to check things out. “Bob Weezer’s alive!” they called out in delight, high fiving each other. And so, in the midst of our collective relief, we all learned his name. (Later, we also learned that he was just chilling while he was shedding.)
Soon, the kids had christened two more of the visiting caterpillars: Chrysalissy and Butter. Debate raged about what to name the last one. It was down to two names: Tomato Tomahto and Hugo. C. asked me if he could poll the class during Quiet Time.
“Sure, ” I said. “Just make sure to whisper.”
He grabbed a piece of paper and created a tally chart with the two name options. Then, he quietly approached each classmate, asking them to vote.
At the end of Quiet Time, we were all on the edge of our seats. C stood up and made the announcement: It was a close contest, but…
Hugo won the day!
And now, we watch and wait.
Be sure to stay tuned for the next installment of Adventures with Bob Weezer, Hugo, Butter and Chrysalissy.
I always enjoy interweaving my photographs and writing, and lately, I’ve been playing around with image poems again. For me, they are the perfect format for a quick dip into poetry, when the return to the classroom has taken a voracious bite out of my available writing time.
sun-kindled spotlight summer day finale hydrangea’s swan song
Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. ~Stanley Horowitz
I’ve been feeling change lately, like a physical presence. Perhaps it’s school starting or the thread of chill in the morning air. Perhaps it’s the shift in light to a rich, golden hue. Or perhaps it’s that night lingers into morning and arrives earlier each day. Clearly, fall is edging closer.
Autumn invites nostalgia in. Come sit beside me. Time is passing. Let’s linger here for a moment together.
I find myself feeling slightly more vulnerable to my memories, to recent losses. Contemplative. There’s a shift in the air. A shift in me. Everything feels just a bit different. On the cusp. Summer is sighing, fading away as fall steps in. It’s both beautiful and faintly unsettling. My feelings and thoughts rustle like leaves in a breeze, kaleidoscopic–a flickering mosaic of past, present and future.
Yesterday morning I went to the river to greet the day, something I have seldom done of late. I wanted to be surrounded by the cool serenity of dawn. To slow time down and watch the day awaken. To wrap a blanket of calm around me.
Clouds and light stirred and shifted, layered land, water and sky. Boundaries blurred.
The river slipped in and out of sight behind gilded grasses and veils of glowing mist.
With every moment, the light changed. The view altered. Inevitably clearer, yet still transitioning. Sky. Clouds. Land. Mist. Water. Separating into distinct yet interwoven layers.
I heard them before I saw them. The mournful cries rebounded off the low-lying clouds and filled the chilly air. Unmistakeable. The keen call of Canada geese. I scanned the skies, thinking, as always when I hear them, of Rachel Field’s poem. Something told the wild geese… They flew low above the marsh, passed overhead, then soared around the bend in the river and out of sight.
Each week Margaret Simon shares a photograph on her blog and invites people to respond with a short poem. (She took up the mantle for this weekly challenge from Laura Purdie Salas who originally called it, 15 Words or Less Poems.) Margaret’s version is called, This Photo Wants to be a Poem. (You can read her most recent post here. ) For our September Inkling challenge, Margaret asked us to chose any photo she’d shared and respond in poetry.
A few weeks ago Margaret highlighted this photo of a striped rock from the Salish Sea. The picture was taken by her sister-in-law, Julia, and shared on Instagram. (You can read responses to the photo here.)
I didn’t have time to respond in the moment, but later I stumbled upon Donna Smith’s response on her Facebook page. After her post, she exchanged a few comments with Janet Clare about collecting rocks– talking about gathering rocks, deciding whether to keep them or whether to “just release them all back into the wild.” That final comment sparked my response, which went a bit long.
The Weight of Stones *inspired by a FB comment from Donna Smith
The stones gasp for water long since evaporated and never replenished. When did the joy of initial discovery (The color! The shape! The lines!) fade to indifference?
Caged in their glass vases these forgotten memories of far-off places gather dust. Their vitality fades.
Do they mourn the lost warmth of sun the clench of cold the gentle wash of rain? Do they yearn to tidetumble? To whisper with the waves?
Clearly it is past time to release these unwilling captives back into the wild.
Nix the comfort zone 