My children attended a tiny public alternative school in Toronto. Each year all families were encouraged to attend the graduation of the grade 6 class. This whole-school event was an annual tradition.
Even though my children were just beginning at the school I embraced the inclusive nature of our school’s pedagogy and went to sit in the hot gymnasium to witness the graduation of eight children I did not know.
As the graduating children read their speeches, which rivaled any Academy Award speech for profuse thank-yous, I noticed an absence of something. What was it?
I recalled my own grade 6 year, eleven or twelve years old. What would I have said to my school?
Poetry! Poetry was missing! None of these children had written poems to sum up their school experience or to convey their gratitude. I was surprised because I remembered a great deal of poetry writing when I was their age.
The following September, I approached Wayne, our school’s beloved Grades 4, 5, and 6 teacher. I asked him about the poetry curriculum and I offered to run a workshop in his class. He readily agreed and I began what became for me a delightful annual endeavour.
For six or eight weeks I would go into the senior classroom and guide these enthusiastic and imaginative kids to use words to paint sound-pictures, otherwise known as poetry. Borrowing heavily from Kenneth Koch, a poet I’d read during my university years, I created a workshop which produced the desired result–confidence in the students’ ability to write.
The most extraordinary part of each class was when a student finished writing a poem, and I’d ask if they’d like to write it on the blackboard for all to see. At first there was some reluctance but once the thrill of publication coursed through the classroom there was an energy that defied even the dismissal bell.
Children jostled for their spot in the queue. There was only so much blackboard! They transcribed their poems from their notebooks to the board. I prompted them at this level to check spelling, punctuation, and line break. I urged them to realize that any glitch could sink a whole poem.
Once the poem was thoroughly proof-read I called the class to attention. The poet became solemn and self-conscious. As the rest of the class read along silently with the blackboard version, the poet would read his or her poem aloud. You could’ve heard a paper airplane land.
Applause, always applause. Good, bad, or ugly, the children spontaneously applauded the courage and effort of their classmate. Then there were questions and comments. The poet squirmed in the limelight, then rushed to his or her seat when their fleeting moment of fame had passed.
And the next poet was ready, vibrating with excitement, “Can I read mine next, Sandy? Can I? Can I?”
Publication: the world stops whirling for a moment, and reads.
