Where Do You Find Poems

Valentine for Ernest Mann

Naomi Shihab Nye

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I am a poet who works in the schools most of the time with third, fourth, and fifth grade students. Over the last twenty years I have seen thousands of young poets and read their poems. Their work is often moving, always entertaining, and sometimes truly remarkable. Great poetry connects, the voice in the poem, so brutally honest, we believe it’s our own. Every once in awhile one (or more) of those wonderful poems emerges from a quiet student, and everyone sits up and listens, at first surprised, then awed, inspired, and thankful.

I noticed L. was smaller than most of his fellow fourth graders. He seemed distant, detached, more engaged with his electronic tablet than his classmates, but I could tell he was monitoring what was happening around him. He responded to me one on one. He asked questions about the writing exercises, but insisted that he only use his tablet. A classroom aide agreed to copy his writing onto paper, so I could take it with me each week. The teacher let me know that L. was “on his own” when it came to writing, that he hadn't done much writing at all in class and that his parents knew L. didn't write much, that it wasn't anything he was really into, and because he tested off the charts in science and math, they weren’t concerned that he didn’t do a lot of his “writing” assignments. The expectation was that he probably wouldn’t write poems because he was focused on other things.

It was obvious that L. was very intelligent. Each week he entertained me with his poems, and more importantly he entertained and surprised his classmates when he'd share his poem out loud. After 10 weeks of writing poems, I asked the students to write a poem on poetry, gave them several examples and ideas on how to go about this kind of poem. I try to encourage them to turn poetry into other things: animal, vegetable, human, whatever, just show it doing things, make it a metaphor, their own ars poetica. I use Naomi Shihab Nye's “Valentine for Ernest Mann” which tells a secret “poems hide.”

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Valentine for Ernest Mann

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
*
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
*
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
*
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
*
Naomi Shihab Nye

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What a wonderful poem about poetry. She tells us, “Nothing was ugly / just because the world said so.” That “What we have to do / is live in a way that lets us find them.” So some students explore where their poems come from, where they hide, and how they find them. I try to encourage them to compare poetry to concrete things, so I don't get a bunch of “poetry is beautiful” or “poetry is about emotions” or “poetry makes my heart sing,” that kind of writing that has no voice, no uniqueness. But in spite of my efforts to “prompt” my writers, once in awhile someone writes in a way that reminds us of what we love about poetry.

This is the poem that L. wrote on poetry, this “somewhat disconnected brainiac” child who really wasn't a writer. Enjoy.

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Poetry is in Nature

*

I just want to leave this world behind

and go to the tranquility of a poem

I get my ideas from cats,

my paintings, and my mind's eye

I know what I am

I know what I can do

I know what I can be

I am an enigma, always mystic

I am everywhere, always

I am all this and more

I am the poem

*

by L.

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And remember, we are all poets, but we might not know it unless we make the effort to write our thoughts and feelings down. You are the poem. Tell it.