Poetry Prompting Poetry: Inspiring Introspection by Sharing Deep Thoughts

  Evoking introspection by sharing thought-provoking poems enables me to catalyze growth for young writers, in terms of both their writing skills and their self-understanding. Evidence of such growth often arrives in the form of poetic responses to my own poetry prompts, as illustrated below:

THE PROMPT: Write a similar poem about unfair assumptions you've made.
 
About Assumptions
by Susan L. Lipson 

I read your scowl as a snide comment
about me,
and prepared to throw the book at you,
but then you revealed the grief between your lines,
and I reread that scowl as a grimace of pain,
about you.
Guiltily, I snapped shut the book of judgment,
which wasn't mine to read.

THE RESPONSE:

Assumptions

by Caleb T., age 11

I’ve had some trouble putting it out of my mind.

Quiet, thin-eyed = older.

Loud, wide-eyed = younger.

In between = middle.

I hope that no one hears

And thinks that I judge too much

The perceptions of people’s ages.

Assumptions ≠ facts.

ANOTHER PROMPT: Use the bold-lettered words as a framework for 
your own poem on the same theme, or reverse the objects and subjects,  
changing "you" to "I/me" to show the opposite view.

Old Blanket
by Susan L. Lipson

To you, I was an old blanket,
Covered in teddy bears and hearts,
Warmth from younger days.
But now you see me as threadbare,
Unappealing, too babyish,
Something for the storage chest.
To me, you were my best childhood friend.
But now I know you as the one who
Discarded me for a new comforter.

THE RESPONSE (THE REVERSED OPTION):

Former Commander 

by Ethan C., age 10

To me, you were my commander,

Helping me with everything I do, 

Memories of the younger days.

But now I see you as a comrade,

Less cool, more average, 

Somebody just to be friends with. 

To you, I was like a soldier,

But now you know me as a fighter 

Who rose the ranks and went beyond you.

           
         Both of these student poets wrote their poems after a deep discussion of the various implied meanings of the prompt poem. Their sweet expressions of insightful nostalgia warmed my heart as they read me their final drafts with pride. Thanks for reading. Please leave encouraging comments for Caleb and Ethan below!

Promising Middle-School Age Poets Explore Perspective with Humor and Innovation

          Here are the results of prompting my 11- and 12-year-old students to write poems with verse openers borrowed from another poem, by Kirsten Smith, from her poetry novel The Geography of Girlhood. The goal of this lesson was to explore perspective: how someone else sees us, and how they may underestimate or misunderstand our ways. I challenged my students to emulate the tone and format of Smith's poem by modifying her opening phrases to begin each of their own verses. This collection of four poems shows extraordinary introspection, innovation, intelligence, humor, and skills. And I must credit each poet for diligence in both writing and revising, and then sending the typed final versions to me for inclusion on my blog. These are some serious future authors here!

CLOUDS

By W. D. MacLeod, age 12

[The prompt was to write a poem about how other people see me, starting my lines with the words To them I am, Because of me, They hope I will, and I will eventually.... It was a lot of fun to write, so enjoy!]

To them, I am the reminders and the redirections, and of course the exasperated “Williams!”s.  I am the kind of kid who not matter how bright he is

Always

Forgets

His

Lunch Box.

Because of me, they always must keep watch for me. They shake their heads and chuckle 

because

I 

Will

Never

Change.

They hope that I will eventually get better, get my head out of the clouds.  “Get a wife!”says my Dad.  “Write a list!” says my Mom.  But I won’t get a wife anytime soon, and lists…

I’d

Lose

Those   

Too.

I will eventually get better.  Maybe I will need a list or a wife, but one thing is for certain:

I Like It Up Here In The Clouds!

Zucchini Jeans

By Lucy M., age 12

To her, I am a nuisance.

I am an ant that steals from her,

A fly that buzzes around her head.

 

Because of me, she is always covering her ears

To save herself from the squeaky violin sounds

That come out of my room.

She tells me she hopes I would stop following her around 

everywhere she goes,

And she wishes I would stop calling her “Zucchini Jeans.”

And I will stop bothering and following her,

And I will also get better at the violin,

But what she doesn’t know is that I’m

secretly making weird noises to drive her crazy,

Because once she goes to college,

I won’t be able to do that.

           The following poets chose to write not about themselves, but about some other narrator who is misunderstood. I have found that some writers avoid direct introspection in their work, preferring to delve into personally compelling topics through fictional representations. 

Dirt Bomb

By Allison, age 11

To her I am a dirt bomb.

My paws are earthquakes on the wood floor.

My tongue is a leaky faucet, leaving drool everywhere.

My toys are land mines all over the house.

Because of me, she’s constantly cleaning mud off the floor.

She’s always scrubbing a trail of grass stains that never seem to go away.

She hopes that I will be a winner.

One who leaves the dog show with an actual ribbon,

not a “good job for trying” certificate.

But for now, I’ll just eat the certificates. 

                                                                                          

I will eventually be the top dog in the show.

I will have gleaming fur,

and I’ll leave no messes, other than...

you know. 

When she wants to find me,

I’ll be at the end of a $100 leash,

marching up to the dog show’s door.

COEXIST

By Joshua, age 12

To us, they are small,

Inferior to our knowledge

And our thirst for innovation.

To us, they do not know

That we take their land

For the good of mankind.

To us, they are selfish.

We live here, too.

We deserve a part

Of this great useful

Land.

To them, we are invasive.

They were here first.

The land, trees, rivers

And beautiful nature

Belong to them.

We are selfish.

We only care for ourselves

And our filthy, yucky civilizations

That take up

Their beautiful,

Pristine

Natural world.

To each other, we are selfish,

But we truly aren’t.

We just use this land

How it was intended to be.

Although you are selfish,

Although you are dumb,

I’ll be the better man/animal

And coexist with you.

Robin Hood

By Christopher W., age 12

 

To them, I am a criminal to be rid of.

I go around stealing from men who bathe in riches.

They won’t miss a penny.

Because of me, the poor are alive and well,

Going out to the bustling market with coins in their pocket,

Which without they might as well be dead. 

The wealthy are always complaining about me.

They hope I will eventually be caught.

Wanted signs here and there, the reward going up and up.

Commoners are my best friends,

They will not hand me over. 

They will eventually give up.

The poor need me and the rich know they have no choice. 

This prosperous era will not come to an end until I lie in my grave, 

For I am Robin Hood.    

LEARNING TO WRITE FROM EMOTIONAL, EVEN IF NOT PERSONAL, EXPERIENCE

            Personal ads, written by lonely people seeking connections or reconnections with others, offer an emotional treasure chest of possible stories—both fictional and factual—to a creative, introspective mind. We need not have experienced the same kinds of losses, joys, fears, or regrets that the ad writers express to be able to awaken similar emotions and weave them into original fiction, memoirs, or poems. For example, a couple of wistful lines from the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist prompted me to spin a story of romantic obsession between fictional characters who have nothing in common with me except these emotions: artistic passion, self-doubt, and a yearning for meaningful connections with colorful people. Emotional authenticity turns stick figure characters into fully fleshed out human beings. These are the lines that evoked my story:

                        “I shouldn’t remember you. Maybe you will fade now.”

            From those pained words, I wrote “Awaiting Fading,” a short story about a young artist who can’t erase the memory of a shopping experience at an art supply store, where she found herself enchanted by an employee with whom she shared glimpses of their respective artworks on Instagram before insecurity transformed admiration into intimidation, making the customer feel so unworthy of the new friend that she ran away from the store, as well as from her own feelings of inadequacy. The story begins with the lines from Craigslist, as the narrator stares wistfully at the now empty store, permanently closed, and realizes that she has no way to reconnect with the artist employee.

            I presented those same story-evoking lines to some of my teenage students. I assured them that by borrowing a pair of lines, and then taking off with it, like a torch passed from runner to runner in a cross-country marathon, they would not be plagiarizing, but rather, connecting and reconnecting with readers in the same way that the author of that borrowed line wishes to have connected with the one whose memory won’t fade. I gave them about 30 minutes to whip up a first draft of a short fiction worked based on emotional, but not actual reality. The teenagers were pleased and surprised by their own creations. 

          The on-demand short fictional works included: one story about a border security agent who can’t get a tiny Mexican boy out of his mind after the agent intentionally broke the law and allowed the boy and his family safe, but illegal passage into the US; another story about a person who once witnessed a woman jumping from a high-rise to her death, and now yearns for that death to stop haunting her; one poem about a witnessed act of charity in India, between a rich woman in a car and a child begging at her window; and another story about a soldier at war, forced to kill a fellow soldier who defied regulations. Each story's personal emotional reality gave texture to the purely imaginary characters and settings. 

(painting by my son, Ian Lipson, just because I find it inspiring...)

          Two sample short stories follow, one by Daniel and another by Liam, ages 15 and 16, respectively.

BITTERSWEET CANDY

By Daniel

            I don't know why I remember you. You, of all the people who passed through these gates. What made you so different from that mass of huddled souls?

            I can see you still. Your unbuttoned collar. Your untied shoes. Your toy bear, hugged tight against your chest.  I sometimes wonder what made you come here.  I remember stamping your passport for tourism. Your family said that you’d stay for just a few weeks. To see your relatives, then leave. I’ve gone and checked your records. You never did leave. 

            I sometimes wonder where you are now. I know that I should have reported you as soon as your visa was up, but I didn’t. I wonder why. What made you, of all people, so different from all the other I flagged and sent back?             

            Perhaps you’re not here anymore. Perhaps you were only passing through on your journey to who knows where fleeing from who knows what. You certainly don’t know, or didn’t at the time. Your father didn’t look at me. Your mother left so fast that she left a pair of pants behind. They’d fallen out of her luggage. I called her back, but only you turned to look at me.

              I still remember what was in those pants. They were blue jeans. Made in Malaysia. In the pockets were a crumpled up receipt and a candy wrapper. Caramelo agridulce. I asked my coworker what it meant. Why anyone would enjoy bittersweet candy is beyond me.

              Sometimes I think that I remember you for a reason. After all, God does not play dice. Why should your memory persist? I’ve seen countless deportations, telling myself that it was for the good of our community. I somehow always find myself looking out for your face. You must be grown up by now. It’s been ten years since you passed through our checkpoint. I wonder what your life is like. Do you go to school? Do manual labor like your father did? (The callouses never lie.) Perhaps I should have stopped you. Pulled you and your family over. I knew what was happening. I don’t know why I didn’t.

* * *

I Shouldn’t Remember You

by Liam

          I shouldn’t remember you. Maybe you will fade now…as so many of the others have done. 

           You never really did fit in with us, having nothing to boast, no stories to share, never understanding the jokes we told. I remember the nights you sat alone at the fires, staring off into the distance, as if grasping for a lost memory, while the rest of us huddled close in the winter nights, discussing battle plans and sharing tales of our women and children, thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

Every so often, one of us would call out to you, “Come join us, laddie, tell us of your deeds. We’ve got a lot more wine to spill.” Yet, you never did join us. Instead, your sole response would always be some clever excuse to get away from our reeking breaths.

“Damn rebs,” you would say, in your best impression of a grown man’s voice, “Someone had better keep watch.” And so the nights would go on.

We kept our steady march, until the day we finally reached Bunker Hill. Then came battle day, our valiant countrymen, charging up the slopes, straight into the Americans’ grapeshot and musket balls. Our comrades, who endured so much alongside us were ripped apart, blown to shreds by the merciless rebels above the hill. Then came our turn, our regiment’s attempt to secure the fort. As we charged out into the open field, only you stayed behind, clutching the seams of your bloodstained jacket, crying for mother, crying to be taken back home.

I had to do it. It was my job. One that I had done countless times before. Yet, when I called your name, and stated your crimes for cowardice, I could barely force myself to raise my gun. My hands trembled as I poised the barrel of my flintlock against your temple. “I had to do it,” is what I now tell myself. “It was necessary for the discipline of the men.” But every time I close my eyes, I think to myself, “I am the man who murdered a boy crying for his mother.”