My poor kids. They go to school all day, and when they get home, their mother steps out from the shadows like crouching tiger, hidden dragon with the latest book of poetry in her hands. My children are probably the only kids who can claim that their mother has recited O Captain! My Captain! aloud to them, during their baths, in just the last two months.
This week's poetry discovery was Falling Down the Page, which is a book of list poems, probably best for the 8-12 year old crowd. My daughters really enjoyed it. In case you aren't familiar, a list poem is a poem that is written vertically and looks like. . . well, a list.
List poems can be as mundane as finding a way to make your grocery list clever, and as complex as any other intricate poem. The editor of this collection, Georgia Heard, cites Walt Whitman's Song of Myself as one of the more elaborate and famous list poems out there, but the ones she's included in her compilation are more simple and upbeat and well-suited for children.
And, because I am who I am, naturally I gave my two younger children the task of writing their own list poem, after listening to this collection. My 7-year-old immediately feigned a stomachache and headed upstairs, but my almost 10-year-old took on the assignment with surprising gusto. She is a big animal lover, so she has begun a list poem of endangered animals, to bring attention to the problem. She says it will be an epic poem, so it's no where near ready for an audience yet.
This daughter demanded that if she had to write one, then I had to write one, so we sat side by side, writing our poems. Within minutes, I was sniffing back tears, and my daughter looked up at me, appalled. She put her hands on her hips and said, “Mommy, list poems are funny, not sad!”
I disagree. A list poem is a list, but no one assigned an emotion to it. I've got a broken arm and I miss my dad, so my list poem came out like this:
To My Father: 10 Things I Miss About You
Your baritone voice
(you sounded a lot like Johnny Cash).
The way you coughed and became teary eyed
every time you laughed.
The affectionate adjectives
you always added to my name.
The profanities you shouted
at every football game.
Your cheeks, cold to the touch,
every time you stepped out of a car.
The small gifts you stashed in your pockets
for us, when you traveled far.
The attention you paid
to every passing baby, dog or bird.
The way you listened to my stories,
like you adored my every word.
The coziness of you, tucked in to a chair or couch,
so accessible, so very near.
Your uncanny ability
to make the bad guys and the bad thoughts disappear.