May 13, 2014 Teaching and Learning
What Matters
(Portrait of a Study Hall in Middle School)
©May 13th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Twenty-six minds in a rectangular box
Six windows to see out of,
And one door to escape from:
Boxed in, we sit, attending
Attentive, studious, silent —
Almost, but not quite.
But the hum of thought flows
Through the spaces between desks
Collect in little pools of light.
Eyes gaze into space, catch mine
From time to time, glow in
Recognition: I know you,
And I like you. You’re all right.
(I think.)
The nods, the sidelong looks
Between peers, almost friends,
Some friends, some just classmates,
Catch at filaments of connection.
Heads bent over writing, over science, math
Over drawing, over Insurgent and Divergent
As if these stories bring back some need
To rebel, to fight, but against what?
And for what?
Some long to find causes,
Others laugh at them,
Mock those who act,
Who knows why.
It does not matter. For some,
Reading equals being. Others sit,
Twitching with dissatisfaction,
Mute, itchy.
Here, now, in Study Hall
In 8th Grade, at my school,
In my plant-overflowing, poster-splattered,
Blue and green, and maroon and red
Room, where music swells
From time to time, and
Laughter bubbles, and questions
Spill over every day, and where
Thought and effort crease
My students’ brows,
My Study Hall mutters itself
Into a state that resembles
Work and focus.
And that’s all that matters —
For now.
______________________________________________________________________
Tags: #Original Poetry, focus, middle school, recognition, students and teacher, study hall, what matters
Apr 26, 2013 Uncategorized
Listening to Poetry
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 26th, 2013
The children listen, in a spell
As the words of the poem we
Read aloud together in class,
Unreel and hook them, unawares.
Poetry, that smiling looter
That thief of all cynical hearts
That bandit of their mundane minds
Captures them, binds them all, tightly.
For a moment, cynicism
Is suspended, pushed, held at bay
By words, written quite long ago
Among differently moulded minds.
Then, mundane memory floods back
And, unwilling to be found out,
They replace their masks and move on
To the next silly or sublime sphere.
If I could capture their quiet
Concentration, their absorption,
I’d create an essential oil
With which to make a sweet perfume.
I’d keep it at my lonely desk
Spray it into the air near me,
And inhale deeply when sudden
Unexpected despair grabs me.
I’d forget my ache, then, and smile
I’d remind myself that this is
Why I love to teach and why I stay:
Concentration concentrated,
The shared delight, the rich shaping
Of our mutual enjoyment:
Pleasure distilled and stoppered in time
And fragrant in our memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #NaPoWriMo, #Original Poetry, Concentration, Pleasure in poetry, students and teacher, Teaching and Learning, Teaching Poetry, Writing