Well Joke and Riddle Week is past, and I have to say we did pretty well. I expect there are still jokes to be told. Though I am terrible at remembering jokes–and tend to remember the terrible ones–I think my favourite that came in last week was:
If you are Canadian outside the bathroom, what are you inside the bathroom?
That joke is built for students of this age (and my age, apparently)! Hopefully some good ones came home as well (especially my awesone penguin joke). The world could use more jokes, and I think our delivery improved.
And this leads us to Poetry Week! I hope that everyone has a poem or two to share (and what better thing to do on a miserable day than practice poetry recitation). Today was supposed to be a practice day . With the field trip postponed, we’ll get to it.
If you have a poem you love or remember from school, SHARE IT BELOW in the comments! (Oh that reminds me, Jacob wanted to see the poem by Pablo Neruda about socks, because he, among others, thought it hilarious that a poet would write such a thing. Here is that link).
I love poetry because it can be so many things, and is often a puzzle to be worked at. We have read and written a variety of poems over the last while. Some have been funny, some odd, some beautiful, some utterly baffling (at first)–all helping us to tackle the wide-open question What is Poetry? Here are a couple that we’ve looked at, for (perhaps) your own enjoyment (or bafflement). Go ahead and ask your child “What does that mean?!” They may have an answer.
Climb Mount Fuji
But slowly, slowly.
As soon as Fred gets out of bed,
his underwear goes on his head.
His mother laughs, “Don’t put it there,
a head’s no place for underwear!”
But near his ears, above his brains,
is where Fred’s underwear remains.
At night when Fred goes back to bed,
he deftly plucks it off his head.
His mother switches off the light
and softly croons, “Good night! Good night!”
And then, for reasons no one knows,
Fred’s underwear goes on his toes.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
— Robert Frost
Mother to Son
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
— Langston Hughes
We read this book about the marvellous E.E. Cummings. I find the book wonderful partly because it introduces the poet’s whimsical word play, but also because it highlights the bravery of giving one’s life to a pursuit one loves.
2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here
(far from a grown
ful world of known)
who and who
(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
— e.e. cummings
And my personal favourite (and possibly Tanner’s also, you’ll have to ask him yourself after he’s read the poem about socks):
The Uncertainty of the Poet
I am a poet.
I am very fond of bananas.
I am bananas.
I am very fond of a poet.
I am a poet of bananas.
I am very fond.
A fond poet of ‘I am, I am’ –
Fond of ‘Am I bananas?
Am I?’ – a very poet.
Bananas of a poet!
Am I fond? Am I very?
Poet bananas! I am.
I am fond of a ‘very’.
I am of very fond bananas.
Am I a poet?