I Hate Poetry

guest post written by Margo Perin, Sonoma County Network Coordinator

Guadalupe Elementary School, San Francisco

School Librarian: Sheila Harman

Poet-Teacher: Margo Perin

In October 2017, fires swept through Santa Rosa, where I live, with whole communities burned to ash and hundreds losing their homes and jobs in this brave new world of climate change. Unable to get out of my pajamas from grief and fear and temporarily dislocated in San Francisco, I volunteered a poetry class at an elementary school where I had done a residency in the past. Amidst the devastation, the only place to feel some sort of hope was with children being creative.

I introduced myself to the class of about thirty children as a poet-teacher who had taught at their school. I told them I had come to their classroom because, like a lot of people, I felt upset about the fires up north, which most of them had heard about.

“I love your school and I knew it would cheer me up to see you,” I said to the sea of inquisitive faces.

After a brief discussion of their experiences of bullying, on the request of the school librarian who had arranged for my session and a hot topic in schools across the country, partly in resistance to our bully-in-chief leading the charge, I led them through the creation of a collective poem. They were then instructed to write their own poems, choosing whether they wanted to work in pairs or by themselves.

One little boy got out of his seat and wandered off to the side of the room. He looked out of whack, fed up, and frustrated.

“I’m bored,” he said, refusing to look at me when I asked what was wrong.

“You don’t want to write about bullies?” I said.

“I hate poetry,” he said, scowling.

“Why don’t you write about what you’d rather be doing? Where would you rather be?”

He looked surprised, then hopped off to his desk.

When I went back to check on him, he had written:

I wrader bean helping My dad with trash then bean here doing these poem and watering my lemon tree so he dosint die and he lives

“I really like this,” I said, ignoring the misspellings. "I have a lemon tree, too, and I know what you mean." I was hoping it was still there when I got back to Santa Rosa, along with my home.

I leaned over his desk, pencil in hand. “I’m going to show you a trick to make it look like a poem. Read it out loud and every time you pause I’m going to put a line.”

I drew a slash at the top of his page. “Then you’re going to rewrite it and every time you see one of these, drop down to the next line.”

He read the poem aloud and I inserted the slashes, with which he then turned his poem into:

I wrader bean helping My dad with trash

then bean here doing these poem

and watering my lemon tree

so he dosint die

and he lives