Students read ‘Along the East River and in the Bronx Young Men Were Singing‘ by Ariel Francisco, in a nod to the opening lines of Fredrico Lorca’s ode to Walt Whitman, ‘ By the East River and the Bronx boys were singing.’ We talked about observing others, watching closely what they do, imagining places special to us, location, location, location, how staring out the window can inform our writing, and using the senses to tell the story.
Lesson Note: “This will probably sound clichéd as a relatively new New Yorker, but I really love reading and writing on the train. I feel it’s the most productive I could possibly be because I’m reading and writing while I’m commuting. It’s like magic.”-Ariel Francisco, Brooklyn Poets Interview.
Ms. Hernandez, 7th Grade
Cedar Point
by Nathan G.
I wake up in the morning in my motel and the first thing
I see is coasters. I hear distant screams of scared people
and I hear the chains lifting coasters
I smell popcorn and candy. I taste fresh air
and donuts. And I touch and I feel
handlebars as I elevate.
Mrs. McClain, 8th Grade
Snow Day
by Salim B.
I hear nothing but the snow
nothing but my friends laughing while we
walked down the grey sidewalks
nothing but the swings creaking at the playground
nothing but the rumbling of cars waiting at the stop sign
nothing but the snow pit-pat-pattering
on our red noses
nothing but ice branches swaying in the wind
brushing off snow
to make the sidewalk look new.
A Whole Lot Of
by Jayden V.
All different from one another
but one phrase to sum it up
A whole lot of
A whole lot of snow
A whole lot of trash cans
A whole lot of cars parked next to houses
A whole lot of bricks constructing houses
A whole lot of staircases toward doors
A whole lot of twigs on the ground
A whole lot of trees that are bare
All of these individual things
construct something smaller than the universe
but bigger than a simple house
a community, for this community.
Mrs. McClain, 8th Grade
Untitled
Sabastian G.
I see a house
January snow is a cold mist
The house a lantern
in a sea of others
Each snowflake makes a tremendous tiny sound
when it lands
Each house a silent miniature monument
of the people inside
Beach
by Julian M.
As I sift my hands through the sail sand, I see
A vast salt ocean stretches nowhere near me
And I smell the fresh salt, like right off the shelf
I taste the drying salt, I can’t drink any
I sift my hands through the sail sand; this place is so
plenty.
