The Poetry Teacher (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

The university gave me a new, elegant

classroom to teach in. Only one thing,

they said. You can't bring your dog.

It's in my contract, I said. (I had

made sure of that.)

We bargained and I moved to an old

classroom in an old building. Propped

the door open. Kept a bowl of water

in the room. I could hear Ben among 

other voices barking, howling in the 

distance. Then they would all arrive---

Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog

or two, all of them thirsty and happy.

They drank, they flung themselves down

among the students. The students loved

it. They wrote thirsty, happy poems.

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver, by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2017

Turtle Came to See Me (Monday Poem)

By Margarita Engle

 

The first story I ever write
is a bright crayon picture
of a dancing tree, the branches
tossed by island wind.

I draw myself standing beside the tree,
with a colorful parrot soaring above me,
and a magical turtle clasped in my hand,
and two yellow wings fluttering
on the proud shoulders of my ruffled
Cuban rumba dancer’s
fancy dress.

In my California kindergarten class,
the teacher scolds me: REAL TREES
DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT.

It’s the moment
when I first
begin to learn
that teachers
can be wrong.

They have never seen
the dancing plants
of Cuba.
 

from Enchanted Air by Margarita Engle 

Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2015

Smoke in Our Hair (Monday Poem)

 By Ofelia Zepeda

 

The scent of burning wood holds
the strongest memory.
Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper,
all are distinct.
Mesquite is dry desert air and mild winter.
Cedar and piñon are colder places.
Winter air in our hair is pulled away,
and scent of smoke settles in its place.
We walk around the rest of the day
with the aroma resting on our shoulders.
The sweet smell holds the strongest memory.
We stand around the fire.
The sound of the crackle of wood and spark
is ephemeral.
Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair,
our clothing, our layers of skin.
The smoke travels deep
to the seat of memory.
We walk away from the fire;
no matter how far we walk,
we carry this scent with us.
New York City, France, Germany—
we catch the scent of burning wood;
we are brought home.
 

from Where Clouds Are Formed by Ofelia Zepeda

University of Arizona Press, 2008

Silverly (Monday Poem)

 by Dennis Lee

Silverly,

Silverly,

Over the

Trees

The moon drifts

By on a

Runaway 

Breeze.

Dozily,

Dozily,

Deep in her

Bed,

A little girl

Dreams with the

Moon in her

Head.

from Poetry By Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember 

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic, 2001