High School Creative Writing
This week the students at Amundsen approached our next to last class with the same question we started with: what is poetry? We read “Build, Now, a Monument” by Matthew Olzmann and were tasked with writing a poem in any format, style, stanza/line length that just aimed to answer what is poetry and what they’ve learned in our time together. Every poem knocked the breath out of me. I am going to miss seeing these talented young writers every week. This summer there will be a whole crew of young writers looking out onto the lake and thinking: it’s so beautiful today; it could be a poem.
“Toppled Trash Can”
By Asher D.
A perfect subject to a piece.
A beautiful bouquet of fresh pink flowers–
will disclose your brush strokes
rushed and sloppy
smooshed into the image of a wet pom-pom.
Why not paint a toppled trash can?
To highlight every beautiful stroke.
“The Wildest Writer”
by Raul M.
A boy didn’t find everything interesting.
To him, he and everything just existed.
But when he read a poem,
everything went from gray to full of colors.
Eager upon this discovery, he read more,
as time rapidly ticked, ticked, and ticked.
The boy loved the stories, especially
the word choices the author used.
He wanted to learn more as he decided
that he too wanted to create his own world.
During the night, he never stopped on his
research, like a wolf claiming his prey.
He wanted to become the best,
and he knew that in order to do that, he needed
to give everything he got, as people waited
to become the best striker
for their home country.
The next day, as the clock was about to wake
him up, it was the boy that woke the clock up.
He heads out for the day, eager to start
his journey, as the protagonist and antagonist
walk to achieve their goal.
And that is Why I Write.
“A Mix, And a Half of Me”
By Taya C.
Poetry writes its own words
and I stand there waiting,
to the rhyme schemes it creates
and the beat it invisibly bops to
poetry wants to pour out
my mind and heart
since my mind tells me no
but my heart says yes
I mix them both into
a bowl of maybe
there’s a possibility
Poetry gives us a chance