Kids Teaching Kids

When I was a public school teacher, sometimes I got a bit of flack over the idea that kids could teach kids. After all, reasoned certain parents, wasn't the *teacher* supposed to be teaching?

As a home educator, I get to be my own principal. And in my room, kids teach kids. Without me even asking.

Like this afternoon. My girls had a friend over, and they were secreted away in the study. At some point, my eldest popped down to the kitchen to hand me a villanelle (a challenging kind of form poem that she taught herself to write in the first place).

She thrust the paper towards me. "I taught Michaela how to write a villanelle," she said. "I told her to give me certain kinds of lines and I wrote it down for her. Here!"

I read the poem and smiled. Wow. Nobody assigned this. I wasn't even in the room when it happened. Maybe that's even part of WHY it happened. Anyway, Michaela's first villanelle...


"She Alone"

Rippling across the cool green grass,
tulip alighted on a leaf;
she gazed out the window on the mountain's stony pass

in an inkling of a wink she basked
filled with deep grief,
rippling across the cool green grass

but she among all of them was last
beyond the shifting fields of wheat,
she gazed out the window on the mountain's stony pass

but she alone could fulfill the task
to find the king of the mountain's golden seat
rippling across the cool green grass

in there among the songs of the past
but the winds of the north she could not beat,
rippling across the cool green grass
she gazed out the window on the mountain's stony pass.

by Michaela, 12. used with permission.

Katie and Sara on the beach photo, by L.L. Barkat.

The Garden Still

This week, I tried my hand at writing a villanelle. Last night, I shared it with my Eldest. The thought stayed with her, and today she handed me this, saying she enjoyed doing it because it was "like a puzzle."

"The Garden Still"

The garden still
the wild roses blooming
and the air with leaves is filled

the trees on hill
the birds asleep, not singing
the garden still

the wild dill
the joy is ringing
and the air with leaves is filled

the flowers bright until
the end of summer's bringing
the garden still

the strong wind willed
the colors dance uncaring
and the air with leaves is filled

the fall comes till
the snow starts drifting
the garden still
and the air with leaves is filled.

— by Sara


Okay, addendum. Two more poems arrived before bedtime. The first a villanelle, the second a sestina (sort of). On that point, let me just say that a sestina is complicated in terms of how end-words are supposed to be repeated in a certain way. Sara managed to begin to capture this by repeating the word 'sestina', 'this', 'word', 'anything', 'poem', 'wind' in a rolling fashion that pushed the repeated word further down into the stanza with each ensuing stanza. I'm going to italicize and bold the words so you can kind of see what she's done.

"Igloo (an almost nonsense villanelle)"

The sails unfurl
the cries ring in the air,
the ship is on the waves of curls.

Ship rides o'er seas of pearl
while dragon rests in lair,
the sails unfurl.

Setting off to lands of kings and earls
the sailors eat some pears,
the ship is on the waves of curls.

One seaman's known to love a girl
one boy climbs up a mount, on dare,
the sails unfurl.

Some on the ship have seen Arur
a family has a small pet bear,
the sails unfurl
the ship is on the waves of curls.


"Failed Attempt at a Sestina"

This is my first sestina
I do not know quite how
I am supposed to do it.
If I do it wrong, it
probably was by accident
and will be a boring poem.

Sestina is a word
of letters made, sestina
is a poem too, I
guess, but very hard
and I'm sure you could
read something much more

interesting than this.
A poem really is a word
multiplied (as in sestina
and letters) only with
rules (which I may
not be following.)

A sestina can be about anything,
anything at all, this
poem is about a word
a word, yes, the word sestina.
Anything can be a poem,
anything at all.

One more thing about a poem,
in this one, ends can't be anything
at all, one of the rules of this
poem type. These words
are complicated, sestina
one, also sonnet or villanelle,

(all poems). The wind
is not blowing poem
ideas into my head, not anything
I can think of. Really, this
is hard (all end words
are unrhyming in sestina).

The wind never blew
me anything but this
one word: sestina.

— by Sara


Oh my, another addendum. Two more villanelles...

"Sunrise"

Sunrise has sprinkled... drop!
light over the sky
the morning has come, plop!

into the sky the sun has hopped
the birds on high
sunrise has sprinkled... drop!

night away has been mopped
moon, stars, away they fly
the morning has come, plop!

up the buttercups have popped
the greenest grass you cannot buy
sunrise has sprinkled... drop!

a cake of sky with sun cherry is topped
you may ask just how, just why
sunrise has sprinkled... drop!
and the morning has come, plop!


"Morning Argument"

Pretty in red
black hair straight
she got out of bed

she got up and she read
my story, not of plates,
pretty in red

my poem led
us to a debate
she got out of bed

she sang instead
so early, not late
pretty in red

she was now quite ahead
she always knew the date
pretty in red
she got out of bed.

— by Sara


Flower painting from Midsummer Night's Dream Set, painted by Sara, 12. Used with permission.