My daughter plays on the floor
I wonder how many women
A child is not a poem,
I return to the story
Ancestress: the burning witch,
A word after a word
At the point where language falls away
This is a metaphor.
How do you learn to spell?
I randomly stumbled across this poem and couldn’t breathe by the end. Words are so powerful. I think of Lucy Calkins who wrote some inspiring stuff. (I’m not sure if I would totally follow everything she promotes, but I do like what she has to say!)
“If we ourselves are immersed in an ongoing way in our own writing, we have a fabulous resource to draw from when we teach. But it is not necessary to expect that all of us, as teachers, will regularly draft, revise, and publish our own essays and poems. What is necessary, however, is that we have memories of a time when we loved writing and that we draw on those memories when we teach writing. If we have even once in our lives experienced the power of wriing, our teaching will be forever changed.”
And when I read Atwood’s poem, I thought about my own flirtations with composition, and I am so thankful to empathize, feel, know what Lucy Calkins is talking about.
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