This year, to honor the National Day on Writing, we created a massive block-letter WRITE on the back chalkboard in the classroom. During the week, students used colored sticky notes to share the kinds of writing they enjoy doing. It’s been pretty magical to see the WRITE fill up with ideas. I’ve also had my camera ready, taking images as the sticky notes were being placed.
Today, I am pulling together the various threads of a poem I was writing and sharing this week as part of the National Day on Writing. This Glogster project includes the text of the poem, the podcast, and the “inside look” at the writing of the poem video.
Yesterday, as part of the upcoming National Day on Writing, I shared the written text of a poem I wrote to celebrate the theme of “What I Write.” Today, I want to share out the podcast version of the poem. (Tomorrow, I will add another media component and then finish up on Friday with everything pulled together into one large digital composition).
Thanks for listening and I hope you get inspired to write.
As part of this year’s National Day on Writing (which is Friday and Saturday — yeah, two days as one), I wrote a poem on the theme of what I write. I also began to toy around with various media, and will release a piece of my multimedia poem as the days go on. Today, it’s just the text of the poem. I hope you enjoy it and I hope you do some writing this week — yourself and with your students — on the concept of “what we write” in celebration of the National Day on Writing.
What I Write: An Archeologist of an Idea
What I don’t know
when I write are the mysteries of ideas –
the shadows filtering in from outside of myself
as some sort of jewel
half-hidden away in my consciousness demanding
from the perpetual over-thinking of just about everything.
And so, pen scratching paper,
fingers pounding keyboard,
skin touching screen,
the writer in me tinkers with these treasures that slowly unfold as
a singular phrase,
an inspiring song,
a passionate letter,
a sad story,
a shout-out-loud yelp into the wilderness of the world,
a poem — always, it seems, my mind comes back to me as a poem —
which circles back around on itself
until the grains of time get gently brushed away
and I, the writer, slowly emerge as an archeologist of an idea.