Beat poetry

Today we read First They Came... by Martin Niemöller because it was used in the book we're reading aloud in the mornings (Efrén Divided). We talked about it a bit and I had the kids write a reflection. 

Zoë asked if she could instead write a poem because she was so inspired by Niemöller's words, so I told her she could. So while I sat down to have a reading lesson with Alexander, Zoë sat down and wrote this:

Slavery. Death. I saw it all.

Punishment. Crying. Why?

Gunshot. BANG. Justice.

Death again. Sickness. Ruins

Of what used to be

Africa. Regretness. Jail. Rags.

Sorryness.

And I...

I mean...

Like...

She read it like she'd been performing beat poetry for eons. 

I'm not quite sure what she was going for. Emotional manipulation?

It's good for a six year old. But it also strikes me as a jumble of words strung together; a Markov chain of sorts. And really that's fine because—again—she's six years old. And maybe she'll just end up being super into writing beat poetry when she's older. Who knows?

I just wish it didn't sound like the group project I'm working on...

Education. Change. We can do it.

Technology. Learning. Why?
Log on. ZING. Results.

Change again. Digital. Literacies

Are plural now because
They are. Standards. Assess. Plan.
Teaching.

I'm going to survive this group project. 

I'm going to survive this last week of classes.

I'm going to survive. I'm going to survive. I'm going to survive.

I'm not remotely angry that my group did nothing until the day I announced Phoebe was born and then suddenly they needed to start coordinating things on that day. That's totally cool with me. And I'm super happy that our project is coming together like beat poetry. This is fine with me.

I'm going to survive.