"Nope. Actually, I think they help with writing, because they keep my writing hand warm and make words flow out onto the paper better. It's like when I warm my brain with a hat."
"I see. Did you have a question? Is that why you raised your hand?"
"No, I just wanted to say something about long-ness. I think a poem should be just smack exactly as long as it tells you it should be."
"As it tells you?" Mrs. Pidgeon repeated, with a puzzled look.
Gooney Bird nodded. She pulled her bracelets off and stacked them on her desktop, carefully making a round tower of the brass circles. "Yes. Writing a poem is the same as writing a story. You say what you want to say, and then it tells you, in your brain: Stop here."
"Hmmm," said the teacher, thinking. "I believe you're right, and that we should all listen more carefully to our brains."
"You might try warming your brains with a hat," Gooney Bird suggested politely.
Malcolm held up his fist and pretended it was a microphone. "Brain to Malcolm, Brain to Malcolm," he intoned in a deep voice. "'Wear underpants on your head.'"
"Teacher to Malcolm," Mrs. Pidgeon said, holding up her own invisible microphone. "I am going to read this morning's poem now, and I want you to pay attention. You were one of the ones who wanted rhyme."
Standing in front of the class, Mrs. Pidgeon carefully unfolded the paper and read aloud:
My Daughter
by Mrs. X
"Hey!" Tyrone called out. "That's you! If your mom write that, then you be the daughter, right?"
"That's true," said Mrs. Pidgeon. "This is a poem about me. My mother wrote it many years ago, so it's a poem about me when I was your age."
"Cool," said Tyrone.
"Mrs. Pidgeon, you ought to say the author's real name, not 'Mrs. X'! Just because we call her Mrs. X, that doesn't mean it's her author name!" Chelsea pointed out.
"You're correct, Chelsea. But you know what, class? My mother has something special about her name, and I want to surprise you with it. But not yet. So for now, her author name is going to be Mrs. X. Is that all right?"
All of the children nodded.
"I'll start again."
My Daughter
by Mrs. X
Daughter, laughter: spelled the same.
Patricia: my laughing daughter's name.
Mrs. Pidgeon picked up the chalk and wrote the two words on the board: daughter, laughter.
"Yep, they oughta rhyme," Tyrone said. "Look at that. It's crazy that they don't rhyme."
"That poem wasn't long," Malcolm said in a relieved voice.
"It's very thweet," Felicia Ann said.
"But it tells a lie!" Nicholas announced. "You said your mom wrote it. So her daughter's name ought to be..." He hesitated, thinking.
Mrs. Pidgeon smiled. "That's my first name, Patricia. Some people call me Patsy, or Pat. But my mother always liked my full name best: Patricia."
She read the short poem to them again. "It's just two lines," she pointed out. "Two rhyming lines. Hear that? Same, and name?"
The children nodded. They said the words aloud: Same. Name.
"This kind of poem is called a couplet. Two lines, rhyming. Probably pretty easy to write, I'm guessing. So here's the assignment, class. During our writing time today, I want each of you to try writing a couplet. Then, at the end of the day, we'll read our couplets aloud."
"Do they have to be about Patricias?" Malcolm asked with a scowl.
"No, no. But that's a good question, Malcolm. And I have an idea. Let's do this. Let's each write a couplet about our own family. Okay?"
Malcolm sighed. He lived in a very noisy, complicated family because of the triplets that had been born the previous spring. Malcolm was still adjusting to that. "Here's a poem about my family," he said with another scowl. " Crash. Bash. Smash. That's what it sounds like at my house most of the time."
"Wait till writing time after lunch, Malcolm," Mrs. Pidgeon suggested, "and maybe you'll be able to come up with a couplet about triplets. Goodness!" She laughed. "Couplet, triplets? That's almost a rhyme, isn't it?"
Malcolm just rolled his eyes.
***
Writing time took longer than usual. The children, most of them, found that writing poems was not easy. They had to search their heads for the perfect words.
"In stories or fables, you can use any old words," Chelsea said, looking glumly at her paper, which was covered with scribbles and cross-outs. "But for a poem, the words have to be just right. It's hard."
"Revise, revise, revise," murmured Tricia, her head bent over her desk.
Mrs. Pidgeon moved around the room, talking with those who were having trouble, making suggestions, giving help.
"I don't need help," Barry Tuckerman boasted. "Mine's done. I'm probably the best poet in the world." He turned his paper over and sat with his hands folded.
"You're a poet and you don't know it, but your feet show it—" Ben chanted, looking at Barry. The other children all joined in: "They're Long-fellows!"
Mrs. Pidgeon looked at the clock. "All right," she said. "I know many of you need more time, but you'll have to stop for now and maybe finish at home because the bell will ring before we know it. Who's ready to read a couplet aloud? Barry, I know you are. Want to start?"
Barry Tuckerman went to the front of the room. The children all giggled. They liked u Barry. He was smart and interesting. But he was like an old man: serious and scholarly. And now he stood holding his paper, shoulders back, looking around, waiting for the audience to be attentive.
He cleared his throat. Then he read his poem:
A Couplet
by Barry Tuckerman, author
Sibling
is the word for sister or brother.
I don't believe there's any other.