- Alicia LeSage, Grade 8

The moonlit sky, the stars
The darken green grass,
The midnight breeze
With you everything is good.

The sunny blue skies, the clouds
The soft green grass,
The midday sweat
With you everything is good.

The dark stormy sky, the rain
The wet green grass
The deadly wind
With you everything is good.

The gloomy skies, the flurries
The white powdery grass
The dreadful chill
With you everything is good.

No matter the skies, no matter the weather,
No matter the color of the grass.
Nothing in the world matters because
With you everything is good!

This is the thirteenth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Kristian Alfonso, Grade 12

Elapsed time of call: 1:16
He tells me that I swing my arms when I run.
I tell him I like my space
and it keeps cars from hitting me.

I ask him if he's tried it before
and he says only in Allendale
because there are sidewalks.

Here we have no sidewalks,
no fire hydrants,
we let things burn here.

Elapsed time of call: 3:33
He asks if it is raining where I am,
I tell him only in my mind. He asks
if I had dinner yet and I say
I don't have service.

Call ended.

This is the twelfth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

- Baobao Zhang, Grade 11

Caught between the pale snow-covered ridge ahead
and the looming tumult of thundering hail, Jack Green
eyed the half-frozen river with a heavy heart.
An unkind Virginian winter, like a mother-bird
bent on hell, had pecked at him since the first of November.
Trapped in his red-brick coffer, Jack had counted then
re-counted the testaments of his fortune: Chinese plates
and Indian tea and Spanish silver bourgeoisies.
But under the shadows of midnight, they haunted his dreams
with polished accusations, pricking his conscience till it bled.

Though Jack Green would never confess the Oirginal Sin,
he firmly believed in Eden and that it existed somewhere
beyond the pine-laced gates of the Cumberland Gap.
Far too old to undertake the pilgrimage, he cleansed
himself with glimpses of spring for personal salvation.
In due season, the wildflowers on the riverbank
would flood his valley with unnamable colors.
And in due season, another shipload of transplantations
would arrive in Williamsburg, eager to choke the
New World--or perhaps to bless it with beauty.

This is the eleventh runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Ray Bliss, Grade 8

I glimpse a cardinal
in the skeleton
of a leafless tree.

I see him
dance--
a red shadow
in the skull
of a leafless tree.

Fog clothes
the tree with a brilliant
swirling tornado.

But still
the cardinal dances--
smoke, formless, as he weaves
a delicate pattern of lace,

as he dances
in the skeleton
of a leafless tree.

This is the tenth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Margaret Hayertz, Grade 12

I make paper into trees, unfold
this napkin until it flies away. I watch the birds
run on air, and I mistake
their mistakes for changes in the weather pattern, that
clinging ring of computerized, Weather Channel clouds. Graphic
is to pixels as beating heart is to atoms,
how a thought seeps into your head
where chemicals eat it up and (hopefully) store it
for a rainy day,
just like (hopefully) rain rains
on a house fire and on a geranium.
Petals need more air than we do--
we can sit inside all day without breathing, pretending
there's a fire upstairs and vampires outside
and that a box will keep us safe.
"Be there, or be square!" says a black-and-white girl
inside the round T.V.
Be there. Be there. Be there.
We pretend in hieroglyphs and handshakes
while the symbol of the self poses atop a trophy.
We laugh in the details--just jolting consonants--
at the things that don't fit snugly over our ears.
Be there. Be there. Be there.
I define myself by my real name and by my heartbeats per minute because
how else would we tell the difference between each other?
I am I and you are you and that means
Be there. Be there. Be
there.

This is the ninth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Alyse Quiat, Grade 10

Wandering town, the streets were still,
     filled with wisps of whispers.

Our eyes,
     cleared of our pre-teen fog,
     could see the old mural, once a Summer panorama,
     now faded paint on a concrete slate.

          You fell back to the grass,
          tangling your bright brass hair,
          and warily tilted your gaze to the sky haze.
       I followed next to you like usual,
       sitting and carefully
       leaning back on my hands.

               The clouds,
               pale, purgatory curtains,
               covered what would come next,
               what was beyond the anxious silence.
               There, we witnessed them
                    shift,
                         shift,
                              and soon enough,
                       split.

This is the eighth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

- Desanka Beslic, Grade 9

The smoldering embers in his eyes still glow hot;
tattoed paws taught to dance by the sear of metal.
For the last time Misho is led by a sunglow ring and a pounding beat.
He is a street performer enchanting crowds.

Tattooed paws taught to dance by the sear of metal
in a centuries-old tradition,
he is a street performer enchanting crowds,
both he and his owner will feast tonight.

In a centuries-old tradition,
cascading coins gather in the well of a pocket,
both he and his owner will feast tonight.
When Misho sleeps, he again finds the wilderness he had lost.

Cascading coins gather in the well of a pocket,
these last tokens of his misfortune.
When Misho sleeps, he again finds the wilderness he lost
in the mountain sanctuary of black leaves.

These last tokens of his misfortune
will become but a memory of how paws were molded by flame.
In the mountain sanctuary of black leaves,
now Misho only will dance when it thunders.

This is the seventh runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Nick Wiedman, Grade 8

'Twas the time of year and the bell had rung
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

No, No! says the man, You've got me wrong,
I can't die now, I'm much too young!
There is some confusion, sorry for the bother,
But the one you want is my dear brother.

So he left the man and spared his head,
He went along and took his brother instead.

'Twas the second year, and the bell had rung,
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

Oh, no! says the man, I'm still too young,
but surely my auntie's time has come.

So he left the man and spared his head,
he went along and took his auntie instead.

'Twas the third year and the bell had rung,
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

You can't take me now, that would be bad
but surely it's time for my dear old dad!

So he left the man, and spared his head,
he went along, and took his dear old dad instead.

And that year Death was annoyed,
He was tired of being tricked, lied to, and toyed!

'Twas the fourth year, and the bell had rung
Says Death to the man: Your time has come!

No, no! says the man. But it was too late,
He could not escape his coming fate.

Enough! Says Death with a bellow,
To poor, frightened and dreadful fellow.

Growing short are my fuses,
I'm tired of your excuses!

And with that, Death raised his scythe,
Struck it down and took his life.

It was a sad sight, and the rain began to pour,
And the man who cheated death was sadly no more.

This is the sixth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Larissa Gula, Grade 12

I once picked up a violin
With a flimsy, cracking bow,
And I softly coaxed a tune, until
I recognized the whistle being thrown out.

It sounded like my old machine companions
With creaking pistons, and gears,
And proud smokestacks marking the trail taken
Until the message was lost in the clouds.

It sounded like the night
When I rode along to the next station
Watching fields of barley
And snail-ridden marshes
Flash by.

And the midnight train, with no destination,
Carried me on, on, on
And away from the demands
And requirements.
My only companion was peace.

And we bumped along, the motions
Soothing cracked fingers, and beyond them
Into a weary nack, nudging,
Opening constricted capillaries--

Until the whistle suddenly screamed
And pierced the quartet circle
And my eyes snapped open
With the dream echoing,

Echoing...

      Echoing...

Leaving me
Nowhere appreciated.

This is the fifth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Rory C. Dibley, Grade 11

It's the way your eyes twinkle
The way your teeth gleam
The way your cheeks dimple
When you smile at me

Or it might be how you kiss me
Is what makes me feel so right
Or it might be how you hug me
Holding me close and tight

But I know it's the way you love me
Is what makes my worries seem gone
It's when I see your smiling face
Makes my heart sing a song

This is the fourth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Shawn Wu, Grade 7

Through the lofty oaks and into a nest,
a small sliver of glistening light explodes.
Popping up instantaneously, an alert head looks around.
The silent forest stays still,
refusing to awaken.
Suddenly the blue jay's scream cuts through the forest--
she waits.
The uniquely audible echo reverberates back,
back to the lonely jay.
Once--Twice
As soon as it comes back again,
another cry is heard,
it is that of a different blue jay.
A robin joins in.
Next, a curious moole surfaces,
its head covered in dirt.
The day has begun.

This is the third runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Zoe Lee-Chiong, Grade 6

A bridge of colors hangs motionless in the sky.
Rays of color play across the sidewalk,
still wet from the storm that just passed.

I long to reach the end of it,
but as I walk toward it,
it only seems to run away,
laughing meanly.
I run,
but it just skips farther from my reach.

It slowly fades away,
I sit by the window,
waiting for another one.

This is the second runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Hannah Colbert, Grade 12

The sky at dusk is like my father doing Tai Chi in a big room;
early in the morning, he's moving through the porcelain stillness,
after the sun sets, the clouds are waltzing towards night.
Both are all soft moves and graceful circles,
the slow gestures of strength across the empty room,
the slow paths treading on the wind, across the sky.
There is no curtain to go up.
If there are any viewers, it is accident only.
The man, the sky, they perform for no one;
it is their very nature to be purple and common gold,
to be patient, practicing,
the man moves even as the clouds do,
the clouds move even more like the man.
When they finish, no applause.
It is only the end.
The man and the clouds go their separate ways.
My father starts to make breakfast.
The clouds fade over the horizon.

This is the first runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

The following is a WORD Bloggy endorsement from Esther Yan, a 6th grade student.

The readandwriting website is very interesting in two ways. One way is that they give an opinion on a book. For instance, they were giving an opinion on the Chronicles of Narnia. A Canadian reviewer said, "The chronological order makes the books more strictly allegorical than they really were intended to be...". Another way is that they have many categories. Some of the categories are "Books and Authors", "Get Published", "Writing Tips", "1000 Words", and more.

There are four ways that I would use "www.readandwriting.com". First, I would use it for finding books. I would go to "Books and Authors" to find some comments or opinions on the articles/stories that they have in READ and Writing magazines. It would be helpful for writing an article about a story for English/Language Arts.

Second, I would use it to find cool websites and interesting articles. For instance, if I was curious about the National Book Festival, I would simply click on "Cool Links" and scroll down until I found the section that was talking about the National Book Festival. It's easy as 1-2-3!

Third, I would click "Writing Tips" and check out the writing tips. The tips they give are very interesting. For instance, they tell you about revising. Did you know E. B. White (author of Charlotte's Web) revised his story 8 times?

Lastly, it tells that you shouldn't give up on your writing when you are confused. In the movie A Christmas Story, the main character Ralphie has to write a theme for the teacher on what he wants for Christmas, so he writes that he wants "a Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time". He imagines his teacher saying, "Poetry. Sheer poetry, Ralph! An A+!" But when he gets back his paper, it doesn't have an "A+" on it, instead, it says, "You'll shoot your eye out!"

Those are four ways that I would use this readandwriting website.

Thanks for the raving review Esther!

Check back here tomorrow and every day for two weeks straight for Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest Runners-Up!

In a recent Animals issue of READ, we asked you what you thought about the play, Babylon's Ark. Here are a few 9th graders' responses from Bourgade Catholic High School in Phoenix, Ariz.

The Babylon's Ark story was harsh. What they did to the animals was mean and not healthy. The people trying to help them were very kind and respectful but the owner of the zoo didn't care.
     Animals should just be treated as humans. Be kind to them because they have a life too. They live on earth not just to be treated as a pet that you can kick around. They are here to bring life to us and joy, and they are friends.
     -- Jennifer Guzman

The animals are sick, hungry, and dehydrated. The Iraqis took over the zoo and they are making it a base. This was all caused by war. Now with the Iraqis out of the zoo there are people from the U.S. that are trying to help out the animals. They are having a tough time because most of the animals are really sick.
     I think that it is a great thing that people are helping out the animals at the zoo. Now with the troops helping them out there will be no more Iraqis able to enter the zoo and kill the remaining animals. I still think it is dangerous for the people at the zoo. They hear a lot of guns and one of those bullets can hit you and you can die.
     If it was my zoo I would have bulletproof walls and it would be blocked off so no Iraqis can come in and use it for a base. I would also put bombs where there are no animals because that is were the Iraqis would hide and it will blow them up.
     -- Blake Comella

If it was my zoo I would never abandon my animals. I would always care to them and make sure they are getting the same requirements as other zoos or better. So if someone tried to take over my zoo and turn it into a base. I would do everything in my power to stop them and make sure all the animals are safe.
     -- Vince Fielder

I would set a zoo up by, first hiring people that love animals and are not scared of them. Second, they have to be cheap And third, they have to know what there doing... if not, get out of here. I would set up some crazy electric fence so no animals can get out and no one can get in and steal any either. 
     -- Kristopher Verdugo

If I had a zoo I would separate the animals into groups and give the animals a theme I would pick the theme depending on the animal. I would keep the birds in one big cage so they can fly around. I would also have timers for the food so every three hours the food will fall on the floor.
     I would put the fish in a clear tank and make it look like the ocean, and I would also clean the tank every three days.
     I would clean the zoo every Sunday and clean the cages every day. I am going to give the animals a good meal and feed them lunch and dinner.
     I would hire trainers to train the animals so they can not attack the people. I would throw toys in the cages for the animals so they can play with them. I would give the animals a bath and dry them. I would also hire veterinarians to check the animals health, and make sure they have all there shots.
     -- A.J. Magdaleno

I started reading The Horse and the Boy this weekend. It is one of the seven books in The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. In the anthology I am reading, the order of the books is as follows: 1) The Magician's Nephew, 2) The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, 3) The Horse and His Boy, 4) Prince Caspian, 5) The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, 6) The Silver Chair, 7) The Last Battle. A little amazon.com research just told me that the publishers of this anthology put them in this order because it is chronological.

One Canadian reviewer named "Godly Gadfly" says on amazon.com: "The chronological order makes the books more strictly allegorical than they really were intended to be..."

Another reviewer, C.N. White from Raleigh, N.C. says: "...reading these books in chronological order spoils all of the surprise and magic out of the first visit to Narnia (in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe), because we already know what's going on. ... Things don't always need to be put in chronological order. If you're going to read them, please read them in the correct order: 1) The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, 2) Prince Caspian, 3) The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, 4) The Silver Chair, 5) The Horse and His Boy, 6) The Magician's Nephew, and 7) The Last Battle"

I was wondering why Hollywood skipped The Magican's Nephew and started with The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe! Now it makes sense! They were being smart! What a concept!

I wish I had known about this before I started reading these books. It's too late for me. If you have any intention of picking up the Narnia Anthology (and you should, it's great!), please heed the advice of these intelligent readers.

It's really a shame that the publisher chose to put the bookss in the wrong order in the anthology. Chronology isn't always the best way to do things.

Sidenote: I told my 2 year old nephew that I was reading a book where there are talking horses. He refused to believe me. "No!" he said. I assured him that it was true and he just shook his head and walked away.

Coming to WORD tomorrow: One class' reaction to Babylon's Ark, a Center Stage play in READ. Stay tuned...

The Pulitzer Prize web site offers plenty to read and see. Of course it can't post a play on its site, but I hope to one day see winner August: Osage County one day. My fellow blogger, Audra gave it ten thumbs up (for the record, Audra only has the normal two thumbs, but she really, really liked the play).

There's so many categories and so many winners that I'll have to ask you to check it out yourself:www.pulitzer.org. Enjoy! I'm  going to check out the Investigative Journalism category myself right now.

"Slang ... an attempt of common humanity to escape from bald literalism, and express itself illimitably ... the wholesome fermentation or eructation of those processes eternally active in language, by which froth and specks are thrown up, mostly to pass away, though occasionally to settle and permanently crystallize" –Walt Whitman, 1885 

My younger sister and I sat at our family dinner table on Easter Sunday, salivating over the aroma of my mother’s stuffed leg of lamb. Our father made his way from the bedroom to the table to join our pre-dinner chatter.

"BT Dubbs,"¹ said my sister, "your celly² was blowin' up³ like woah⁴ while you were at yoga in the am.^"5

"For realsies?"⁶ I asked.  I hadn’t checked my cell phone since that morning. "Did you answer?"  

"After the third call, yeah. It was Jay. He sweats you⁷ hardcore."8

 "Whatevs.⁹ I’ll call him later."

It was at this moment of polite conversation that our father abruptly slammed his fist on the table. "Speak English!" he cried.

"Oh Em Gee!"10 replied my sister, "Freak out why don't you, Dad?"

My father, attempting to curb his temper, lowered his voice and said, "I'm sick of this. I can't understand a single word you girls say to each other anymore. You sound uneducated. My daughter the writer sounds like she can't speak the language." He was referring to me. 

Of course, I can speak the language. In fact, I can speak it so well that I choose to finesse and manipulate it into a shorthand language, that is, slang. Merriam-Webster defines slang as:
"an informal nonstandard vocabulary composed typically of coinages, arbitrarily changed words, and extravagant, forced, or facetious figures of speech."
I pretty firmly believe that slang is not spoken for a lack of language comprehension. Rather, it demonstrates a hyper-awareness of the language, and an understanding of the culture surrounding it.

 When my sister says "BT Dubbs," it is her slang for "by the way." But by using her slang version, she refers to much more than the literal expression "by the way." By saying the letters "BT" she is referring to the common typing or texting shorthand, where that phrase is abbreviated to "BTW." However, my sister is so culturally enlightened that she goes one better, and changes the "W" in "BTW" to "Dubbs," as in "Dubbya," a nickname for the middle initial of our president, George "Dubbya" Bush. So what she has done in that one quick phrase "BT Dubbs" is made her explicit point clear (the literal "by the way"), and clued me in to the fact that she is savvy about online or text speak, and is aware of our current political climate.  That's how slang works. It makes a word or phrase do more than just a job of literal communication. It personalizes your language.

 Furthermore, the "informal" aspect of slang is what makes it inappropriate in so many contexts, such as on tests or when speaking with strangers. So, by using slang, you are assuming a comfort level with the person with whom you speak.  To speak slang to someone is to assume that they, too, understand the cultural currency and outside references of your unorthodox vocabulary. Slang speak then becomes a club, either you are in and understand the code, or you aren't.

Those who aren't in on the slang, usually view it as illegitimate or uneducated. James C. Fernal once referred to slang as the "advertisement of mental poverty." This is because they are missing part of the message. All they hear is the destruction of the literal phrase, but they cannot perceive the additional codes. So of course, it does sound like nonsense.  Or it sends a different message entirely.

A great mystery was solved in my family once my father got the ball rolling about our uneducated English. For months, my mother had been shouting very loudly when leaving voicemail messages on my sister's cell phone. "CAN. YOU. PICK. UP. SOME. MILK!! LOVE. YOU!" It was at this Easter dinner where we discovered the reason. My sister’s voicemail message requests that the caller leave their message in the form of a "shout out." Our hapless but well-meaning mother assumed there must be a problem with her voicemail that made it difficult to hear.

But what does all of this add up to? Our dad was still annoyed that he couldn't understand us, and no amount of explaining would undo that. Yet, my sister and I still relished our slang speak. It does appear to be a matter of time and place. Because of its informal nature, slang simply doesn't work in every context (So please don't add "OMG" to your history papers). Apparently one such inappropriate context is my family dinner table. Most slang comes and goes with the times, but some of it eventually makes a permanent place in mainstream language. After all, "hot" didn't always mean "cool," and "cool" didn’t always mean "good." These are slang terms that we've grown to accept. This is how language develops and changes. Eventually, everyone catches on. 

Our mother made her way over to the table with the succulent dish of lamb. She looked laughingly at our father,  "Lighten up, Sam. Srsly."

Our Slang, Decoded
1. See translation in text.
2. cell phone
3.<!--[endif]--> ringing
4. a lot
5. this morning
6.<!--[endif]--> Oh, really?
7. likes, has a crush
8.<!--[endif]--> a lot
9. whatever
10. This is the verbal pronunciation of “OMG,” which is online shorthand for “Oh my God,” but usually just refers to general shock.