From the Inside Out:A Poetic Journey
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People are so kind — they often invite me inside to have a bit to eat, use the kitchen and sometimes even take a shower!!! Last summer I was taking pictures from my camera phone, and although I got a few good ones the quality was so low that I am unable to really share the great expanses that I am traveling through. I hope each of you will pop onto my Blog on occasion to follow my trip, read my writing and check out a picture or two.
I will also bring a memory card adapter and try to upload photos to facebook for an easier place to view them. If you have not added me on facebook—my name is Jason Stephens, my e-mail address is on this page. Having good storage is key for this mission. In the past I had very limited writing material and no way to share my work with the people I meet. This time I am going to bring along the supplies necessary to bind my poetry collections to give to the people who help me and to sell on the streets to supplement my food budget this is why I figured days on the food budget because I will be able to sell these every few days I hope.
I have no idea how many flats I will get on this trip but I know last summer going miles that I averaged about 15 flats a month. Each tube can be repaired about 5 times before it is used up. Fund to pay for the production and shipping of my chapbooks to you my amazing and kind backers! Out on the road I will run into problems.
Parts of my bike are going to disintegrate from too much wear. Unless that jam is delicious raspberry — then I will just add some peanut butter and dig in! It will be broken up; money will also go to the creation of multiple movable chapbooks that I can use to continue to raise money while I am on the road. I would also really like to have a nice SLR camera for my trip to bring in the possibility of blogged images of good quality that will allow me to convey a sense of what I am experiencing to a wider audience and not be as aesthetically focused as poetry.
It all helps me plan for possibility and with an exact number I can have a better idea of how far I can ride. There are a lot of states that I have not experienced and a lot of people that I have not met.
See a Problem?
It interests me that with support I can decrease that exponentially increasing number. The plan is that I will be on the road for as long as I can support--there is hope for longer with your support! My journey will take me down to Joshua Tree, where I will finish graduate school applications then send them back to Idaho before I continue.
I have a place to stay in the area, so I will spend some of the money on finishing that and living in Joshua Tree. Throughout the tour I will be selling books to reinforce my money, but I plan on being gone till at least next summer. In late summer I will head east through toward Philadelphia, and then toward Florida where I will hopefully find a place to camp out in the Keys and work to tide me over until the next biking season arises to travel back west toward Idaho. The driver keeps the Through presence passengers safe.
Pen To Paper ~ A Poetic Journey
To do this, he needs to focus on the road, hence becoming more exposed to whatever might emerge Transformance from the children. Now, transposing the driver into an Within body Absence breathes educational metaphor, one might examine how some Presence. Figure 4 Second note. Imagination Transcends Observation Transcends Nation. Personally, I observe this tension between control and vulnerability also echoes our responsibility towards social justice. As an educator, how can I engage in repairing past trauma, within myself, and with others?
As the bus starts moving, I look out the window and dream that imagination transcends nations. Instant poem. Treating Play Seriously.
From the Inside Out: A Poetic Journey - B. V. Smith - كتب Google
At this point in the journey, I am almost tired. In play, language becomes tool-and-result Holzman, , and creates developmental learning spaces. This is also explored in the lineage between storytelling and indigenous epistemologies Corntassel, ; Falconi, So I enter the task of writing a poem playfully, in seconds, de-dramatizing language learning; mistakes, mispronunciations, explanations about the meanings of certain words are part of my learning journey.
And I write about an innerjourney. Hence, the operational framework of the school bus provided a space to reverse power relations, dream reconciliation, and accept to be transformed by context. Not bad for an hour and a half workshop. We were undefeated in junior year, and only lost one game senior year — we showed a lot of skin those years.
Post soccer game on a yellow school bus Pulling pranks Pulling hair Pulling down your underwear Pee pee pee Shame on me Is this really poetry?
Found poem on a suburban Ottawa bus ride Bluebird, be calm, quiet. Quickly pushing or shoving, Provides maximum restructuring, Starting danger instructions. Elegant waxing wind, All in complex recreation. Amidst the chatter of conference attendees boarding a bus commissioned for our presentation, I step with caution. A white school bus, not the yellow bus expected, waits for us curbside.
A ghost bus! How do I climb those stairs through time, past the bus driver, a man of no welcome, trapped in his seat where his belly visibly swells year after year in glowering resentment, his eyes a cold stare in the rear view mirror. Where will I sit in the hierarchy of seniority, privilege, and popularity? What rules will guide us here? Relief as a friend tugs me into place. The back of the bus is forbidden territory.
Everyone escape through emergency door! Stop the bus! My brother is coming! Now I am the one sitting at the back of the bus, listening to others tell stories of riding school buses, my stories, this conference presentation, this being on a bus together a catalyst and invitation to share memories. I OWN the bus! I AM one of the popular kids…. Riding the school bus. I always saw the same girl walking along Main Street on her way to another school. Seen through the bus window, I fell in love with her.
Like Dr. Zhivago sees long lost Lara from a bus window and dies with a broken heart. Move back! He repeated his order like a manic mantra. Buck never smiled. There was little moving in the bus. We were trapped, squeezed, squashed into a block of adolescence. Movement was outside the bus.
Like a movie, I saw the circle of seasons, the slow parade of weeks, the somnambulant crawl of days. But mostly I saw the girl walking along Main Street. She was a distant star I could see but never know. I fell in love with the girl, and watched her every day. I never once considered shouting at Buck, Stop! I never once considered jumping off the bus, perhaps out the emergency door or through a window. The sun shines in the yellow school bus. And it is filled with memories from childhood, from my own life, from my own story, warm and quiet. While we are traveling, a deep emotion surrounds my soul.
What happens in Ottawa, so far from Rosario? The memories travel through time and space and I am still on my own. I feel like I am six years old in a yellow school bus in Ottawa, so far from my home, but not from my memories. All is beauty, hope, future, love. All is beautiful, like it was when I was a girl. The school bus moves along the neighbourhoods and I move along myself, along my own history, stitching school memories seals in my soul.
School is not uncommon to me, but it surprises me. I am a foreigner in Ottawa. I am so far home. A stranger is sharing her feelings to the Yellow School Bus. I remember my sons. Both are brave boys waiting for me in Rosario. In the bustle, a wide-eyed girl, I keep the silence of introspection.
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Love is a beautiful colour. All is sunshine, wood, green, pace, emotion. They are traces of my childhood: a bright yellow school bus in a sunny spring afternoon in Ottawa. Recounting these days thank you for listening, Robert , I am remembering and questioning the value of a hockey dominated childhood and adolescence.
Phases of Moon : A poetic journey of a girl
Reckoning the seeds of a journey Teaching by example, she gratefully accepted that apple One bite at a time, fully immersed in time travel That laid the grounds for her life inquiry. Where it began I saw the path of my childhood, I saw The more miles I did, practice kicked in Within my limits, asymptotes brush past the grounds Within my miles, safe sometimes sound Without my fears, landscapes in mind.
Escaping the ice box that dictates our success For the warmth of the sun crafts our vision We, an inverted Me, Collect the crumbs of historical horizons To form what we call a future dimension There, without a sense of time, we embrace Here, without limits of space, How can we keep the pace? Forget about the grades Writing, erasing, trimming, rewriting Nothing is certain nor finished How could it be, for ideas are constantly in movement? In a fixed moment Perception and subjectivism win the terrain. Looking back at that school bus, sitting straight My destiny fueled with each mile on these used wheels Replaced with new ones year after year Dark and light traces on our asphalt Not altering its shape though changing its colour When our ideas come together as gestalt What serves as terrain goes back to the start.
I did not take a school bus to go to school when I was younger. I walked. However, I spent much time on school buses as a child going on field trips, and as teacher of young children. Familiar street names pulled at my recognition. I found myself smiling as we journeyed through the different neighbourhoods and past times. And while looking back, the changing landscape called my attention to the present.
Pamela, I did not throw wads of paper at you while you were reading your poem. It was a fluttering stickie. It was synchronistic timing. How was I to know? Why did you have to be the one person on the bus to pick on me? Ah… playing. Found poetry of words, images, sounds and conversations that resonated along the way.
Another lived bus trip? The big kids were scary, and hairy, and loud and I knew for certain I wanted part of that crowd. I brought my own, and in it, fruit punch. Years later, grade six, and I had the back. I loved the bumps and knew how to jump. This bothered the bus driver; he was a big grump. My poems come spontaneously; usually the words burst out of my soul.
I guess this was one of the main reasons I had been looking forward to the School Bus Symposium ever since I received the first e-mail about it. On the bus we used new strategies to create poems that were different from those I was used to. This will be the first time that I am sharing my poems publicly.
Below are the two poems that I crafted on the bus. School bus humiliation sitting in the corner, alone, all in silence. In the midst of others surrounded by problems. Snatched back into reality! Staring into my own reflection The bus came to a stop. Reflecting on events of the School Bus Symposium and re-thinking curriculum, several questions come to mind.
What do children learn while they are in the school bus? What are the social and hidden curricula conveyed with each school bus ride? My poem about the school bus humiliation was born out of a phrase given to us during the symposium. It was about a child that wet her pants on a school bus.
When a child wets her pants, could this be an indication of something deeper going on in their heart?
More by Naomi Shihab Nye
And do people often choose just to overlook this? When someone wets his or her pants, it could be a cry for help. Reading poems is about perceiving hidden messages — and so is growing up and riding a school bus. Often it is these hidden messages that construct our beliefs about who we are, about our identity. This is why I believe that, while discussing school bus rides, both the social and hidden curricula should be part of the conversation. Bus Stop Kathy Mantas, Nissiping University Imagine if we designed all aspects of [school bus] travel [and teaching and learning] with the soul in mind — schedules, seating, pace, [stops], routes, machines, and terminals Moore, , p.
Yes, complete undoing is exactly what. So much going on. Boobs appear like mountains in a landscape. A woman drinks from a breast. This is a world of frivolous yet subversive images: it knows no limits. Journey, an minute film by Chinese artist Zhao Xiaowei, strongly impressed with its dreamlike imagery and its subtle construction.
A filmic poem which regains time almost in a Proustian sense — interweaving past, present and future into an inseparable whole. At the end of this sequence, the boy sleeps in the boat. Now the colour wanes, and the images turn to black and white. The man then sits on his bed; behind his back plays a large projection of the boy in the lake.
Time now rushes forward. The camera pans towards skyscrapers and a nuclear power plant, viewed by the man as a contemplative figure. A train and airplane replace his former boat, while urban life substitutes for the rural landscape.