Free The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris Page B

stepfather— something they need to know, that a “very first dad” looms large in his psyche. Like God in his heart, to quote the poem, a revelation from the depths of this boy’s soul.
    There are no prescriptions, no set of rules that will produce a poem like this; no workshop could teach a method that would replicate exactly what went on between me and the students in that room. But I have some idea as to how and why it happened. A teacher once told me that having an artist come to her classroom was like letting a cat in—and I’ll risk a bad pun by saying that I think it’s more like dropping a catalyst into a chemical solution in order to stimulate a reaction.
    What is happening in that classroom, when the poet acts as a catalyst? Well, first of all, before I ask students to write, we always have a long discussion about rules. I tell them that for this adventure of writing poetry, we can suspend many of the normal rules for English class. No, you don’t have to write within the margins; no, you don’t have to look a word up in the dictionary to make sure you’re spelling it right—we’ll do that later. For now just write the word the way you think it’s spelled so you don’t interrupt the flow of writing; you can print or use cursive (that’s a big issue in third grade); you can doodle on your paper; you can scratch things out (here I show them my own rough drafts, so they can see that I mean it); you can write anonymously or even make up a name for yourself as a poet.
    If you’re really stuck, I tell them, you can collaborate and work on a poem with someone else who’s also stuck. This means you can talk in the classroom, so long as you don’t disturb your neighbor. As we’re working, I often have to reassure a student that it’s all right not to finish a poem if you really can’t. You can let it sit for a while and maybe come back to it, or maybe not. And if you really get carried away by an assignment, it’s all right not to go on to my next one—just keep going with what you’re doing, take your time. (Often, by this time the students are looking at me gratefully but a bit warily, wondering if they’ve fallen into the hands of a lunatic.)
    We talk about the ways this kind of writing differs from learning spelling or math, where there are right and wrong answers. I tell the kids that in what we’ll be doing, there is no one right answer, not even a right way or wrong way to do it. And if, in a particular writing assignment, I do suggest some rules to follow, I always say, if you can think of a way to break these rules and still come out with a really good poem—go right ahead. I see this as a way to get beyond paying lip service to children’s creativity and encouraging them to practice it. By now the good students may be feeling lost. They’re often kids who have beaten the system, who have become experts at following the rules in order to get a good grade. And now, maybe for the first time, they’re experiencing helplessness at school, because the boundaries have shifted; without rules to follow, they’re not sure how to proceed. They may sulk, or even cry, although they usually come around and have a good time.
    But it’s the other students, the bad students, the little criminals, who often have a form of intelligence that is not much rewarded in school, who are listening most attentively. It’s these kids, for whom helplessness and frustration are the norm at school, and often in life—maybe their mom’s boyfriend got drunk and abusive the night before—who take to poetry like ducklings to water. And sometimes, as with that fifth-grade boy, they find that adopting a poetic voice can be a revelation. It’s as if they’re free to speak with their true voice for the very first time. It is always a gift—to the teacher, the class, and to me—to have a child lead