Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda

Poet, Artist, Educator

                 

 

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Student Poets' Spotlight for 2007

"During the 2006-2007 school year, I have taught numerous poetry workshops in public and private elementary and secondary schools throughout the Commonwealth of Virginia.  This Special Student Spotlight page features outstanding poems by some of those students and acknowledges, beneath each poem, the names of their dedicated teachers." -- Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda

Index of School Poets: Scroll down or click on Student's Name

1. "Isabel" by Ana Petillo, 10th grade, George Mason High School, Alissa Mears, teacher

2. "The Artistís Father, Reading ď'Lí…vťnement'Ē by K. L. Thun, 9th grade, George Mason High School, Alissa Mears, teacher

3. "Little Boy" by Kathleen Roller, 11th grade, George Mason High School, Alissa Mears, teacher

4. "Splinter in the Eye" by Emma Goetz, 12th grade, George Mason High School, Alissa Mears, teacher

5. "Driven to Drive Neath the Raging Morning Sky" by Justin Mohn, 12th Grade, The Steward School, Lynn Define, teacher

6. "Headstrong We Long for Glory Untold" by Justin Mohn, 12th Grade, The Steward School, Lynn Define, teacher

7. "Big City Fever" by Thomas Harless, 11th grade, Henrico High School, IB Program, Priscilla Biddle, teacher

8. "Tossed" by Vaidehi Joshi, 11th grade, Henrico High School, IB Program, Priscilla Biddle, teacher

9. "My Madonna" by Noozhat Nashir, 11th grade, Henrico High School, IB Program, Priscilla Biddle, teacher

10. "Crab on Its Back" by Kate Singleton, 11th grade, Henrico High School, Priscilla Biddle, teacher

11. "Never Trick Your Brother" by Carina Marquez, 5th grade, St. Thomas More Cathedral School, Meghan Ward, teacher

12. "A Spring Haiku" by Devin Vigil, 5th grade, St. Thomas More Cathedral School, Meghan Ward, teacher

13. "A Spring Thunderstorm" by Katie Morgan, 5th grade, St. Thomas More Cathedral School, Meghan Ward, teacher

14. "Reborn in Poetry Again" by Kaska Adoteye, 12th grade, West Springfield High School.

 

Isabel

          After Claude Monetís The Boat at Giverny

 

"Isabel, she treads so lightly/ floating in her gypsy dresses/ though her words cut deep

I canít deny the truth in them.Ē  --Ben Jelen

 

the white gauze of Isabelís dress twirled in the breeze

her hat tilted boldly

an eager smile on her shaded mouth

we watched her sway

in a distant dance above the current

checkered light filtered from the straw brim

above her twitching toes

she waved a fishing line, supple as her movements

harmless string and bread bobbing

as she sang to us.

I cast my line and watched disturbed dust swirl beneath the surface

and shaded from the sun, my eyes followed the motion

of my sister

while she moved and danced

against the waves.

 

            Ana Petillo, 10th grade

            George Mason High School

            Falls Church, Virginia

            Alissa Mears, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

The Artistís Father, Reading ďLí…vťnementĒ

            After Paul Cťzanne

 

The chair is soft and moldy

cabbage rose backing lying

firm under the weight of skullcap

and shame of the public variety.

He has worked all his life,

and hard, the son

of a province merchant

whose holdings left him with a little more

than nothing and a newspaper.

The black ink bleeds into red bloodóhis

hand cut from shaving, purposefully left

without a bandage.  The man lies tense,

like one posing for a candid shot from

a hidden camera he knows is there, subtly

angling the flash to make his profile

straighter, his nose nobler, his eyes more

lightning flashed.  It is not easy to be the father

of a poet, knowing that at any moment

one may be captured and preserved

for the benefit of a dusty anthology,

all his sins laid bare until they rot

under the cruel cleaver of his offspring.

 

            K. L. Thun, 9th grade

            George Mason High School

            Falls Church, Virginia

            Alissa Mears, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Little Boy

 

            After Pierre-August Renoirís The Artistís Son, Jean, Drawing

 

 

Little boy, what are you drawing?

What is it that you see in your mind that no one else can see?

Is there meaning to your drawing?

Or are you drawing because you can?

What do you see in those lines you craft?

Or is there nothing you see yet?

You seem to be concentrating very hard on your work,

Your eyes downcast, your cherub face pressed close to the paper.

What is it that youíre drawing, little boy?

Is it a world pure and good?

Or is it the world as it is, cold and cruel?

Tell me please, little boy

So that I can see the world like you do.

 

            Kathleen Roller, 11th grade

            George Mason High School

            Falls Church, Virginia

            Alissa Mears, teacher

 

 Back to Index

 

 

 

Splinter in the Eye

 

            After Frank Blackwell Mayerís Leisure and Labor

 

 

The man in the suit stands by

Wearing a fashionable hat

And looking down his nose,

Mud sliding up his amateur boots.

Even his dog is all show;

Still upon his work the laborer persists

With his warm kindly eyes

The laborer, he taps

Taps the horseís hoof

Working with his simple wisdom,

Scooping out the dirt

Removing all the hurtful glass

Except for the splinter

In the other manís icy eye

Filled with envy and contempt

For the simple working man

Who chooses the will to try

 

            Emma Goetz, 12th grade

            George Mason High School

            Falls Church, Virginia

            Alissa Mears, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Driven to Drive Neath the Raging Morning Sky

 

I drove barefoot just to see

If I could feel my car breathe mechanically

And soon enough I came to find,

That my car had a heartbeat just like mine

She coughed and sputtered when put under pressure

She stopped and broke down when days got no better

She whined but complied when she worked as was told

Her hands wipe her tears away when she realizes sheís getting old

She growls in vigor when I turn her on

And I know she falls, quiet as death, every time Iím gone.

 

            Justin Mohn, 12th Grade

            The Steward School

            Richmond, Virginia

            Lynn Define, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Headstrong We Long for Glory Untold

 

Heroes donít get hung-over

The nectar brewed in malice singes while

They burn brightly in the nightís eyes

 

We fought to have found, those we love in the ground

We drink to the night, we love in the night, we chant

Heroes donít get hung-over.

 

After each enemy subdued, we found our cause a ruse

Capsized we rise and gaze at our fatherís lies as

They burn brightly in the nightís eyes.

 

As each one of us dies, we find mortality on a leash
And our phrases faltering, we look to the sky, let God please whisper
Heroes don't get hung-over.

 

The life ever after, clouds of sound, echoes of laughter

Frame the sonorous souls as

They burn brightly in the nightís eyes.

 

So many decades pass, soon after

We watch the same old scene with a newborn cast, chanting

Heroes donít get hung-over

They burn brightly in the nightís eyes.

 

Justin Mohn, 12th Grade

            The Steward School

            Richmond, Virginia

            Lynn Define, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Big City Fever

          After Piet Mondrianís Broadway Boogie Woogie

 

When the sun sets on the big city

The street lamps and road lines blur into golden streaks

Racing through the depths of the night like eels

Winding by bright buildings and blurred out blocks

Alive with bursts of color which make the city hum.

 

As the night gets darker, the lights get brighter

Nightclubs and shop fronts radiate neon pulses

No pattern, just vibe

The urban current flows through the nights,

Electrifying all it illuminates.

 

            Thomas Harless, 11th grade

            Henrico High School, IB Program

            Richmond, Virginia

            Priscilla Biddle, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Tossed

After Apple Core by Claes Oldenburg

 

Long gone, tossed aside.

Once gleaming, filled with pride.

The shiniest of the batch,

The ripest,

The reddest,

The only one without a scratch.

 

Remembered only for a few moments,

Until its flavor was lost,

After it was enjoyed,

It was thus tossed.

Tossed and forgotten.

And just because it was rotten.

 

Will I too be forgotten

Once I am old and rotten?

Will I be lost among those of the past,

In a sea so endless and so vast?

Will my mark not be made,

Just as the apple unnoticed as it fell into the shade?

 

What I would do to be remembered for more than my face,

But rather, more for my kind embrace.

To see what is within,

Rather than what would have,

Could have,

And should have been.

 

Instead of seeing what is easily seen,

We ought instead to be a bit more keen

To look at what is possessed inside

What people are shyer to hide;

Their dreams, their hopes, and aspirations,

The thoughts wondered while deep in contemplation.

 

Now the choice is yours:

To acknowledge or to ignore

What is beautiful from the core.

 

            Vaidehi Joshi, 11th grade

            Henrico High School, IB Program

            Richmond, Virginia

            Priscilla Biddle, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

My Madonna

          After Madonna of the Rocks by Leonardo da Vinci

 

I shall place the Madonna here

In the midst of the misty rocks,

And leave the infant's body bare

To expose the biblical asceticism it mocks.

 

The altered will embody radiance and articulate pure white

As I have given into the churchís might.

 

I shall repress the truth the reality conceals,

As my first Madonna revealed

And retire with the hope of a skeptical and curious audience.

 

 

Noozhat Nashir, 11th grade

Henrico High School, IB Program

Richmond, Virginia

Priscilla Biddle, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Crab on Its Back

After Vincent van Gogh

 

 

                                                            Look at me,

this tide has revealed the wretch beneath my shell. this

veneer has been washed away and I am

no husband, no father, no

example for my son and I am

on my back, I am defiled,      I am

much too proud to ask for help

   a coward I will

die here, she will be

alone to guide herself --- my son is

not ready but I am

much too  selfish to be his

father,

to guide them, he will

end up just like me

but I

donít care, mustnít care, I have

too much pride I am

much too selfish to be his father,      her husband, soon they will see

this tide has revealed the wretch beneath my shell

 

                  Kate Singleton, 11th grade

                  Henrico High School

                  Richmond, Virginia

                  Priscilla Biddle, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

Never Trick Your Brother

 

I once had a brother who was gone yesterday.

He was gone when we went out to play.

Here's the story.

About my brother Cory.

 

Before we started, I say,

"We are going to play hide and seek a different way.

We donít hide in the house, we hide around the world.

Your time's up when I say the word."

 

"How would I know?" he said.

ďYou will hide and where you are, you stay.Ē

I told him I will count to a hundred.

He went outside to hide.

 

When I heard the door close, I stopped counting.

I will never know where he was hiding.

Why, you ask?

I never went looking.

He will be running, running.

 

I thought for a while where he would go.

North, South, Puerto Rico?

Maybe Spain.

Maybe he's on a plane,

 

Egypt, Japan?

Maybe he went so far he met Peter Pan,

France?

To buy some pants?

 

Ireland?

El Salvador?

I'm sure his feet will be sore.

 

Then he didn't come back for the day.

And I went outside to celebrate and play.

 

Now that's my story.

Oh! Somebody's knocking!

Let me go open the door

Oh no! It's my brother!

On his side are a few tigers!

 

I ran all the way to Mexico!

Let me give you a little advice.

Never trick your little brother.

Always treat him nice!

 

            Carina Marquez, 5th grade

            St. Thomas More Cathedral School

            Arlington, Virginia

            Meghan Ward, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

 

A Spring Haiku

 

Flowers blooming bright

Birds are chirping pretty songs

The sun shines through the clouds

 

          Devin Vigil, 5th grade

            St. Thomas More Cathedral School

            Arlington, Virginia

            Meghan Ward, teacher

 

Back to Index

 

 

 

A Spring Thunderstorm

 

My dog runs around in circles while the thunder booms and roars,

With all this heavy rainfall the rain will flood in through the door.

The lightning strikes once, no twice, and my power goes right out,

My younger brotherís scared so he

 

            Screams

          And cries

            And shouts

 

          Katie Morgan, 5th grade

            St. Thomas More Cathedral School

            Arlington, Virginia

            Meghan Ward, teacher

 

Back to Index

Reborn in Poetry Again

 

      

My poetry, get hold of me, let go of me.  Donít leave me here to cry these tears

for many years in this fear of this lack, this huge deficit in the funds known as skills.  Let

me believe Iím not ill, that I can still kill an audience with my words.  My rhymes are

depleting and fleeting seeking to teach me through othersí speech speaking.

            My poetic words have been slurred with activities that become and come from

me, that donít allow me to see farther than 10 cm into my mind.  This vacation has been

so unkind by killing my mind and all its poetic cells, putting them behind metal prison

cells.

Itís lame, my rhymes now, I need to see how I can express and bless the public

with the holy water that is myself without making it that only the illiterate can

understand.  I need to be understood, for others to understand why my rhymes arenít

bland, that I can be good and I can be understood and I should say all that I could.

Those lines, I need to stop, to mentally block, to crop out the bad lines to leave

room for the good. I need to be reborn in poetry again, but itís not poetry thatís getting

hold of me, itís poetry thatís letting go of me.  What I need, what I write, what I say just

to spite, to smite my mental opposition and slight the slight chance that one may chance a

glance at my ďpoetryĒ, and thenÖ

Iíve lost all sense of a point, I need to pinpoint my topic and be able to alliterate

while still making the statement that I waited to state.  I need a whole new style, to go

buck wild.  I need to find ďit.Ē  I canít spit from this poetic glitch that downtime has

stitched into my mind and I need to findÖThatís it, the first steps to greatness.



            Kaska Adoteye, 12th grade

West Springfield High School

Springfield, Virginia

 

 

 

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Come back in June 2008 and see the work of more student poets featured in the Students' Spotlight.

 

Website Donated in memory of Julia May Chase, Poet