Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Teaching My Son, 9, To Write A Valentine Poem

The title of this blog post, "Teaching My Son, 9, To Write A Valentine Poem" sounds like the title of a Sharon Olds poem. I promise I won't skeeve you out like she does and talk about my son's furred rounded cherubic rear (oh dang, I did it...) and I won't fill you with discomfort about his growing from boy-child to this shimmering in-betweeen-ness of man-child (crap, there it is again). will not use the word "centaur."

Critics have accused Olds of "the inner necessity of the mother animal" and I have it too: overshareishness.

The point is: my baby boy! Count Milkula! The being who was so small and mammalian at six months I was able to wash him in a small sink in a walk-up in Cambridge is now old enough to be making rhymed couplets AABB with the intent of woo.

His assignment at school was to write a Valentine's Poem for his Secret Friend, using  "roses are red, violets are blue" as a template.  How close are we to a big billowy Keats-shirt, friends? We're very close to that dangerous tantalizing place called Italy. 

I helped him rhyme "flowers" with "super powers." He was like, "Awesome. We're done. Now can I go watch Ninjago?"

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