Author Archives: sara holbrook

About sara holbrook

Poet/Author/Educator

Surabaya International School

An umbrella, hats, a bug zapper and plenty of warm smiles –
what else does a poet need in Indonesia? 
Our (too short) visit to Surabaya International School was a blast. What a welcome!  They gave us all that we needed to feel
at home and more. After a couple of assemblies, we were happy to join writers putting words on paper.  Michael and I split up to visit all grade levels.
Third Graders in Liene Leiskaine’s class were just starting a unit on money and trade so we collaborated in small groups to write questioning poems based on a lesson in High Impact Writing Clinics.  What is money for?  Who invented it?  What will money be in the future. Are coins better than paper? At the end of class we shared our poems aloud. A true test of a successful visit (as far as I’m concerned) is if the kids are writing after we leave.  Guess what?  I received an email the next day from Liene with the following questioning poem that her student had written that night.  
Nature
By: Subin Park
Why is the earth a sphere, not a square?
How do we compare?
Who gets to create the nature and how?
Isn’t it cute when a paw meets a paw?
Why is an ocean deep?
Why don’t we see green sheep?
Why is the nature so green?
Why is the nature so adventures for me?
How cool is that?  Thank you Subin for extending the lesson and making me imagine paw meeting paw. And why indeed don’t we see green sheep?????
Another primary class gave me a send off that made me cry.
In the upper grades we talked about how poems can be starter seeds for longer essays stories and essays.  We wrote “bump in the road” poems, which are really story poems about triumph.
And many many thanks to librarian Leslie Baker and her kindly and professional assistant (whose name I have no chance of spelling correctly) for the hours of work put into making the visit happen.  We move on leaving poems and friends behind.  Thank you, thank you, thank you my friends!

Heads Up Publications and By Definition: Poems of Feelings

Why are you doing that?
No one else does it that way.
What’s the matter with you?
Creative people don’t like to be told what to do. We can be
annoying. Distracted. Non-compliant. Misfits, who at our worst clog systems and
at our best make up new and better systems.
So what is the choice? Creatives can either rebel and go
places where no one else has been or fall in line and be unhappy.  Not that going your own way is a guarantee of
happiness. Hardly.  It pretty much
assures that you will be justifying your actions for the rest of your days, but
the alternative is emotional and intellectual suicide.
Creatives don’t fit well in schools. At all. Schools put
students in boxes based on how well kids can fill in boxes.  Creatives don’t like boxes unless they welded
them together themselves, designed them in Photoshop, or turned a refrigerator
box into a pyramid with a razor blade and duct tape and renamed it “box with a
point.”
The successful creative kid learns to multitask early on.
Hold her breath and make a quick pass at what is required before letting the
mind go out to play. The less successful creative kid gets parked with the
Welcome Back Kotteresque meatheads, a room that is harder to escape than a
prison lockdown. Sitting for 12 years among The-Most-Likely-to-be-Incarcerated
can be hard on a person’s sense of productive worth.
Go Back While There’s
Still Time:
When I quit my job as a vice president of an ad agency to be
a poet, turned in the paperwork for the company car, trashed my rolodex, and
went out into the cold (it was actually a sunny, Indian summer September day),
I remember the panic on the face of a co-worker, “You did what? Go back,
there’s still time. Tell [the boss] you changed your mind. He’ll take you back.
He’ll take you back.”
Part of me knew he was right. I was a single mom with a
mortgage, two kids poised on the edge of the diving board ready to take the
plunge into college and two dogs in need of kibble. But I just couldn’t hold my
breath any longer. It was 1990, the last decade of the 20th century.
I was running out of time, and I needed to breathe.
I started out self-published because education isn’t the
only place that wants to put people into boxes. Publishers were looking for the
next Shel Silverstein in the early nineties when I came along with my “I Hate
My Body” poems for middle readers and there was no category for adolescent
poetry in those days. Zero.
With the support of classroom teachers, I sold 43,000 books,
and then at least one publisher was willing to talk. Boyds Mills Press.
Grateful, I knew I should be compliant. 
Only that’s not my nature and I had sacrificed a whole lot of security
to be able to breathe. I quickly developed a reputation for being difficult to
edit (I wore out three editors on the first book).  BMP and I have had a 25 year relationship and
I continue to be forever grateful that they were willing to take a chance on
me.
By Definition: Poems
of Feelings
(BMP) came out in 2004. In my mind, the art and the poetry in
this book were a mismatch from the start. 
I was writing for middle readers, the artist was drawing for primary
kids.  Bad fit.  Last year, the book went of out print and the
rights returned to me. 
I decided to repurpose the poems into a power point
presentation for classroom use. 
Why are you doing that?
No one else does it that way.
What’s the matter with you?
Research based
response:
Michael Salinger (my partner-in-rhyme) and I have been so jazzed
about projecting poetry in classrooms, with everyone’s head up and ready for discussion.  No one is hunched over text, pretending to be
reading, doodling, drooling or any of the things I used to do when asked to
read in class. Projected text, particularly when it is combined with a fetching
image, gets kids’ attention just long enough to engage. 
If you are looking for research to support this, this is the
research:  We tried it about 600
times.  Projected poetry engages better
than printed text. Try it, you’ll see.
So is born our idea of Heads UP publications.  These are not books that are conceived to be
cradled in the arms and consumed alone. These are books designed to be
projected and shared in a classroom situation, with a teacher leading the
discussion.  We may even include a
discussion starter question or two.

The next question we had to confront was, how do we best
market a Heads
UP
publication?
Trade or
Professional?
Teacher professional books are research based with the text
divided between a few new ideas and citation after citation after citation of
old ideas hand selected old ideas to support the new ideas. It’s a tedious process to
write these books (been there) and (I fear) the audience for them has been dwindling, distracted by the PD offerings from YouTube, TedTalks and Twitter. Our product is what is called “classroom ready,” or not research based. Teacher professional
publishers are not equipped to market a product like ours (so we hear). Besides, poetry is a tough sell.
Trade books are books kids check out of the library. Trade
publishers are still coming to grips with ebooks and have no conveyance method
to sell books designed for projection. 
They are busy trying to reformat texts so that that they are as close as
possible to books with covers that can be held in the hands. Trade publishers
are not equipped to market a product like ours (so we hear). They are too busy
conceiving of increasingly obscurely themed poetry books (40 poems on tiddly
winks? Anyone? Anyone?). Besides, poetry is a tough sell.
Every Poem is a Mini
lesson:
Still, teachers are always looking for poetry and new ideas.  Every poem is a mini lesson.  Want a quick lesson on point of view,
descriptive or figurative language? Poems are at your service.
“When heading off to a conference, I always dare to dream
that I will be heading home somehow made new,” began a teacher in a recent email.
And then she kindly added that our presentation of using words and images in
the classroom had done just that for her. 
Michael and I consider ourselves to be teaching artists, we spend a
great number of days in the classroom each year, but don’t have to do the
grades or the staff meetings.  It’s a
good gig, we realize that. And we want to efficiently and economically give
back to the people we most love to support. . . entrepreneurial and mostly
financially strapped teachers. 
This had led us to the site: Teacher Pay Teachers to host
our products.  We are in the process of
converting some of our projectable lessons and Head UP publications to this
site.  You can find us here: link.
Here are our first three offerings: All $6 or under (cheap).
http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/By-Definition-A-Heads-Up-book-by-Sara-Holbrook-1475655

Sweet (Ah-choo) Mysteries of Life

Ah-choo!  Sweet
mystery of sneeze, at last I’ve found thee
Ah-choo!  I know at
last the secret of it all
All the sniffing, coughing, dripping, swelling, burning
The sneezing chokes and tissues that are fall.
For these burning lids, the swollen eyes are seeking
Less pollen in the air, less sinus drain,
For as bright asters in the fields are blooming
the burning hope for victims is some rain.
Asters. Not the Astors of New York, but the asters of the meadow. Golden rod, it looks too cheery and it makes so many of us weepy.  One of life’s great mysteries.  And once I thought of this song yesterday and started to noodle about parody lyrics, I couldn’t get it out of my head.  Maybe if I pass it along, I can banish it from my brain.

Outreach?


Day seven of my personal poetry challenge.  Just to see, you know.  If I could.  And as of 6PM tonight, things weren’t looking good.  Here’s the deal about creative work, there are ALWAYS other things to do. More pressing things, gardens and laundry and dinner and clean up and forever and just sitting around making stuff up?  Well, that seems a little self-indulgent when the broccoli is going to flower and leftover dinner is hardening in the pan.
Then I followed my own advice (oh so much easier to give to anyone else but myself) and just sat in my desk chair and looked around.  My eyes fell on the phone.
Tomorrow is my birthday and frankly, I’m not all that excited about it.  In fact, it’s kind of ticking me off (eyes still on the phone), but no one wants to hear from a downer, I mean, we all need to surround ourselves with positive energy and all, good grief, the news is bad enough. In fact the news is really bad.  (no one wants to talk about that) and besides, I’m supposed to be writing a poem, not chatting on the phone.  I learn things about myself when I write. Writing is healthy to the troubled spirit, but I didn’t sit down to write about my most recent case of the whinies, I’m supposed to be looking outside of myself for ideas. 
Oh, yeah. The phone.

Outreach?
All alone?
Or telephone?
In-reach?
Outreach?
Which?
And if I choose
how long before
I change my mind
and switch?
My brain’s too full.

I can’t converse,
but isolation’s so
much worse.
Opt in?
Opt out?
What could be next?
Guess

I could (maybe) text.

The Walk

Sometimes it takes binoculars to look at the up-close and find something new.  Suzi and I make this walk everyday.  But here I am on day six of my 7 day challenge and in looking for something outside of myself to write about, I decided to change my point to view to someone else’s.  

Hers.

See that narrow-eyed stare she’s giving me?  That her “You never listen” look.

Today I listened; this is what I heard.

The Walk

My walks come in blocks,
one half mile around,
I drag along a human
who’s a little tightly wound.
She scuffs.
I bound!

So much grass to water,
trees to sniff,
and fire plugs to explore.
Here a couple toadstools
not here the day before.

She doesn’t even smell them,
her plastic bag in hand.
(Did I mention she’s deranged?)
She’s making a collection
of my deposits on the land.
(I told you, she is strange).


Any dogs out today?
WOOF! WOOF!
I call them out to play.
BE QUIET,
barks my anti social human,
SHUSH.
I pause, to shake it off
and then salute another bush,
pulling forward
nose to the ground,
one half mile around.

Thinking Small

“The more specific your story, the more universal the message.”  I’m not sure who said that first, but it is one of those truisms that keeps me revising and revising — always for more detail.

In lots of areas we are told to THINK BIG and THE SKY’S THE LIMIT, but in poetry we think small. So, I don’t know if this poem makes me the most poetical person on the planet, or just plain small.  Just one more little thing to keep me…scratching.

Thinking Small
The careless shoulder shrug.
Throat tickles in the night.
The eyes that drift astray.
A shadow standing in my light.
Friends playing games instead of talking.
Forks scraped between closed teeth.
Fake smiles,
clothes in piles.
Unmatched socks,
ticking clocks.
Searching for lost keys.
Little things that make my teeth itch.
Metaphoric fleas.

Doppler Effects

And this was not the worst of it.  This was just what was still in the skies at 4AM this morning.  It is almost cheating to fall back on writing about the weather, but jeez louise, what a night!

Doppler
Effects
Whirlwinds
swirled,
sirens
wailed,
arrows
rained,
vibrations
rocked the clouds.
In
flashy strobes
trees partied
hard,
ducked
and waved,
danced
in place,
and
reveled through the night
as
sleep,
like crispy
leaves
took
flight.
Today’s prediction? I believe the trees and I will be having a wee nap this afternoon.

The Ride

The Ride

After
you’ve climbed the hill
to see
the view,
then
slid down the other side,
after
you’ve skinned both knees,
broken
bones,
and
cracked your helmet twice,
after
you’ve tasted the rush
of
passing through
in
front, behind, beside,
what
choice is there
but to
climb back up,
pump
the pedals, and ride?

It was three years ago this month that I had “the accident,” but that was really just one in a series of head bangers that life has thrown at me.

As a pre-birthday present to myself, I am up and pedaling, with slightly wider tires, which sounds like a metaphor for maturity, but it is really just the facts. Thank you Michael for the new tires, thank you Becky for the bike on extended loan, and thanks to a lovely fall day.

Tripping

Day 2 of my week long personal poetry challenge.
Let me just point out that this is not poetry month.  It is not write a novel in a month month, and it is not even the week taxes are due, which historically has been a great inspiration for me to write poetry instead of getting down to business.  I would never be compliant enough to do such an organized writing assignment. I am a poetry procrastinator. A putter offer. Keeper of a wayward, meandering mind. Truth.
But my cousin Lisa Lofthouse does a 30 day Yoga challenge and my friend Amy VanDerwater did a 360 day poetry challenge, so I started this week thinking surely I could so a weeklong challenge before ADHD lead me astray.
Today I had put on my calendar to do a little cleaning in the attic because committing to entirely cleaning the attic would be roughly akin to me dedicating myself to swim to Canada.  How far is that anyway?  Between Cleveland and the nearest port in Canada? What is the temperature of the water, do you think? Who could follow me in a kayak to post on social media and what if I got encrusted in zebra mussels and ended up failing and looking all embarrassing in the process?
Before I stop everything and go look all that up (which would postpone the attic task for at least another hour), here is a poem I wrote while thinking about cleaning the attic. 
Tripping
Suitcases in the attic,
clouds above my head,
tempting me to daydream
trips
to magic spots
instead of writing in my journal
or picking up my clothes,
lifting me from daily doings
to visit
well . . .

who knows?