In March, I spent two days with 9th and 10th graders in the classes of Jackie Gagnon and Jenny Lavigne at Chelsea High School in Chelsea, Massachusetts. (See "About the Teachers,"  below.*****)

We studied and wrote poems on place. First, we viewed some poets reading their poems on the video, The United States of Poetry, including "Driftwood Feeling" by Henry Real Bird and "A Testimonial" by Sparrow. The we read two poems, "There's an Orange Tree Out There," in both Spanish and English by Alfonso Quijada Urias and "The Farm When I Was Five,"  by Grace Butcher from her collection,  Before I Go Out on the Road (Cleveland State Poetry Center, 1979)

Then students drafted poems that day about significant places in their lives. They worked on revisions with me and their talented teachers.  I chose a few of my favorites. Below, you will find them, poems by Kirsten Byrnes,  Karen Castillo,  Brenda Contreras,  Krystal Crespo,  Jacqueline Feregrino*,  Mark Gomez*, Maritza Rios,  Vilma Rojas,  Caitlyn Smith,  Yajahira Tejada,  Raquel Tice, and  Hoai Tran

                                                                                         --Diane Kendig, Writers in the Schools

*Poems by Jacqueline Feregrino and Mark Gomez won honorable mention in the New England Poetry Club's 2005 Ruth Berrien  Fox  contest for best poem by a Massachusetts high school student.

I step on the 111
dispense my change
Ten minutes and I'm in Boston

It's so diverse here
Faneuil Hall is more upper class
Downtown is more grounded
And today Downtown is my destination

As I walk I look up a the buildings
staring down at me
I admire their beauty, their height

Then I'm interrupted by a sweet smell
It is Boston's roasted nuts
The remind me of past years
I remember asking mom,
"What's that smell, is it cupcakes?"

Here , you can ride on a swan
Feed some ducks
And when the day is done...
I step on the 111.

by Krystal Crespo
 

Escaping the heat of the house, 
 I ran, chunks of coral crunching under my bare feet. 
A mix of rain and flower pollen hung in the air
The briny breeze brushed my face and my summer dress.
I laughed as I imitated Marilyn Monroe.
The swishing grasses of the field of flowers
Blue, red, yellow dots of color blew back and forth serenely around me
As the ocean, far off and frothing at the hill’s base, 
Waved and flashed its shades of green and blue in the receding sunlight. 
Sitting down on a safe-looking edge
I waved back at the ocean
And fell onto my back as the stars began to find themselves.
The moon, 
That enormous crisp of white, washed me in its silver glow
And the last thing I remember before drifting off
Was a crunching noise of coral, 
As my mother walked over, picked me up and brought me back inside. 

By Kirsten By

 Riding down the street
 bumpy, trying to avoid a crack
 crashing into weeds
 scraping my arm,
 a deep gash with sticky non-stop blood
 crying to my mother

 Moving away from that Alley
 A new street
 no cracks, no weeds
 smooth like a tortilla
 Bike rides smoothly
 Ha,Ha to that Alley

 No more scrapes, bruises
 just scars from you

By Jacqueline Feregrino
 

The fiery orange fire hydrants marked the spot.
Looked at through soaked eyes
As the dark crystal rain
Fell onto the once pure
And now darkened pavement

Whispering
Secrets of the past.
To the many heavens
Sadness yet happiness surrounding
This place encased in memories.
An unforgettable time of growth.

By Raquel Tice
 

Lady next door 
yelling and screaming
All night long
Always restless

Refrigerator hums loud
The chairs scrape the floor
Oh how I dislike 
The lady next door 

By Yajahira Tejada
 

Where the stairs creaked and the shutters were all 
     worn out
Where I fell down the stairs and scratched my knees 
     and elbows
Where the memory of my grandmother will forever 
     remain

                   That old house

Where the scent of peaches was always present
Where the violets which rested on the windowsill grew 
     more beautiful each and every day

That old house which doesn't seem so old to me
      looks the same as the other houses on its street

Yet is somehow the most beautiful house there

That old house, where I grew up
       isn't so old afterall because its memory is as new 
       as it could get

I will never forget you, My Dear Old House

By Vilma Rojas
 

The Chelsea Walk on Broadway,
Brings back my childhood memories.
As I’m strolling down Chelsea Walk,
In the back of my mind I see a little girl.
Running and giggling,
   Playing hide-and-go-seek with her father,
   She looks around and sees all these bakery stores,
   cars and hear voices of people talking,
        And looks up as she sees smoke coming from the top of restaurants.
This little girl was me,
Till this day I’m still standing here,
 And still looking up at the thick smoke, 
Coming out from the chimneys.
Smelling scents of food,
and hearing the voices of people talking noisly.
  I’m thinking to myself,
That some things do last,
Like the Chelsea Walk and the relationship I still have with my father.

By Hoai Tran

I used to live in Florida
And it's a beautiful place to live.
I had wonderful times there.
We would go to beaches and lakes
That were so clean
That you could see right through,
As if it were glass. 

We went to the pool almost every day
Because the water was so warm,
Unlike the ones here that are
As cold as an ice cube
And take awhile to get used to.
You will never see anything like that here. 

But, I never want to go back!
That's where my parents split up.
Whenever I go to visit
I remember the day 
My father left us.
I felt as gloomy as a night sky. 

By Maritza Rios
 
 

Those grimy, slippery stairs.
Descend the concrete steps fused with worn gum
Now Dry and Cracked.
Enter the line, wait for the troll to slowly
Give his golden coins, as the rush goes by
That’s another twenty-minute wait
Who shall entertain me?
Saxophoneman works on Tuesdays
His art varies, so bebop, so bossa nova.
Guitarman works on Fridays
Cracked Voice over a dull and uncivil crowd.
Magician is a chance, Mondays or Wednesdays.
If you’re lucky, you get to see the lime disappear.
No matter
Walk Down to the tracks, a vast tunnel 
Only given the light of man
-Made products, no sun to guide the way.
Rumble above, Rumble below, as common
As the coo’s of pigeons to the innercity ear
Walk up, check the number on the dirty window
It comes to a stop, grab hold of the silver bar, 
walk inside
The World Of Culture
Pimp to the left, Single Mom to the right
A sullen old man, a yuppie on her cellphone
A drug dealer, a queer
A suit and brief case, a drunk 
An anarchist, a conformist
An entrepreneur, a procrastinator
The pious, the selfish
The right, the wrong
A sea of Lifestyle and Diversity,
All in front of me
Oh and the Haitian guy driving behind me
Grab my seat, look out the window, let the 
World Disappear through the Tunnel.

By Mark Gomez
 

Jackie Gagnon (right) has been an English teacher at Chelsea High for 33 years, but, as she says, "who's counting?"

Jenny Lavigne (left) has been a teacher of English, Literacy, and Writing  at Chelsea High 
for 12 years and says, "I think this is the  best job in the world." 
 
 
 

    Never trouble or pain sits me down,
   but the tired of fighting them.
   The scab’s itch stays
   and the tic in the left eye says,
   close shop and don’t feel anything.

   So I’ve sat these days seeing
   the morning bandage unwrap the river,
   a thousand islands rise green as new bark,
   wearing red mushrooms, longspur, horned lark,
   wild snapdragons, a million trees.

   Those trees reach the way of last winter’s wind,
   as have I.  I let go and watch
   the Milky Way settle into the sky,
   alight with being upheld, and I,
   I’ve recovered my tenderness by long-looking.