7th grade is a hard target demographic, haha, but here's what came to mind:
Why I Am Not a Painter by Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, it needed something there.” “Oh.” I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. “Where’s SARDINES?” All that’s left is just letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven’t mentioned orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
it might also be worth looking at some political poets - hughes (maybe "children's rhymes"?) or jean valentine.
although the more i think about it, the more i think that my entire english degree is committed to answering this question, and any poem of any value should be addressing this question to a certain degree, if not as explicitly self-referentially as the o'hara, then at least implicitly in its choice to be a poem (and not a painting or essay or interpretive dance or conversation the poet kept to himself).
no subject
Why I Am Not a Painter
by Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
it might also be worth looking at some political poets - hughes (maybe "children's rhymes"?) or jean valentine.
although the more i think about it, the more i think that my entire english degree is committed to answering this question, and any poem of any value should be addressing this question to a certain degree, if not as explicitly self-referentially as the o'hara, then at least implicitly in its choice to be a poem (and not a painting or essay or interpretive dance or conversation the poet kept to himself).