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It was a slightly sticky week reading-wise for my 7 year old son--he just didn't want to read any of the chapter books I offered him. So I turned to poetry, specifically the animal poems of Douglas Florian, with the happy result that he read.

Poems are more friendly to read than the densely filled pages of chapter books--less intimidating visually, and once you've read a poem, you have clearly accomplished something. Florian's poems in particular, I think, are great for the reluctant reader. They are funny. They are informative. They have a fairly straightforward vocabulary. And I like his whimsically varied illustrations.

Here are a few poems that struck my fancy:

The Cheetah (from bow wow meow meow it's rhyming cats and dogs, 2003, Harcourt)

The cheetah is fleet.
The cheetah is fast.
Its four furry feet
Have already passed.

The Dachshund (also from bow wow meow meow)

Short up front
And short behind
But so long in-between.
The fleas all ride
Upon my side
In my s t r e t c h limousine.

The Diamondback Rattlesnake (from lizards, frogs, and polliwogs, 2001, Harcourt)

Fork in front,
Rattle behind.
The lump in the middle?
Don't pay any mind.

Scales up high,
Scales down low.
The lump in the middle?
You don't want to know.

Diamonds above,
Diamonds below.
The lump in the middle?
A rabbit too slow.

All three of these are pretty easy, quick, and funny to read--great confidence boosters.

My son also decided to bring home from the library Shel Silverstein's Falling Up --apparently the boy who is the Alpha Reader in my son's class has been reading it (having finished Eragon Harry Potter Cornelia Funke etc). Silverstein's poems, thought, aren't as uniformly easy readerish as Florian's; likewise Jack Prelutsky.

Any recommendations for other poets or books we could look for that still unfluent reader who likes science might be able to read easily?

And as a total aside, Shel Silverstein has a new edition of an old out of print book coming out this March-- Don't Bump the Glump which looks rather interesting.

The Poetry Friday round up is at Karen Edmisten's place today!

Hopkins, Ellen. 2007. Impulse.

Impulse is not particularly the kind of book you want to pick up (or post about) the week of the Virginia Tech Massacre. Like all of Ellen Hopkins books its theme is dark and depressing. That is not to say it isn’t honest and authentic. Impulse has this honest feel about it. These are characters that feel real. The pain they’re describing, they’re living, feels authentic. It feels genuine. The secrets, the lies, the hopes, the fears, the worries, the stress, everything. It is the story (fictional) of three teens who have attempted suicide. Two boys and one girl. They, all three, find themselves at Aspen Springs a mental institution for juveniles. Each teen has a story. Each teen has a journey. One tried to overdose on drugs. One tried to shoot himself. One slit her wrist. All have obstacles to overcome. All have secrets. All have quirks. Tony. Vanessa. Conner. Three teens who are walking the same self-destructive path. Can they find help in time? Can their lives be changed? Can there be hope where formerly there was none? Can broken lives find healing? It is a harsh story. Hopkins doesn’t hide the hard, bitter, dark pain of suicidal thoughts. But amidst all the pain and suffering, redemption may be just within reach.

Hopkins writing is once again powerful. Not every reader will want to journey down this dark tunnel with these three characters. Even if there is light shining at the end of the tunnel. For readers in search of "problem novels" or "edgy novels" or novels about suicide, cutting, drugs, or dysfunctional families in general, this book may be a perfect fit. It is a powerful, authentic verse novel.

Cloistered

I can't remember
when it has snowed
so much, yards
and yards of lacy ribbons,
wrapping the world in white.
Was it three years ago? Ten?

Memory is a tenuous thing,
like a rainbow's end
or a camera with a failing lens.
Sometimes my focus
is sharp, every detail
clear as the splashes
of ice, fringing the eaves;
other times it is a hazy
field of frost, like the meadow
outside my window.
I think it might be a meadow.
A lawn? A parking lot?

Is it even a window
I'm looking through,
or only cloudy panes
of vision, opening
on drifts of ivory
linens--soft cotton,
crisp percale--
my snow just
a blizzard of white
noise?

From IMPULSE by Ellen Hopkins, p. 17-18

http://www.ellenhopkins.com/

Readers may also enjoy It's Kind of A Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, The Burn Journals by Brent Runyon, and Twisted by Laurie Halse Anderson. I haven't read Twisted yet, but based on what reviews I have read...it seems like this would be a good match.