Our homework is to write a poem or short story with the following words:
COTTON, WRITING, LUCKY, BRIDGE, PYJAMAS!
We re-visited the idea of what makes a poem and what differentiates it from a prose. It was decided it was ok to have different styles of writing but how can the reader differentiate whether it is a poem we are presenting or a short prose? We read two examples from the same author in the group and decided, that even though both were labelled 'poems' one was geared more toward a prose and the other was more of a poem. We differentiated between the two by discussing how the two pieces sounded when read aloud, the rhthym, the words used, the air of mystery presented and the collaboration of the words that allowed you to use your imagination. Where did the piece carry you/ take you, if anywhere?
We did a bit of free writing by once again presenting five random words: BLACK, TOMORROW, ALOT, FAMILY and JEALOUS. We then wrote for a about 15 minutes.
This brought up a conversation on Advent and black bread! Where did it come from? What was it made of? So our task is to research the origins of 'Black Bread' during times of fasting!!
Ruth
Free Writing Session:
We sat together as a family. Always at mealtimes. But tonight we all ran for the table when called, as tonight was the night before Advent. Everything had to be eaten tonight. There was never alot but there would be more than what we would be getting tomorrow.
Mammy had made an apple pie. I was always jealous of my older brother, Jack. He always got a fine big slice. He worked now and helped put food on the table. So Mammy always rewarded his efforts with the thickest piece of the pie. 'Eat up now, Jack. You need your energy!' she'd say with a glow in her eyes.
I'd sit patiently waiting for my slice.
Dad's was cut next and left to the side. He always liked his as part of his supper. Just before bed with a cup of tea.
I licked my lips. I watched the knife slice through the soft crust and as Mammy lifted the knife it drooled apple syrup. It dripped slowly from the blade.
I waited for my slice.
She cut her own. A small piece. Always watching her figure. Just a piece to wet her lips - just for the taste.
I was fifth in line i.e. fifth born. So I had to wait until everyone else was served before me. It was never divided equally. You earned your slice, like Jack.
Niamh's slice, she was marrying wealthy!
Tommy's slice, he played rugby!
Bernadette's slice, she was a nun!
Diarmuid's slice, he played GAA!
Then me. I was only 12 and I hadn't done my chores! I watched in anticipation. Mammy handed me a saucer. As she lowered it to my view I raised my hand to take the plate.
Crust! Just the crust! Again!
I huffed into my 'slice'.
'Well if you don't want it...' she said, still holding onto the other side of the saucer. I took the saucer and bent over it, shuffled my bum away from her in my seat and huddled over it.
'It's fine! Thank you!' I huffed.
'Enjoy it!' she said 'It's the black bread tomorrow!'
END
