Tag Archives: Michael Macklin

On Year 4: November’s Poems


November is a blustery month, a month of bruisy skies and moaning winds.  A thousand years ago, when I was in sixth grade, in a classroom whose high windows looked over the gym roof at the empty gray skies, I remember the social studies teacher, Mr. York, saying how much he hated November, because it …

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On Year 4: September’s Poems


Of course, the school year actually started in August–doesn’t it always?  So there’s a bonus poem.  I faced the usual resistance among some of the kids who have never been in my class before:  do we have to listen to every poem?  Yes, I told them–every blasted one.  That pretty much answers that question, came the …

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On the Death of a Poet


Michael Macklin’s obituary appeared in this morning’s Portland Press Herald, several days after his death.  Already, however, his friends and students have turned out what seems to be reams of tributes:  short and long statements of what he means to them, how he touched their lives, enriched their writing and reading, made himself into their friend.  I’ve …

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On the Second May’s (and a Tiny Bit of June’s) Poems


My friend the poet Michael Macklin died this month.  I had read a poem of his to the students one Monday, and over the following weekend, Michael took a group of his students to Bread Loaf, where he passed away in his sleep.  To everyone in the Maine poetry community–and beyond–this was a profound shock.  …

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On a New School Year, and the Second September’s Poems


A hundred years ago, when I attended the Advanced Placement institute in St. Johnsbury, Vermont with two of my awesome teaching colleagues, the five-day workshop was presented by a man who talked quite a bit about poetry boot camp.  This was what he called the intensive however-long unit on poetry and analysis that he subjected …

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On the Saw Doctors, Take 2: Port City Music Hall


Take two, eleven days later.  I now considered myself a novice Saw Doctors concert attendee, rather than a concert virgin.  But on this particular night, I had a mission:  to escort a pack of newbies into the Port City Music Hall, where they could expect to be highly entertained, if nothing else.  For this show, …

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On September’s Poems


When I came home from my week at the Frost Place back at the beginning of July, I started toying with one of the suggestions I’d heard there:  to start each class period by reading a poem.  That idea seemed somehow radical–most of my students didn’t like poetry; most of the ones who did only …

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