Here is a poem by Eric written for school about transportation (after daddy accidentally spilled a little wine on it!! Bad daddy!). It is such a lovely poem, I wanted to transcribe it here (I'll keep the original spelling intact).
There's a boat on the Water
Swoosh i'm ready to sail
said the sailer
The wind blew
The sailer jumped in the boat
He had a beautiful sight
He sailed away to find another island
His teacher wrote: "Fantastic poem Eric! It's like a story poem! :-) You used onomatopea!"
I agree it is a fantastic poem. It fills me with a spirit of adventure, the unwavering will to simply strike out on one's own. It reflects back to me the best side I see of my son.
When I read it aloud in front of Eric, he was so shy he clapped his hands over his ears and when I told him how much I liked it, he seemed suspicious. It was only after I told him that daddy used to write poems when he was younger that he seemed to accept my praise and we read it again together so I could draw his attention to the action and imagery he'd use to create such powerful feelings.
Ironically, I don't wish for Eric to become a writer like his father. I don't want him to struggle with thematic development and well-crafted expression. I don't want him to live so much in his head. I'd much rather he become an athlete or a musician or a craftsman, someone who works with his hands and body and mind in unison. It would be enough for me that the path he chose would bring him a sense of independence and continued wonder and discovery.
said the sailer
The wind blew
The sailer jumped in the boat
He had a beautiful sight
He sailed away to find another island
by Eric Kang
His teacher wrote: "Fantastic poem Eric! It's like a story poem! :-) You used onomatopea!"
I agree it is a fantastic poem. It fills me with a spirit of adventure, the unwavering will to simply strike out on one's own. It reflects back to me the best side I see of my son.
When I read it aloud in front of Eric, he was so shy he clapped his hands over his ears and when I told him how much I liked it, he seemed suspicious. It was only after I told him that daddy used to write poems when he was younger that he seemed to accept my praise and we read it again together so I could draw his attention to the action and imagery he'd use to create such powerful feelings.
Ironically, I don't wish for Eric to become a writer like his father. I don't want him to struggle with thematic development and well-crafted expression. I don't want him to live so much in his head. I'd much rather he become an athlete or a musician or a craftsman, someone who works with his hands and body and mind in unison. It would be enough for me that the path he chose would bring him a sense of independence and continued wonder and discovery.
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