Tag: Poetry

I Am Wind: An Autobiography

~ Lisa Helm ~ Leave a comment

written by Rachel Poliquin illustrated by Rachel Wada

This book is BEAUTIFUL. Poetry, science, culture, folklore, history artwork. This book is a perfect example of how to use a multitude of genres to teach a concept.  A quintessential hybrid text. 

First of all, Wind is personified. It is the main character of the text. Wind tells us their story through poetry:” I Am Wind/I whistle. I howl/I’ll steal your hat, your house, your kitten, your kite/ I whisper whisper whisper secrets in the leaves…I am the Great Rushing in All Directions” (Poliquin). Wind is portrayed as a beautiful, gentle friend and destructive enemy. 

Wind also tells us their story through history with little “Wind Chronicles,” which describe types of winds in various cultures and record historical events of destruction and peril caused by tornados and storms.

Wind also charmingly tells of its characteristics directly (as if in an extended character sketch): how it is created, the types of wind forces, how man has harnessed Wind for its own uses (sailing, wind farms), how it is perceived in mythology, and its multitude of names in various cultures.

Throughout all of this wonderful poetry, prose, and information are the most beautiful paintings in the most vibrant colours. A multitude of lessons could be created from the artwork alone.

For educators and families with young children, I am Wind: An Autobiography is a delightful addition to your library. It’s not just informative; it’s engaging and absolutely beautiful. This book will captivate your little ones, making learning a fun and interactive experience.

…oh and the book creators live in British Columbia so we’ve got some Canadian content AND indigenous content (this always makes me happy).
I will be recommending this book to every teacher I know!

I will definitely be recommending this book to every teacher I know!!

You will be able to own this book November 5, 2024

Thank you to NetGalley and Penguin Random House for the free copy.

The Pertinacity of a Dandelion

~ Lisa Helm ~ Leave a comment

I want the pertinacity of a Dandelion.

I do

It’s true.

I want to, when cut down by sharp blades of insensitivity and criticism,

be able to duck my head and avoid the fatal stroke

and instead

pop my head back up

in spite.

I want to look bright and obvious

an in-your-face “look at me”

all sunny disposition and obnoxious cheeriness.

I want to have deep stubborn roots

that grow

reaching places that are cramped and stifling

lifting me up

breaking through stone.

And

when I’m old

I want to bring laughter and amusement

my grey head of fluff

blown

little story seeds

dancing in the wind.

To Frustratingly Flail About With My Words

~ Lisa Helm ~ Leave a comment

Some days

I believe I can be as articulate as the greatest of ancient Greek orators.

Sitting, surrounded by youth.

Using extended metaphor to enlighten.

Persuasive and entertaining with my words. Arguing a point that possesses a foregone conclusion just to uproot it 

and shake it free of narrow-mindedness. Then transplant it elsewhere.

Entertaining with anecdotes that seem outrageous yet familiar

to a captive audience.

Making others emotionally invest in the story being told.

Relating to the characters.

Relating to the storyteller.

Relating to me.

But then

there are those who don’t listen 

unless 

they, themselves, are the protagonist,

and it is their story being told. 

Because everything that is not about them

bores them. 

And they opt out that story even if it is not theirs 

and could be woven into their existence and used for strength.

Other days 

a big, thick, murky fog

clouds my brain,

and I’m distracted by trivialities or fatigue.

I try to cut through to get to the point that I know exists

just beyond the murkiness. 

Immediate but unreachable.

Like the sun behind the clouds.

And I frustratingly flail about with my words. 

“You know the thingy that what’s his face used for the whachmacallit? You know, the thingamabob?”

Plodding slowly towards a conclusion

that isn’t all that substantial 

let alone scintillating.

And I wonder

how the day determines creativity.

What alignment of stars

or perfect thickness of the ozone layer

 is needed for me to be bright and sharp

and compelling? 

Or if the gods could merely flip a coin,

and decide, 

“today’s the day” 

to make a change. 

Or 

“today’s the day” 

to take a nap.

At this moment, 

I write. 

But it’s a tough slog through the haziness 

of a mind that doesn’t cooperate.

So what is there to do 

but to write 

about how difficult it is

to write today. 

Memory as Metaphor

~ Lisa Helm ~ Leave a comment

Memory is a funny thing.
Multi-metaphorical.


It’s like a tiny alligator. Lurking in shallow water leisurely swimming by moving its tail. You wade tentatively in life, feeling warmth and security. Going further out and away. When suddenly it grabs your ankle in its sharp pointy teeth reminding you it’s there. And then leaving little pointed pricks in your skin.
Prickly, pint points of blood. Distracting reminders.


Or it’s like a shroud that falls over you when you’re going about your business, in the middle of routine. And suddenly a smell or a taste or an image will act the trigger release of a safety catch. Letting drop a black and suffocating shroud. That settles on you for an hour, or a day, or sometimes a week.
Until you’re distracted by an occurrence or
a conversation or
a making-of another memory that will not take its place but rather act as a distraction. Strong enough to put shreds in that shroud.


At times it is like a Tuesday bruise on your knee on Thursday. Not as sore and tender to the touch as the day you received it, but now dark and purple and prominent when you lift your pant leg to view it. Only to cover it up again. Then have it glare at you in the face when you’re in the tub, knees popping up through the bubbles reminding you that you fell.
A small injustice or failure.


And every once in awhile it’s like a little spot of sunshine that moves about a room. You have to consciously see it. Move towards it. Plant yourself in it so that you can have it warm you. If even for a little while.
Like a cat.
Until it’s time to move on and out of the sunshine
and back into the momentum of life.
Only to experience new alligators, shrouds, bruises
and blessed patches of sunshine.