Gooney Bird Is So Absurd Read Free Page A

better?" Beanie asked.
    Mrs. Pidgeon looked sad. "No," she said, "I'm afraid not. When you're very old, as my mother is, you just start to give out, and you don't get better. But yesterday after school, I went to see her and I read poems to her again. Her own poems. You know, at one time my mom was a very serious writer."
    "Is that one of hers?" Barry asked, pointing to the paper. Mrs. Pidgeon nodded.
    "Another haiku?" asked Keiko.
    "No, this one is different. I know some of you like hearing poems that rhyme, so I looked through my mother's poetry and found a lovely rhyming one."
    "I hope it's not long, " said Malcolm. "That poem you read at Halloween was long. "
    Mrs. Pidgeon laughed. "Anybody remember the name of that one?" she asked the second-graders. "Barry? You're my student who remembers everything. You're the memory champion of the class."
    Barry grinned and nodded. "It was 'Little Orphan Annie,' and the name of the author was James Whitcomb Reilly."
    "Good for you! That's correct. I read that one because it was about goblins and scary things, so it seemed just right for Halloween. But you're right, Malcolm—it was quite long."
    Gooney Bird raised her hand. It made a clanking sound because she was wearing a large number of bracelets on that arm. Gooney Bird liked jewelry a lot.
    "Sorry for the clank," she said. "I'm taking my bracelets off in a minute because they make it hard for me to write. They clank on the desk."
    "How about the gloves?" asked Mrs. Pidgeon. "They don't interfere with your writing?" Gooney Bird was also wearing her fingerless gloves.
    "Nope. Actually, I think they help with writing, because they keep my writing hand warm and make words flow out onto the paper better. It's like when I warm my brain with a hat."
    "I see. Did you have a question? Is that why you raised your hand?"
    "No, I just wanted to say something about long-ness. I think a poem should be just smack exactly as long as it tells you it should be."
    "As it tells you?" Mrs. Pidgeon repeated, with a puzzled look.
    Gooney Bird nodded. She pulled her bracelets off and stacked them on her desktop, carefully making a round tower of the brass circles. "Yes. Writing a poem is the same as writing a story. You say what you want to say, and then it tells you, in your brain: Stop here. "
    "Hmmm," said the teacher, thinking. "I believe you're right, and that we should all listen more carefully to our brains."
    "You might try warming your brains with a hat," Gooney Bird suggested politely.
    Malcolm held up his fist and pretended it was a microphone. "Brain to Malcolm, Brain to Malcolm," he intoned in a deep voice. "'Wear underpants on your head.'"
    "Teacher to Malcolm," Mrs. Pidgeon said, holding up her own invisible microphone. "I am going to read this morning's poem now, and I want you to pay attention. You were one of the ones who wanted rhyme."
    Standing in front of the class, Mrs. Pidgeon carefully unfolded the paper and read aloud:
My Daughter
by Mrs. X
    "Hey!" Tyrone called out. "That's you! If your mom write that, then you be the daughter, right?"
    "That's true," said Mrs. Pidgeon. "This is a poem about me. My mother wrote it many years ago, so it's a poem about me when I was your age."
    "Cool," said Tyrone.
    "Mrs. Pidgeon, you ought to say the author's real name, not 'Mrs. X'! Just because we call her Mrs. X, that doesn't mean it's her author name!" Chelsea pointed out.
    "You're correct, Chelsea. But you know what, class? My mother has something special about her name, and I want to surprise you with it. But not yet. So for now, her author name is going to be Mrs. X. Is that all right?"
    All of the children nodded.
    "I'll start again."
My Daughter
by Mrs. X
Daughter, laughter: spelled the same.
Patricia: my laughing daughter's name.
    Mrs. Pidgeon picked up the chalk and wrote the two words on the board: daughter, laughter.
    "Yep, they oughta rhyme," Tyrone said. "Look at that. It's crazy that they don't rhyme."
    "That poem wasn't long,"