Jack Character Analysis

I don’t understand
the poem about
the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
and why so much
depends upon
them.

If that is a poem
about the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
then any words
can be a poem.
You’ve just got to
make
short
lines.

What do you mean—
Why does so much depend
upon
a blue car?

You didn’t say before
that I had to tell why.

The wheelbarrow guy
didn’t tell why.

I am sorry to say
I did not really understand
the tiger tiger burning bright poem
but at least it sounded good
in my ears.

They look nice
typed up like that
on blue paper
on a yellow board.

(But still don’t tell anyone
who wrote them, okay?)

and especially I liked the dog
in the dog poem
because that’s just how
my yellow dog
used to lie down,
with his tongue all limp
and his chin
between
his paws
and how he’d sometimes
chomp at a fly
and then sleep
in his loose skin,
just like that poet
Miss Valerie Worth
says,
in her small
dog poem.

I guess it does
look like a poem
when you see it
typed up
like that.

But I think maybe
it would look better
if there was more space
between the lines.
Like how I wrote it
the first time.

And you said that
Mr. Robert Frost
who wrote
about the pasture
was also the one
who wrote about
those snowy woods
and the miles to go
before he sleeps—
well!

I think Mr. Robert Frost
has a little
too
much
time
on his
hands.

And maybe
that’s the same thing
that happened with
Mr. Robert Frost.
Maybe he was just
making pictures with words
about the snowy woods
and the pasture—
and his teacher
typed them up
and they looked like poems
so people thought
they were poems.

Like how you did
with the blue-car things
and reading-the-small-poems thing.

And we did.
We chose him.

And in the car
he put his head
against my chest
and wrapped his paws
around my arm
as if he were saying
Thank you thank you thank you.

And the other dogs
in the cages
get killed dead
if nobody chooses them.

Yes
you can type up
what I wrote
about my yellow dog
but leave off the part
about the other dogs
getting killed dead
because that’s too sad.

And don’t put
my name
on it
please.

And maybe
it would look good
on yellow paper.

And maybe
the title
should be
YOU COME TOO.

At both ends
of our street
are yellow signs
that say
Caution! Children at Play!
but sometimes
the cars
pay no attention
and speed down
the road
as if
they are in a BIG hurry
with many miles to go
before they sleep.

That was so great
those poems you showed us
where the words
make the shape
of the thing
that the poem
is about—
like the one about an apple
that was shaped like an apple
and the one about the house
that was shaped like a house.

My brain was pop-pop-popping
when I was looking at those poems.
I never knew a poet person
could do that funny
kind of thing.

But I want to know
who is the
anonymous poet
in our class
who wrote that
and why didn’t
he
or
she
want to put
his or her name
on it?
Was it like me
when I didn’t think
my words
were
poems?

Maybe you will tell
the anonymous tree poet
that his or her tree poem
is really
a poem
really really
and a good poem, too.

I sure liked that poem
by Mr. Walter Dean Myers
called
“Love That Boy.”

Because of two reasons I liked it:
One is because
my dad calls me
in the morning
just like that.
He calls
Hey there, son!

And also because
when I had my
yellow dog
I loved that dog
and I would call him
like this—
I’d say—
Hey there, Sky!

(His name was Sky.)

And when us kids
were playing outside
kicking the ball
he’d chase after it
and push it with his nose
push push push
and getting slobber
all over the ball
but no one cared
because he was such
a funny dog
that dog Sky
that straggly furry
smiling
dog
Sky.

Yes, you can type up
what I wrote about
my dog Sky
but don’t type up
that other secret one
I wrote—
the one all folded up
in the envelope
with tape on it.
That one uses too many of
Mr. Walter Dean Myers’s
words
and maybe
Mr. Walter Dean Myers
would get mad
about that.

And thank you
for typing up
my secret poem
the one that uses
so many of
Mr. Walter Dean Myers’s
words
and I like what
you put
at the top:
Inspired by Walter Dean Myers.

I don’t agree
that Mr. Walter Dean Myers
might like to hear
from a boy
who likes his poems.

I think Mr. Walter Dean Myers
would like to hear
from a teacher
who uses big words
and knows how
to spell
and
to type.

Maybe you could
show me
how to use
the computer
and then
I could type up
my own words?

And I saw Sky
going after the ball
wag-wag-wagging
his tail
and I called him
“Sky! Sky!”
and he turned his
head
but it was too late
because the
blue car blue car
splattered with mud
hit Sky
thud thud thud
and kept on going
in such a hurry
so fast
so many miles to go
it couldn’t even stop

I don’t know.

If you put it on the board
and people read it
it might make them
sad.

The bulletin board
looks like it’s
blooming words
with everybody’s poems
up there
on all those
colored sheets of paper
yellow blue pink red green.

And the bookcase
looks like it’s
sprouting books
all of them by
Mr. Walter Dean Myers
looking back at us
[...]

All of my blood
in my veins
was bubbling
and all of the thoughts
in my head
were buzzing
and
I wanted to keep
Mr. Walter Dean Myers
at our school
forever.

And it was nice of you
to read all of our poems
on the bulletin board
and I hope it didn’t
make you
too sad
when you read the one
about my dog Sky
getting smooshed in the road.

LOVE THAT DOG

(Inspired by Walter Dean Myers)

By Jack

Love that dog,
like a bird loves to fly
I said I love that dog
like a bird loves to fly
Love to call him in the morning
love to call him
“Hey there, Sky!”