Anastasia Krupnik (excerpt)
Lois Lowry

Creativity Week was the week that the fourth grade was to bring their poems to school. On Monday morning Mrs. Westvessel took them on a field trip to Longfellow's home on Brattle Street. On Tuesday afternoon, a lady poet poetess, she should be called, according to Mrs. Westvessel; but the lady poet frowned and said she preferred poet, please-came to visit the class and read some of her poems. The lady poet wore dark glasses and had crimson fingernails. Anastasia didn't think that Longfellow would have liked the lady poet at all, or her poems.

Wednesday was the day that the members Of the class were to read their own poems, aloud.

Robert Giannini stood in front of the class and read:

I have a dog whose name is Spot.
He likes to eat and drink a lot.
When I put water in his dish,
He laps it up just like a fish.

Anastasia hated Robert Giannini's poem. Also, she thought it was a lie. Robert Giannini's dog was named Sputnik; everyone in the neighborhood knew that; and Sputnik had bitten two kids during the summer and if he bit one more person the police said the Gianninis would have to get rid of him.

But Mrs. Westvessel cried, "Wonderful!" She gave Robert Giannini an A and hung his poem on the wall. Anastasia imagined that Longfellow was eyeing it with distaste.

Traci Beckwith got up from her desk, straightened her tights carefully, and read:

In autumn when the trees are brown,
I like to walk all through the town.
I like to see the birds fly south.
Some have worms, still, in their mouths.

Traci Beckwith blushed and said, "It doesn't rhyme exactly."

"Well," said Mrs. Westvessel, in a kind voice, "your next one will be better, I'm sure." She gave Traci Beckwith a B plus, and hung the poem on the wall next to Robert's.

Anastasia had begun to feel a little funny, as if she had ginger ale inside of her knees. But it was her turn. She Stood up in front of the class and read her poem. Her voice was very small, because she was nervous.

Hush         hush         the sea-soft night is aswim
              with wrinklesquirm creatures.
                                           listen(!)
to them        move         smooth         in the moistly dark
        here in the         whisperwarm         wet

That was Anastasia's poem.

"Read that again, please, Anastasia, in a bigger voice," said Mrs. Westvessel.

So Anastasia took a deep breath and read her poem again. She used the same kind of voice that her father did when he read poetry to her, drawing some of the words out as long as licorice sticks, and making some others thumpingly short.

The class laughed.

Mrs. Westvessel looked puzzled. "Let me see that, Anastasia," she said. Anastasia gave her the poem.

Mrs. Westvessel's ordinary, everyday face had about one hundred wrinkles in it. When she looked at Anastasia's poem, her forehead and nose folded up so that she had two hundred new wrinkles all of a sudden.

Where are your capital letters, Anastasia?" asked Mrs. Westvessel.

Anastasia didn't say anything.

"Where is the rhyme?" asked Mrs. Westvessel. "It doesn't rhyme at all."

Anastasia didn't say anything.

"What kind of poem is this, Anastasia?" asked Mrs. Westvessel. "Can you explain it, please?"

Anastasia's voice had become very small again, the way voices do, sometimes. "It's a poem of sounds," she said. "It's about little things that live in tidepools after dark, when they move around. It doesn't have sentences or capital letters because I wanted it to look on the page like small creatures moving in the dark."

"I don't know why it doesn't rhyme," she said, miserably. "It didn't seem important."

"Anastasia, weren't you listening in class when we talked about writing poems?"

Anastasia looked at the floor. "No," she whispered, finally.

Mrs. Westvessel frowned, and rubbed her jiggly bosom thouughtfully. "Well," she said, at last.

"Well. Anastasia, when we talked about poetry in this class we simply were not talking about worms and snails crawling on a piece of paper. I'm afraid I will have to give you an F."

An F. Anastasia had never had an F in her entire life. She kept looking at the floor. Someone had stepped on a red crayon once; the color was smeared into the wood forever.

"Iworkedveryhardonthatpoem," whispered Anastasia to the floor.

"Speak up, Anaistasia.

Anastasia lifted her head and looked Mrs. Westvessel in the eye. "I worked very, very hard on that poem," she said, in a loud, clear voice.

Mrs. Westvessel looked terribly sad. "I can tell that you did, Anastasia," she said. "But the trouble is that you didn't listen to the instructions. I gave very, very careful instructions to the class about the kind of poems you were to write. And you were here that day; I remember that you were.

"Now if, in geography I explained to the class just how to draw a map, and someone didn't listen and drew his own kind of map" (everyone glanced at Robert Giannini, who blushed--he had drawn a beautiful map of Ireland, with cartoon figures of people throwing bombs all over it, and gotten an F.) "even though it was a very beautiful map, I would have to give that person a failing grade because he didn't follow the instructions. So I'm afraid I will have to do the same in this case, Anastasia.

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Westvessel.

"I just bet you are," thought Anastasia.

"If you work hard on another, perhaps it will be better. I'm sure it will be better," said Mrs. Westvessel. She wrote a large F on the page of poetry, gave it back to Anastasia, and called on the next student.