Poetry Bracket

To celebrate National Poetry Month in April, we'll be doing a March Madness-style poetry bracket competition. Some schools may do a full a 64 poem bracket, but we find that 32 works best for our schedule. Results can be posted on a bulletin board or announced over the loud speakers.

Simply read the two poems for the day, have students vote for the winner, and that poem advances to the next round. Students can submit poems they have found for the next year's competition.

Click here for other ways that teachers have organized their brackets.
A 32-bracket template is available here. A 64-bracket template is available here.

If you want to start tomorrow, here are the 32 poems we'll be using this year. Feel free to swap in some of your favorites or reorganize to your tastes!

1.  To F.S.

Langston Hughes

I loved my friend.

He went away from me.

There’s nothing more to say.

The poem ends,

Soft as it began,—

I loved my friend.

2. Nothing Gold Can Stay

Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold,

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

3. Spring Storm

Jim Wayne Miller

He comes gusting out of the house, 

the screen door a thunderclap behind him. 

He moves like a black cloud

over the lawn and---stops.

A hand in his mind grabs

a purple crayon of anger

and messes the clean sky.

He sits on the steps, his eye drawing

a mustache on the face in the tree. 

As his weather clears, 

his rage dripping away, 

wisecracks and wonderment

spring up like dandelions. 

4. Tugboat at Daybreak

Lillian Morrison

The necklace of the bridge 

is already dimmed for morning

but a tug in a tiara

glides slowly up the river, 

a jewel of the dawn,

still festooned in light. 

The river seems to slumber

quiet in its bed,

as silently the tugboat, 

a ghostlike apparition, 

moves twinkling up the river

and disappears from sight. 

5. A Poison Tree

William Blake

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree. 

6. When It Is Snowing

by Siv Cedering

When it is snowing

the blue jay

is the only piece of 

sky

in my backyard

7. Every Cat Has a Story

by Naomi Shihab Nye

The yellow one from the bakery

smelled like a cream puff-

she followed us home. 

We buried our faces 

in her sweet fur.

One cat hid her head 

while I practiced violin.

But she came out for piano.

At night she played sonatas

on my quilt.

One cat built a secret nest 

in my socks. 

One sat in the window 

staring up the street all day

while we were at school.

One cat loved 

the radio dial

One cat almost

smiled. 

8. Foul Shot 

Edwin A. Hoey

With two 60s stuck on the scoreboard 

And two seconds hanging on the clock, 

The solemn boy in the center of eyes, 

Squeezed by silence, 

Seeks out the line with his feet, 

Soothes his hands along his uniform, 

Gently drums the ball against the floor, 

Then measures the waiting net, 

Raises the ball on his right hand, 

Balances it with his left, 

Calms it with fingertips, 

Breathes,

Crouches,

Waits, 

And then through a stretching of stillness, 

Nudges it upwards.

The ball

Slides up and out, 

Lands, 

Leans, 

Wobbles, 

Wavers, 

Hesitates,

Plays it coy

Until every face begs with unsounding screams--

And then

                    And then

                                            And then, 

Right before ROAR-UP,

Drives down and through

9. Kissing

Pat Mora

When my dad saw us kissing

at the bus stop,

he just drove by.

At home, he said

nothing.

At dinner, he said

nothing.

so loud the room sounded

like my heart.

“What?” I snapped.

“What’s happening?”

Mom asked, reading me

like she did when

I was three,

finding

what I couldn’t hide.

Dad stared at me,

and I glared back,

our look-alike eyes

locked for days, it seemed–

maybe people had gone to bed

and gotten up, gone

to school –

while Dad and I tangled in silence.

I felt sleepy and worried.

What if

I dozed and fell of the chair, curled

into a nap right there

by the dining room table

like a child.

What if

my parents looked at one another,

and Dad gently picked me up

like in the old days,

carried me,

but now he can’t

carry me now.

Dad slapped

the table.

“Basta. Enough.”

We met halfway.

“Don’t embarrass yourself,”

he whispered into my hair

when we hugged, and I felt

the weight

of carrying me.

10. The Dragon on the Playground

Kenn Nesbitt

There's a dragon on the playground who descended from the skies. He swooped down on the schoolyard where he took us by surprise. He leapt across the blacktop in a single bounding stride, erupting flames and lava to incinerate the slide. He reared his huge and scaly head and flapped his leathery wings, then set the soccer field ablaze and blackened all the swings. He cauterized the asphalt with a sudden, fiery flash. Then reeled upon the seesaw and converted it to ash. He melted all the monkey bars. The sand was molten glass. With nothing left to liquefy he headed for our class. I doubt we'll soon be rid of him despite the fires he's set. You see, our teacher likes him, so he's now the teacher's pet.

11. The Lake

Roger McGough

For years there have been no fish in the lake. 
People hurrying through the park avoid it 
like the plague. Birds steer clear 
and the sedge of course has withered. 
Trees lean away from it, 
and at night it reflects, not the moon, 
but the blackness of its own depths. 
There are no fish in the lake. 
But there is life there. There is life. 

Underwater pigs glide between reefs of coral debris. 
They love it here. They breed and multiply 
in sties hollowed out of the mud 
and lined with mattresses and bedsprings. 
They live on dead fish and rotting things, 
drowned pets, plastic and assorted excreta. 
Rusty cans they like the best. 
Holding them in webbed trotters 
their teeth tear easily through the tin, 
and poking in a snout, they noisily suck out 
the putrid matter within. 

There are no fish in the lake. 
But there is life there. There is life. 
For on certain evenings after dark 
shoals of pigs surface 
and look out at those houses near the park. 
Where, in bathrooms, 
children feed stale bread to plastic ducks, 
and in attics, 
toy yachts have long since run aground. 
Where, in living-rooms, 
anglers dangle their lines on patterned carpets, 
and bemoan the fate of the ones that got away. 
Down on the lake, piggy eyes glisten. 
They have acquired a taste for flesh. 
They are licking their lips. Listen .. .

12. Whatif

Shel Silverstein

Last night, while I lay thinking here,
Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
And pranced and partied all night long
And sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems swell, and then
The night-time Whatifs strike again!

13. Life Doesn’t Frighten Me

Maya Angelou

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Mean old Mother Goose
Lions on the loose
They don't frighten me at all

Dragons breathing flame
On my counterpane
That doesn't frighten me at all.

I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won't cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild

Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Tough guys fight
All alone at night
Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Panthers in the park
Strangers in the dark
No, they don't frighten me at all.

That new classroom where
Boys all pull my hair
(Kissy little girls
With their hair in curls)
They don't frighten me at all.

Don't show me frogs and snakes
And listen for my scream,
If I'm afraid at all
It's only in my dreams.

I've got a magic charm
That I keep up my sleeve
I can walk the ocean floor
And never have to breathe.

Life doesn't frighten me at all
Not at all
Not at all.

Life doesn't frighten me at all.

14. Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. 
His house is in the village, though; 
He will not see me stopping here 
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer 
To stop without a farmhouse near 
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake 
To ask if there is some mistake. 
The only other sound's the sweep 
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, 
But I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep, 
And miles to go before I sleep. 

15. Raymond

Paul Janeczko

Hair the color of pencil shavings,

eyes as dark as a night river,

best friend

since fifth grade

when he seemed to stop

growing.

Large enough

to blacken Danny Webb's eye

when he said,

"Hiya, pipsqueak,"

the first day of eighth grade,

small enough

to get into the movies as a kid.

At the Top Hat Cafe,

gave me one play

on his juke box quarters.

For three nights,

trusted me

with the false teeth

(uppers only)

he found on a park bench.

In The Tattoo Emporium,

let me help him

pick out the

eagle-holding-thunderbolt

he'd claim for his chest

the day he turned eighteen.

16. First Love

Carl Linder

Before sixteen

I was fast

enough to fake

my shadow out

and I could read

every crack and ripple

in that patch of asphalt.

I owned

the slanted rim

knew

the dead spot in the backboard.

Always the ball

came back.

Every day I loved

to sharpen

my shooting eye,

waiting

for the touch.

Set shot, jump shot,

layup, hook—

after a while

I could feel

the ball hungering to clear

the lip of the rim,

the two of us

falling through.

17. Watermelon

Nora Bradford

I watch Mom cut five slices,

then take the largest and reddest.

When I sink my teeth into solid juice,

the melon squirts its fireworks.

I swallow a seed—

that’s one I won’t spit

into the bowl

beyond the deck railing.

When I finish the delightful redness

I throw the green rind to Hobo,

who waits his turn.

He grabs the crust in his mighty jaws

and runs away

with its sweetness.

18. The Sea Turtle

David Elliott

Swims the seven seas
for thirty years,
then finds the beach
where she was born --
by magic, it appears.

How can she know to come upon
that far and sandy place?
Rare instruments of nature,
fair compass in a carapace.

19. The First Book by Rita Dove

Open it.

Go ahead, it won’t bite.

Well…maybe a little.

More a nip, like. A tingle.

It’s pleasurable, really.

You see, it keeps on opening.

You may fall in.

Sure, it’s hard to get started;

remember learning to use

knife and fork? Dig in:

you’ll never reach bottom.

It’s not like it’s the end of the world –

just the world as you think

you know it.

20. How to Eat a Poem

Eve Merriem

Don't be polite.
Bite in.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that

may run down your chin.
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.

You do not need a knife or fork or spoon
or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

For there is no core
or stem
or rind
or pit
or seed
or skin
to throw away.

21. Today Is Very Boring 

Jack Prelutsky

Today is very boring,

it’s a very boring day

there’s nothing much to look at,

there’s nothing much to say,

there’s a peacock on my sneakers,

there’s a penguin on my head,

there’s a dormouse on my doorstep,

I’m going back to bed.

Today is very boring,

it’s boring through and through,

there is absolutelty nothing

that I think I want to do,

I see giants riding rhinos,

and an ogre with a sword,

there’s a dragon blowing smoke rings,

I’m positively bored.

Today is very boring,

I can hardly help but yawn,

there’s a flying saucer landing

in the middle of my lawn,

a volcano just erupted

less than half a mile away,

and I think I feel an eathquake,

it’s a very boring day.

22. Haiku 

Takarai Kikaku

Here and there
frogs croaking in the night
stars shining

23. Haiku 

Matsuo Basho

An old silent pond...

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

24. The Rider

Naomi Shihab Nye

A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.

A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.

25. Skater 

Ted Kooser

She was all in black but for a yellow pony tail
that trailed from her cap, and bright blue gloves
that she held out wide, the feathery fingers spread, 
as surely she stepped, click-clack, onto the frozen 
top of the world. And there, with a clatter of blades, 
she began to braid a loose path that broadened 
into a meadow of curls. Across the ice she swooped 
and then turned back and, halfway, bent her legs 
and leapt into the air the way a crane leaps, blue gloves
lifting her lightly, and turned a snappy half-turn
there in the wind before coming down, arms wide, 
skating backward right out of that moment, smiling back
at the woman she'd been just an instant before. 

26. Shirley said

Denis Doyle

Who wrote ‘kick me’ on my back? Who put a spider in my mac? Who’s the one who pulls my hair? Tries to trip me everywhere? Who runs up to me and strikes me? That boy there - I think he likes me. 

27. Oranges

Gary Soto

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted -
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickle in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickle from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

 28. The Falling Star

Sara Teasdale

I saw a star slide down the sky, 

Blinding the north as it went by, 

Too burning and too quick to hold, 

Too lovely to be bought or sold, 

Good only to make wishes on 

And then forever to be gone. 

29. Sick

Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

"I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox

And there's one more--that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I'm sure that my left leg is broke--

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?

What's that? What's that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

30. An Adventure Begins

JonArno Lawson

An adventure begins,

when the one who was grimacing

suddenly grins.

An adventure begins,

when the one who was losing

suddenly wins.

An adventure begins,

when the one who acts saintly

suddenly sins.

When the smooth surface pops up with circling fins,

when soft drums surrender to bold violins,

when the light of the moon starts to shine on our skins,

an adventure begins. 

31. Swift Things Are Beautiful

by Elizabeth Coatsworth

Swift things are beautiful:
Swallows and deer
And lightning that falls
Bright-veined and clear,
Rivers and meteors,
Wind in the wheat,
The strong-withered horse,
The runner's sure feet.

And slow things are beautiful:
The closing of day,
The pause of the wave
That curves downward to spray,
The ember that crumbles,
The opening flower,
And the ox that moves on
In the quiet of power.

32. Ode to My Socks

Pablo Neruda

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.