Yeah yeah, I'm a few days behind, so what? :)
2. Write about a poem about a superhero coming to your house and confronting you about something. Somewhere in the poem, you have to state what your superpower is.
Doorbell rings, then predawn knocking.
This had better be real good.
A yawn, and now my eyes are popping;
Batman standing on my porch.
Brucie, why the cloak and dagger?
I'm sure I gave you my cell.
Sure, my rhymes give me some swagger,
but come on now, what the hell?
Okay, Loverboy is trying
to write something for his girl.
Pressure felt, his brain is frying
as the page remains untouched.
Bruce, I love you like a brother,
so I'll give it to you straight:
girls appreciate a lover
who can write with open heart.
Lay your soul bare, heed no caution,
big risk equals big rewards.
Let her see your true devotion,
and you'll claim her heart for keeps.
Furthermore, embrace the slant rhyme,
no use agonizing there.
Most care more about the meaning
than perfection. Now, goodnight.
3. Write a poem that is really a love letter to an old flame. To make sure it’s doesn’t slip into sappy make sure one or more of these words is in the poem: dung beetle, politician, nuclear, exoskeleton, oceanography, pompadour, toilet.
Dearest Pookie,
How I miss our time together long ago.
To me, our love remains pristine,
preserved in the ether that first choked it to death.
You rolled me across the savanna like a dung beetle
carrying its prize, its exoskeleton
gleaming in the midday sun.
You knew me like a politician
knows oceanography.
Your pompadour reminded me of a nuclear
holocaust.
Any feelings I still have for you can be exhausted
in a trip to the toilet.
Love, Me.
4. Make a list of seven words that have the same vowel sounds (like bee, treat, pepperoni, eagle) and use them in a repetitive way throughout a poem.
My words: sigh, butterfly, multiply, cry, alive, bide, ice
I.
A sigh, like a butterfly
floating, alive, my soul's cry;
I bide while it multiplies,
scattering on the ice.
II.
Does a butterfly cry
when it finds itself alive,
after having to bide its time
in a state of ice, sighing through
multiplying cells in metamorphosis?
III.
Multiply a sigh,
then bide while it turns to ice,
alive butterfly no more,
just a cry.
IV.
A cry multiplies,
ice shatters before the biding butterfly;
The sound alive, ending with a sigh.
5. Write a poem about a weird fact or facts that you know.
Did you know?
Horses can't burp.
Chameleons don't turn plaid.
If you could care less, you actually imply that you care a little.
Audrey Hepburn smuggled resistance messages in her ballet shoes.
Hermit crabs can draw blood if provoked.
Birds are living relatives of dinosaurs.
That part of "Love Shack" is "Tin roof, rusted!"
William Faulkner was a literary genius.
It's possible to whistle backwards.
Living in the past only squanders the future.
Children are endless sources of joy.
Mahna Mahna (doot doo doo doo doo).
The last line of the last poem needs fixing. Or not. Let me know. :)
I'd love to read any responses you feel inspired to write!
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Friday, April 6, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
National Poetry Month.
In case y'all didn't know, April is National Poetry Month. Because of this, poets inspired by NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, in November) have been committing to write a poem a day for the month of April (fondly monikered NaPoWriMo). Thusly, I ran over to the ol' Google to figure out if anyone had cooked up daily prompts for that purpose.
Eureka! Sure enough, a lovely writer named Kelli Russell Agodon has generously provided daily poetry prompts for the whole of NaPoWriMo. So my mission (I have chosen to accept it) is to attempt each and every one of these. I would love if you, my dear sweet readers (if you are still hanging around!) would share in this challenge with me and share your work in the comments.
So, here goes somethin'.
1. Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 of words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line.
My book: A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin (trying to catch up before HBO spoils the plot for me!)
Words:moonstone, lackwit, desperate, dashing, triumph, fabled, splendor, pavilion, gilded, memory
Sansa
Desperate for respect, if not affection,
She festoons herself with silk and moonstone.
Despite the prevailing opinion of the court,
she is no lackwit.
Once she dreamed of a dashing
hero, crowned in splendor,
sitting at her side under the pavilion.
Now she finds herself with only
a gilded memory;
the gold scraped off at the edge
to reveal the poisonous iron beneath.
In the fabled lion's mouth she rests, uneasy,
while her brain wracks itself for a way to triumph.
Now it's your turn. What have you got?
Eureka! Sure enough, a lovely writer named Kelli Russell Agodon has generously provided daily poetry prompts for the whole of NaPoWriMo. So my mission (I have chosen to accept it) is to attempt each and every one of these. I would love if you, my dear sweet readers (if you are still hanging around!) would share in this challenge with me and share your work in the comments.
So, here goes somethin'.
1. Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use 7 of words in a poem. For extra credit, have 4 of them appear at the end of a line.
My book: A Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin (trying to catch up before HBO spoils the plot for me!)
Words:
Sansa
Desperate for respect, if not affection,
She festoons herself with silk and moonstone.
Despite the prevailing opinion of the court,
she is no lackwit.
Once she dreamed of a dashing
hero, crowned in splendor,
sitting at her side under the pavilion.
Now she finds herself with only
a gilded memory;
the gold scraped off at the edge
to reveal the poisonous iron beneath.
In the fabled lion's mouth she rests, uneasy,
while her brain wracks itself for a way to triumph.
Now it's your turn. What have you got?
Monday, January 2, 2012
A few days late, but oh well.
A few days ago was an anniversary I don't like to remember but will never forget. My father passed away 17 years ago on December 28. I have now lived one year longer without him than with him.
My heart is silent,
for it knows
what happened on this day.
A missing piece
was taken out
when Daddy passed away.
It matters not
how long the years,
the pain won't disappear;
Although it isn't
daily now,
grief still visits here.
My heart may now be silent,
but someday it will sing,
the day when my race finishes
and God ends all suffering.
My heart is silent,
for it knows
what happened on this day.
A missing piece
was taken out
when Daddy passed away.
It matters not
how long the years,
the pain won't disappear;
Although it isn't
daily now,
grief still visits here.
My heart may now be silent,
but someday it will sing,
the day when my race finishes
and God ends all suffering.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Carol collage.
I have been carrying this idea around while scurrying/baking/cleaning/packing over the last week, and now that we are where we plan to spend the holiday, I am going to finally put it down on paper, so to speak. I learned this in my favorite poetry professor's class; draw from words of established lyrics to create a new work. I will take the titles of a bunch of Christmas carols, stir, and create a poem.
Here goes.
Christmas Carollage
I heard, I saw,
its beginning.
The manger
upon a midnight clear,
a silent night,
o holy breath of heaven.
This child of love come down,
clear joy come to rest,
in the cold, bleak winter
a wonderland.
Little baby king,
wishing all merry,
a snow-white star on high
in Bethlehem.
Silver bells jingle
ding dong merrily.
Angels sing noel,
I'll be home, for Christmas.
Here goes.
Christmas Carollage
I heard, I saw,
its beginning.
The manger
upon a midnight clear,
a silent night,
o holy breath of heaven.
This child of love come down,
clear joy come to rest,
in the cold, bleak winter
a wonderland.
Little baby king,
wishing all merry,
a snow-white star on high
in Bethlehem.
Silver bells jingle
ding dong merrily.
Angels sing noel,
I'll be home, for Christmas.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Haiku a rama.
I find myself once again behind, so I will resort to some shorter "gems," if you will. :)
Christmas cookies sit
on my plate now twice a day.
SO worth one late night.
Wrapping presents was
a chore when I started, but
now it's a pleasure.
Giving something nice
to people I love so much
is worth some effort.
Christmas cards should not
be a dying tradition,
in my opinion.
I send out a lot
and am always sad to see
so few in return.
I would understand
if there were a modernized
replacement, but no.
I guess people feel
more connected day-to-day
with social networks.
But there is nothing
like seeing handwritten notes
from people I like.
Call me old-fashioned,
but I still greatly enjoy
good old sing-alongs.
This is the season
when I really get a pang,
missing my old choirs.
Christmas cookies sit
on my plate now twice a day.
SO worth one late night.
Wrapping presents was
a chore when I started, but
now it's a pleasure.
Giving something nice
to people I love so much
is worth some effort.
Christmas cards should not
be a dying tradition,
in my opinion.
I send out a lot
and am always sad to see
so few in return.
I would understand
if there were a modernized
replacement, but no.
I guess people feel
more connected day-to-day
with social networks.
But there is nothing
like seeing handwritten notes
from people I like.
Call me old-fashioned,
but I still greatly enjoy
good old sing-alongs.
This is the season
when I really get a pang,
missing my old choirs.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
What I have learned.
After listening to boatloads of Christmas carols every year (several years ago I even did a pair of blog posts listing my most and least favorites), I have realized that it is very hard indeed to write a good, original Christmas carol these days. Most of the great stuff is already taken and it's very easy to rely on overused metaphors or clichés. I would love to write a Christmas song one day, but I fear I'd fall into the same traps that many of these modern songs do.
Case in point: the other day I taped the new Elf on the Shelf special for my son, as we have an elf and I thought he might enjoy it. Sadly, it seemed rather hastily slapped together, probably hoping to cash in on a new trend without spending too much time or effort on it. There was one song included in the piece that I particularly wrinkled my nose at: I believe the line is "Christmas is a time for forgiveness; that is why we all believe in Christmas." Um, what? And that line is most of the chorus. Wow. At least he doesn't seem to have liked that show. We'll keep playing Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph for him, then. They both have their issues (CB is constantly called stupid; Rudolph displays dated sexist treatment of women and a very hasty apology to Rudolph for their treatment of him at the end), but they are both about a million times better than the Elf on the Shelf.
Anyway, maybe I can write a Christmas poem or two in this month that someday I could play with as a lyric.
Christmastime has rolled around
and once again I'm spinning.
First I have to decorate,
but that's only the beginning.
Next I have to bake and shop,
and stress about the extra bills,
worry over perfect presents,
fine-tune all the stocking fills.
Not to mention clean the house,
cooking dinner is a chore,
take care of the children and
run around the grocery store.
But at night when kids are sleeping,
true peace creeps in at the seams,
and I startle to remember
what this season truly means.
While I cling to fading memories
of my precious baby boys,
my heart understands what Mary
sacrificed for Christmas joys.
Thank you, God, for giving us
this most precious gift;
your son lived and died
to bring us everlasting life.
Case in point: the other day I taped the new Elf on the Shelf special for my son, as we have an elf and I thought he might enjoy it. Sadly, it seemed rather hastily slapped together, probably hoping to cash in on a new trend without spending too much time or effort on it. There was one song included in the piece that I particularly wrinkled my nose at: I believe the line is "Christmas is a time for forgiveness; that is why we all believe in Christmas." Um, what? And that line is most of the chorus. Wow. At least he doesn't seem to have liked that show. We'll keep playing Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph for him, then. They both have their issues (CB is constantly called stupid; Rudolph displays dated sexist treatment of women and a very hasty apology to Rudolph for their treatment of him at the end), but they are both about a million times better than the Elf on the Shelf.
Anyway, maybe I can write a Christmas poem or two in this month that someday I could play with as a lyric.
Christmastime has rolled around
and once again I'm spinning.
First I have to decorate,
but that's only the beginning.
Next I have to bake and shop,
and stress about the extra bills,
worry over perfect presents,
fine-tune all the stocking fills.
Not to mention clean the house,
cooking dinner is a chore,
take care of the children and
run around the grocery store.
But at night when kids are sleeping,
true peace creeps in at the seams,
and I startle to remember
what this season truly means.
While I cling to fading memories
of my precious baby boys,
my heart understands what Mary
sacrificed for Christmas joys.
Thank you, God, for giving us
this most precious gift;
your son lived and died
to bring us everlasting life.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Catch-up time.
More haiku will hopefully catch me up here.
Furious needles
started out haltingly but
now no yarn is safe!
A tango of knots
dance across my fingers as
yarn becomes a scarf.
First I was afraid
I would turn out one huge snarl
instead, this is fun.
Strangely calming click
of metal performing its
standard magic trick.
The best part of all?
Getting to relax with yarn
and meet some new friends.
Furious needles
started out haltingly but
now no yarn is safe!
A tango of knots
dance across my fingers as
yarn becomes a scarf.
First I was afraid
I would turn out one huge snarl
instead, this is fun.
Strangely calming click
of metal performing its
standard magic trick.
The best part of all?
Getting to relax with yarn
and meet some new friends.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Hiatus.
Okay, so my grand plans to get ahead for the holiday backfired a bit when I didn't post yesterday. But hey, I feel like hopefully I was able to recoup some of my creative faculties during the interim. Let's hope.
Frost Warning
Stepping outside,
the wind takes the breath away.
Anyone attempting
to leave the house with wet hair
pays for it: it's now frozen.
A few seconds in this chill
is uncomfortable.
A few minutes,
faces feel as if they are so much
plaster, badly set, cracking
and about to fall off.
Extremities develop deep,
bone-pain, as if even that deep
within, bodies resist this weatherly assault.
Even after resigning to Cold's power
and retreating indoors,
bright-red fingers, ears, noses
continue their protests in numbness,
burning, and hypersensitivity.
How do trees manage
to withstand such unreasonable
weather, bearing all things
with the grace nature has?
Only a terrible storm can render
a tree vulnerable to weather.
Otherwise, it stands serene,
oblivious to the weaker humans
attempting to shelter under its
sleeping, snow-laden boughs.
Frost Warning
Stepping outside,
the wind takes the breath away.
Anyone attempting
to leave the house with wet hair
pays for it: it's now frozen.
A few seconds in this chill
is uncomfortable.
A few minutes,
faces feel as if they are so much
plaster, badly set, cracking
and about to fall off.
Extremities develop deep,
bone-pain, as if even that deep
within, bodies resist this weatherly assault.
Even after resigning to Cold's power
and retreating indoors,
bright-red fingers, ears, noses
continue their protests in numbness,
burning, and hypersensitivity.
How do trees manage
to withstand such unreasonable
weather, bearing all things
with the grace nature has?
Only a terrible storm can render
a tree vulnerable to weather.
Otherwise, it stands serene,
oblivious to the weaker humans
attempting to shelter under its
sleeping, snow-laden boughs.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Bonus poetry!
I have time to write today, and the way I see it, that's a good time to get ahead since the end of December always gets crazy busy, what with Christmas and the New Year.
100 Words For
ethereal wisps
softer than whispers
lethal daggers
honing in on their targets
ghostly projections
blink and miss them
invisible darts
digging pits in the flesh
feathers flying
from a celestial chicken
tears so chilled
they hold their shapes
first of the season
greeted with childlike glee
visits in April
met with disdain
when in shelter
any form pleases the eye
but when unprotected
pray nature is gentle
just before Christmas
a storm becomes magic
each moment it lasts
adds to the smiles
rushing out to breathe in the stark coldness,
then trudging back in for some cocoa to share.
100 Words For
ethereal wisps
softer than whispers
lethal daggers
honing in on their targets
ghostly projections
blink and miss them
invisible darts
digging pits in the flesh
feathers flying
from a celestial chicken
tears so chilled
they hold their shapes
first of the season
greeted with childlike glee
visits in April
met with disdain
when in shelter
any form pleases the eye
but when unprotected
pray nature is gentle
just before Christmas
a storm becomes magic
each moment it lasts
adds to the smiles
rushing out to breathe in the stark coldness,
then trudging back in for some cocoa to share.
Catching up.
I s'pose I should post two more poems since it's now after midnight and I posted four yesterday; that should catch me up to be on pace for my earlier goal of 31 poems in the month of December. Okie dokie then.
Two Autumns
In carefree days dreamily recalled,
I leapt into deep piles
of autumn leaves, reveling
in the crumbling carcasses
of last summer as they tangled
in my braids, dusting up my sweater
and faded jeans.
Older but not wiser, my task
now changes to trying to tame
the yard that is now
my responsibility.
Wrestling some semblance
of order out of the explosion,
as if an entire tree
committed seppuku on my lawn.
Flurry
Crystalline feathers
making lazy spirals
past the window.
The chill too strong
to take small ones
out to enjoy the show,
at least they can perch
at the sill and admire
the breathless flights
of tiny airships.
Two Autumns
In carefree days dreamily recalled,
I leapt into deep piles
of autumn leaves, reveling
in the crumbling carcasses
of last summer as they tangled
in my braids, dusting up my sweater
and faded jeans.
Older but not wiser, my task
now changes to trying to tame
the yard that is now
my responsibility.
Wrestling some semblance
of order out of the explosion,
as if an entire tree
committed seppuku on my lawn.
Flurry
Crystalline feathers
making lazy spirals
past the window.
The chill too strong
to take small ones
out to enjoy the show,
at least they can perch
at the sill and admire
the breathless flights
of tiny airships.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
October? Really?
Wow, it's been too long. Again.
However, dear readers, I managed to come up with an inspiration to write, and I actually acted upon it before said inspiration was forgotten in a flurry of cleaning, appointments, and preschool chauffeuring.
I have always loved the piano pieces of Debussy, and I had the idea to take his Images and write a poem for each piece. This is what I came up with. If you are inspired by my idea, by all means grab one of your favorite instrumental pieces and write a poem that seems to fit it to you.
Reflets Dans L’Eau (Reflections in the Water)
Each wave and ripple a caress to my vision
I contemplate the numberless disturbances
caused by a breeze, a falling insect, a leaf.
Tiny frogs leap, causing little rain showers.
Water skimmers skating impossibly
over the surface as if it were frozen hard,
despite this being midsummer.
A sudden lull, I feel as if I could almost fall asleep
right where I stand, transfixed by this miniature drama.
Now a feather has found its way through the dwarven currents of air
and hovers ever so slightly over the water’s surface,
buffeted, then swirls down to kiss its twin underneath.
A swan eases onto its hundredth journey across the pond.
So still above the water, only its steady black feet propel its body
past lilies and foliage, under the shadowing trees,
to the waiting weeds on the opposite shore.
Peace fills me as I turn away.
Hommage a Rameau (Homage to Rameau)
I have rehearsed the words in my head for days
but none seem that they are appropriate
or in the right order as I pace from wall to wall
in my room.
I pause before the mirror and survey the lines crossing my face.
This examination does not assist me in my task,
so I resume pacing.
Suddenly inspiration seizes my tired mind,
and I fly to my desk to pin the words down on paper.
As fast as inspiration strikes, it slips away.
Pacing resumes again.
I begin to walk backwards, if only to hopefully jog my mind
into betraying the hidden ideas
I have been trying to coax out into the open.
I walk faster and with more purpose until I find something worthy
or until I crash into a piece of furniture.
Either way I will have changed the dreary status quo.
Such a gorgeous collection of qualities are rare in anyone,
small wonder summing up the effect of such an one
is racking my brain to its capacity.
Still, I will do my best to do him justice, it is what he deserves.
Mouvement (Movement)
I awake to the unmistakable
tapping on my window
of tiny crystalline structures.
The first snow of the winter.
In a flurry of activity, clothing wrenched on,
a mad tumble of boots, snowpants and jacket,
don’t-forget-your-hat-and-mittens, then
tumbling out the door to find my friend.
She is already here, laughing,
making snow angels in the yard.
I flop down next to her.
It is still snowing, and the tiny flakes
alternate between tickling and stinging my nose.
We stick out our tongues to see
how many we can catch,
before jumping up on a search for icicles.
We find a roof full of them and break the two biggest off
for tasteless popsicles.
A faint shriek reminds us of a nearly-forgotten activity:
sledding.
We grab our toboggans and sprint as best we can
in heavy boots sized a bit too big.
The interminable climb is punctuated by
a leap, then tearing nearly straight down,
ending in a fluffy crash in a snowbank at the bottom.
More giggles and ten trips later,
we head back to the front yard, where enough
snow has fallen to warrant our next creation.
Careful rolling and shaping,
adding to a judicious choice of accessories,
and the snowman is complete,
just in time to bid us goodnight as we drag back
into the house for a well-earned nap.
Cloches a Travers les Feuilles (Bells through the leaves)
Thoughts whirl around my mind
as leaves in a cyclone.
I have to keep moving, or if I should stop I may
topple over from the centrifugal force.
Now I pick up the pace,
hoping the increased blood flow will
silence the nagging voices.
Once I get going, a sense of equilibrium returns.
Still doubts hound me, nipping at my heels,
but I know that if I just keep moving forward
they will tire and fall away.
The wind is delicious despite its playful pushing
at my face as I try to imitate the others
gliding along ahead of me.
I’ll never catch them, but I don’t care.
I just focus on the joy that is
keeping going on,
watching the sky grow lighter,
greeting the grasshoppers,
butterflies, birds, squirrels and chipmunks
as they curiously survey my progress.
When my legs try to convince me to slow,
I do my best to ignore the sensation,
until I reach my goal.
Et la Lune Descend sur le temple qui fut (And the moon descends over the ruins of the temple)
The moon is already setting,
giving up her perch among the stars,
even as I wish she were still comfortable
high in the firmament.
I have stayed up too late again,
fiddling with inconsequential things,
losing track of time while doing chores,
but mostly just wasting time.
I shake off my sense of annoyance and
will my mind to relax, to prepare for sleep.
Nobody likes to lie in bed and find their brain
will not shut off to rest.
Slowly I settle into my nighttime routine,
breathing deeply, thinking
of all I have to be thankful for--
my health, my family, good friends,
the successes of the day,
and what I have to look forward to tomorrow.
I have tried my best, and that will simply
have to do for today.
As I lay down my head,
I smile.
Poissons d’Or (Fish of Gold)
Every day is a new adventure.
I leap out of bed, asking,
“What are we going to do today?”
Whatever the plans, my response always,
“Oh, that will be fun!”
Always hungry, I devour
breakfast as soon as it appears before me.
I enjoy bringing my milk and my brother’s
to the table. I’m careful not to spill.
I even put my milk back in the fridge
when I’m all done.
Maybe we’ll go to the park today.
If we do, I'll be sure to say hello
to the mailman in his truck, and ask
for the hundredth time if he’s delivering
the mail to people.
Then I’ll climb to the top of the treehouse
and yell down “Hello down there!”
and “I’m up higher!”
When I come down, I’ll ask
to be pushed in the swing like my little brother.
After lunch, we’ll go to school.
I can hardly be bothered to hang up my bag
before I say “Bye!” and find my friends.
While I don’t like to leave,
I’m always happy to see Mommy again.
However, dear readers, I managed to come up with an inspiration to write, and I actually acted upon it before said inspiration was forgotten in a flurry of cleaning, appointments, and preschool chauffeuring.
I have always loved the piano pieces of Debussy, and I had the idea to take his Images and write a poem for each piece. This is what I came up with. If you are inspired by my idea, by all means grab one of your favorite instrumental pieces and write a poem that seems to fit it to you.
Reflets Dans L’Eau (Reflections in the Water)
Each wave and ripple a caress to my vision
I contemplate the numberless disturbances
caused by a breeze, a falling insect, a leaf.
Tiny frogs leap, causing little rain showers.
Water skimmers skating impossibly
over the surface as if it were frozen hard,
despite this being midsummer.
A sudden lull, I feel as if I could almost fall asleep
right where I stand, transfixed by this miniature drama.
Now a feather has found its way through the dwarven currents of air
and hovers ever so slightly over the water’s surface,
buffeted, then swirls down to kiss its twin underneath.
A swan eases onto its hundredth journey across the pond.
So still above the water, only its steady black feet propel its body
past lilies and foliage, under the shadowing trees,
to the waiting weeds on the opposite shore.
Peace fills me as I turn away.
Hommage a Rameau (Homage to Rameau)
I have rehearsed the words in my head for days
but none seem that they are appropriate
or in the right order as I pace from wall to wall
in my room.
I pause before the mirror and survey the lines crossing my face.
This examination does not assist me in my task,
so I resume pacing.
Suddenly inspiration seizes my tired mind,
and I fly to my desk to pin the words down on paper.
As fast as inspiration strikes, it slips away.
Pacing resumes again.
I begin to walk backwards, if only to hopefully jog my mind
into betraying the hidden ideas
I have been trying to coax out into the open.
I walk faster and with more purpose until I find something worthy
or until I crash into a piece of furniture.
Either way I will have changed the dreary status quo.
Such a gorgeous collection of qualities are rare in anyone,
small wonder summing up the effect of such an one
is racking my brain to its capacity.
Still, I will do my best to do him justice, it is what he deserves.
Mouvement (Movement)
I awake to the unmistakable
tapping on my window
of tiny crystalline structures.
The first snow of the winter.
In a flurry of activity, clothing wrenched on,
a mad tumble of boots, snowpants and jacket,
don’t-forget-your-hat-and-mittens, then
tumbling out the door to find my friend.
She is already here, laughing,
making snow angels in the yard.
I flop down next to her.
It is still snowing, and the tiny flakes
alternate between tickling and stinging my nose.
We stick out our tongues to see
how many we can catch,
before jumping up on a search for icicles.
We find a roof full of them and break the two biggest off
for tasteless popsicles.
A faint shriek reminds us of a nearly-forgotten activity:
sledding.
We grab our toboggans and sprint as best we can
in heavy boots sized a bit too big.
The interminable climb is punctuated by
a leap, then tearing nearly straight down,
ending in a fluffy crash in a snowbank at the bottom.
More giggles and ten trips later,
we head back to the front yard, where enough
snow has fallen to warrant our next creation.
Careful rolling and shaping,
adding to a judicious choice of accessories,
and the snowman is complete,
just in time to bid us goodnight as we drag back
into the house for a well-earned nap.
Cloches a Travers les Feuilles (Bells through the leaves)
Thoughts whirl around my mind
as leaves in a cyclone.
I have to keep moving, or if I should stop I may
topple over from the centrifugal force.
Now I pick up the pace,
hoping the increased blood flow will
silence the nagging voices.
Once I get going, a sense of equilibrium returns.
Still doubts hound me, nipping at my heels,
but I know that if I just keep moving forward
they will tire and fall away.
The wind is delicious despite its playful pushing
at my face as I try to imitate the others
gliding along ahead of me.
I’ll never catch them, but I don’t care.
I just focus on the joy that is
keeping going on,
watching the sky grow lighter,
greeting the grasshoppers,
butterflies, birds, squirrels and chipmunks
as they curiously survey my progress.
When my legs try to convince me to slow,
I do my best to ignore the sensation,
until I reach my goal.
Et la Lune Descend sur le temple qui fut (And the moon descends over the ruins of the temple)
The moon is already setting,
giving up her perch among the stars,
even as I wish she were still comfortable
high in the firmament.
I have stayed up too late again,
fiddling with inconsequential things,
losing track of time while doing chores,
but mostly just wasting time.
I shake off my sense of annoyance and
will my mind to relax, to prepare for sleep.
Nobody likes to lie in bed and find their brain
will not shut off to rest.
Slowly I settle into my nighttime routine,
breathing deeply, thinking
of all I have to be thankful for--
my health, my family, good friends,
the successes of the day,
and what I have to look forward to tomorrow.
I have tried my best, and that will simply
have to do for today.
As I lay down my head,
I smile.
Poissons d’Or (Fish of Gold)
Every day is a new adventure.
I leap out of bed, asking,
“What are we going to do today?”
Whatever the plans, my response always,
“Oh, that will be fun!”
Always hungry, I devour
breakfast as soon as it appears before me.
I enjoy bringing my milk and my brother’s
to the table. I’m careful not to spill.
I even put my milk back in the fridge
when I’m all done.
Maybe we’ll go to the park today.
If we do, I'll be sure to say hello
to the mailman in his truck, and ask
for the hundredth time if he’s delivering
the mail to people.
Then I’ll climb to the top of the treehouse
and yell down “Hello down there!”
and “I’m up higher!”
When I come down, I’ll ask
to be pushed in the swing like my little brother.
After lunch, we’ll go to school.
I can hardly be bothered to hang up my bag
before I say “Bye!” and find my friends.
While I don’t like to leave,
I’m always happy to see Mommy again.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Favorite Poets, Part 2.
I promised the other half of my top 20 favorite poets way back in March. Well, here's the other half, at long last. Again, there is no particular order to my madness.
Shel Silverstein
I have loved Shel Silverstein since I was old enough to read his trio of poetry books. This poem in particular used to make me cry with laughter. I read this aloud (with some difficulty) to my nieces when they were young, and I can’t wait to do the same with my boys someday.
Twistable Turnable Man
He's the Twistable Turnable Squeezable Pullable
Stretchable Foldable Man.
He can crawl in your pocket or fit your locket
Or screw himself into a twenty-volt socket,
Or stretch himself up to the steeple or taller,
Or squeeze himself into a thimble or smaller,
Yes he can, course he can,
He's the Twistable Turnable Squeezable Pullable
Stretchable Shrinkable Man.
And he lives a passable life
With his Squeezable Lovable Kissable Hugable
Pullable Tugable Wife.
And they have two twistable kids
Who bend up the way that they did.
And they turn and they stretch
Just as much as they can
For this Bendable Foldable
Do-what-you're-toldable
Easily moldable
Buy-what you're-soldable
Washable Mendable
Highly Dependable
Buyable Saleable
Always available
Bounceable Shakeable
Almost unbreakable
Twistable Turnable Man.
Carl Sandburg
I love Sandburg's energy and visceral imagery in his poetry. It's fun to read aloud because it's so strong. If you don't mind some foul language I highly recommend you check out "Howl," particularly if you can find a recording of Sandburg reading it. I love this poem because even though it describes the city as it was in the early 1900s, it still carries a lot of the same spirit today.
CHICAGO
HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
William Wordsworth
I know that Wordsworth is sometimes a joke to people, as he has been considered the cheesiest of the Romantic poets, but I really enjoy the below poem. I saw a special on HBO sponsored by the Poetry Foundation in which Dave Matthews read this poem, and I just fell in love with it.
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Robert Frost
Frost is especially talented with extended metaphors. I really love the way he describes his images; I feel like if I could paint I would be able to reproduce exactly what he had in mind when he wrote it. I also like “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” and “The Road Not Taken,” but I think this one is my very favorite.
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Gwendolyn Brooks
I have always enjoyed sharing Brooks’ poetry with my students when I was teaching. This one is my favorite. I recommend listening to the author reading it herself. It sounds almost like music.
The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
Ogden Nash
Nash had a great mind for light verse. I particularly adore his poems about animals. There are many, but this one is one of my personal favorites.
The Centipede
I objurgate the centipede,
A bug we do not really need.
At sleepy-time he beats a path
Straight to the bedroom or the bath.
You always wallop where he’s not,
Or, if he is, he makes a spot.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
She and her husband were successful Romantic poets. I enjoy both of their portrayals of their love.
Sonnet XLIII from Sonnets of the Portuguese
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Robert Browning
The faithful husband of Elizabeth.
Meeting at Night
THE gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Gertrude Stein
My senior quote in my high school yearbook was one of Gertrude Stein’s: “Let me listen to me and not to them.” I have always felt that this motto has served me well, both in saving me the eventual embarrassment involved in being trendy, and in helping me to avoid relying too much on others’ approval. This poem is a gorgeous modernist portrait of a tight knit family.
The house was just twinkling in the moon light,
And inside it twinkling with delight,
Is my baby bright.
Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling
with the moonlight,
Bless my baby bless my baby bright,
Bless my baby twinkling with delight,
In the house twinkling in the moon light,
Her hubby dear loves to cheer when he thinks
and he always thinks when he knows and he always
knows that his blessed baby wifey is all here and he
is all hers, and sticks to her like burrs, blessed baby
Lewis Carroll
Carroll, most famous for his pair of books, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, was also an accomplished poet of his own. He wrote these stories for a young girl he knew named Alice. If you look closely at the following poem, the first letter of each line is a letter of her name: Alice Pleasance Liddell.
A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky
A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear —
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream —
Lingering in the golden gleam —
Life, what is it but a dream?
Shel Silverstein
I have loved Shel Silverstein since I was old enough to read his trio of poetry books. This poem in particular used to make me cry with laughter. I read this aloud (with some difficulty) to my nieces when they were young, and I can’t wait to do the same with my boys someday.
Twistable Turnable Man
He's the Twistable Turnable Squeezable Pullable
Stretchable Foldable Man.
He can crawl in your pocket or fit your locket
Or screw himself into a twenty-volt socket,
Or stretch himself up to the steeple or taller,
Or squeeze himself into a thimble or smaller,
Yes he can, course he can,
He's the Twistable Turnable Squeezable Pullable
Stretchable Shrinkable Man.
And he lives a passable life
With his Squeezable Lovable Kissable Hugable
Pullable Tugable Wife.
And they have two twistable kids
Who bend up the way that they did.
And they turn and they stretch
Just as much as they can
For this Bendable Foldable
Do-what-you're-toldable
Easily moldable
Buy-what you're-soldable
Washable Mendable
Highly Dependable
Buyable Saleable
Always available
Bounceable Shakeable
Almost unbreakable
Twistable Turnable Man.
Carl Sandburg
I love Sandburg's energy and visceral imagery in his poetry. It's fun to read aloud because it's so strong. If you don't mind some foul language I highly recommend you check out "Howl," particularly if you can find a recording of Sandburg reading it. I love this poem because even though it describes the city as it was in the early 1900s, it still carries a lot of the same spirit today.
CHICAGO
HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
William Wordsworth
I know that Wordsworth is sometimes a joke to people, as he has been considered the cheesiest of the Romantic poets, but I really enjoy the below poem. I saw a special on HBO sponsored by the Poetry Foundation in which Dave Matthews read this poem, and I just fell in love with it.
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Robert Frost
Frost is especially talented with extended metaphors. I really love the way he describes his images; I feel like if I could paint I would be able to reproduce exactly what he had in mind when he wrote it. I also like “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” and “The Road Not Taken,” but I think this one is my very favorite.
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Gwendolyn Brooks
I have always enjoyed sharing Brooks’ poetry with my students when I was teaching. This one is my favorite. I recommend listening to the author reading it herself. It sounds almost like music.
The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
Ogden Nash
Nash had a great mind for light verse. I particularly adore his poems about animals. There are many, but this one is one of my personal favorites.
The Centipede
I objurgate the centipede,
A bug we do not really need.
At sleepy-time he beats a path
Straight to the bedroom or the bath.
You always wallop where he’s not,
Or, if he is, he makes a spot.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
She and her husband were successful Romantic poets. I enjoy both of their portrayals of their love.
Sonnet XLIII from Sonnets of the Portuguese
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Robert Browning
The faithful husband of Elizabeth.
Meeting at Night
THE gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Gertrude Stein
My senior quote in my high school yearbook was one of Gertrude Stein’s: “Let me listen to me and not to them.” I have always felt that this motto has served me well, both in saving me the eventual embarrassment involved in being trendy, and in helping me to avoid relying too much on others’ approval. This poem is a gorgeous modernist portrait of a tight knit family.
The house was just twinkling in the moon light,
And inside it twinkling with delight,
Is my baby bright.
Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling
with the moonlight,
Bless my baby bless my baby bright,
Bless my baby twinkling with delight,
In the house twinkling in the moon light,
Her hubby dear loves to cheer when he thinks
and he always thinks when he knows and he always
knows that his blessed baby wifey is all here and he
is all hers, and sticks to her like burrs, blessed baby
Lewis Carroll
Carroll, most famous for his pair of books, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, was also an accomplished poet of his own. He wrote these stories for a young girl he knew named Alice. If you look closely at the following poem, the first letter of each line is a letter of her name: Alice Pleasance Liddell.
A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky
A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear —
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream —
Lingering in the golden gleam —
Life, what is it but a dream?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Favorite Poets.
A few weeks ago, I came across an article in the New York Times in which a professor was compiling his list of who he believed were the 20 greatest poets of all time. Now, I feel vastly inadequately read to really assume I could compile a list of the 20 greatest poets of all time, but it inspired me to share with you my 20 favorite poets that I have come across so far. Some are very well known but a few were introduced to me in my MA program in a small private college program, so perhaps I can give you all some new poets to devour in doing this little exercise. Now, if after reading this you feel like I have left someone out or you would like to share your own list of 20, 10, 5, or even just one favorite poet, I'd love to hear your selections as well.
To make this more interesting, I am going to include my favorite poem (or one of them, if I can't say it's my one favorite poem!) from each of these poets. Apologies that I have probably shared several of these before, but it was awhile back so it might be new to someone anyway. :)
This list is in no particular order, since I have many favorite poets and not one is really above any other.
1. Shakespeare. There is something about his way of capturing speech rhythms and ingenious rhyming that really captures me. He can also carry a metaphor and twist the end of a sonnet more than nearly anyone else who ever wrestled words into that tricky format. Here is one of my favorites, Sonnet 130.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
2. William Carlos Williams. I adored teaching Williams to my students, because he has a wonderful way of confounding their conventional view of poetry. It doesn’t rhyme, it doesn’t use flowery language, there is no real meter or formal arrangement; yet it is poetry. I love how accessible he is for all of the above reasons. The good doctor shows us the poetry in everyday things and situations.
This is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
3. Octavio Paz. He was influenced by his mentor, Neruda, and they thought in similar ways. Both showcase nature entwined with human feelings, using surprising metaphors to paint their broad, bold strokes. I think of reading their poetry as similar to going to an art museum and musing on the modern paintings. The longer you linger on their poems, the more they will open up and show you, about the writer, about life, and about yourself. I will link to the video of Eric Whitacre’s setting of Paz’s poem, “Water Night.” I have performed this piece several times and between the words and Whitacre’s beautiful chords, it gives me goosebumps every time.
4. Pablo Neruda. Mentor to Paz, another gorgeous early modern poet. I do wish that I could read enough Spanish to understand his and Paz’s poems in the original. That is still a life goal for me. Someday I hope to be able to enjoy them as they were written. Here is a great example of his work.
I Remember You As You Were
by Pablo Neruda
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
5. Wallace Stevens. I know I have sung Mr. Stevens’ praises in this blog before; in fact, I encouraged people to write a 13 Ways poem in ode to his “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” did I not? If not, maybe we should do that next! I guess I’ll have to go look now. :) In any case, I know I have included that poem in this blog before, so I’ll share another one today. This one I used in a paper for my master’s degree, and I think it is just stunning.
Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself
by Wallace Stevens
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside.
That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
6. Maya Angelou. I highly recommend her series of autobiographies to anyone unfamiliar with this remarkable woman. Still with us in her nineties, she is a national treasure and still sharp as a whip. Her poetry sways and mesmerizes with its rhythms and her unmistakable voice.
Alone
by Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
7. Emily Dickinson. It is still a bit sad to me that no one who knew Dickinson when she was living was aware of her marvelous gift of poetry. She is another poet whose writing is understated, even a bit terse, but it really brings out new dimensions in the reader’s understanding of what the English language can do. Her economy of language was one of the first times I recognized the value of making what you say count.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
8. Christina Rossetti. Her poems have often been set to music, and for good reason; she had a terrific skill for setting prayers and praises into poetry. My favorite Christmas carol, in fact, is her poem, “A Christmas Carol,” which is better known as “In the Bleak Mid-Winter.” While we now realize that there was probably not snow in Christ’s birthplace at the time of his birth, I still think it’s a beautiful poem. Here is a link to a performance of the carol by the wonderful group Chanticleer.
9. Derek Walcott. I was won over by his book-length poem, Omeros. I can’t seem to find much that is not really long, but please do look him up. He was raised in St. Lucia, and has since lived for a long time in New York City, so his vastly different influences have served to enrich his poetry.
10. Joseph Brodsky. He was sentenced to Siberia for being a poet at the wrong time in Russia, and later defected to America. Again, I have to read him in translation, but his words are so consistently striking. This poem in particular has the added bonus of referring to the famous father and son of Homer’s Odyssey.
Odysseus to Telemachus
by Joseph Brodsky
My dear Telemachus,
The Trojan War
is over now; I don't recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
so many dead so far from their own homeland.
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.
I don't know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can't remember how the war came out;
even how old you are--I can't remember.
Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we'll see each other
again. You've long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes' trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.
I will continue this list at a later date; at this point I need to get some sleep. Please do share a list of your favorite poets as well!
To make this more interesting, I am going to include my favorite poem (or one of them, if I can't say it's my one favorite poem!) from each of these poets. Apologies that I have probably shared several of these before, but it was awhile back so it might be new to someone anyway. :)
This list is in no particular order, since I have many favorite poets and not one is really above any other.
1. Shakespeare. There is something about his way of capturing speech rhythms and ingenious rhyming that really captures me. He can also carry a metaphor and twist the end of a sonnet more than nearly anyone else who ever wrestled words into that tricky format. Here is one of my favorites, Sonnet 130.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
2. William Carlos Williams. I adored teaching Williams to my students, because he has a wonderful way of confounding their conventional view of poetry. It doesn’t rhyme, it doesn’t use flowery language, there is no real meter or formal arrangement; yet it is poetry. I love how accessible he is for all of the above reasons. The good doctor shows us the poetry in everyday things and situations.
This is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
3. Octavio Paz. He was influenced by his mentor, Neruda, and they thought in similar ways. Both showcase nature entwined with human feelings, using surprising metaphors to paint their broad, bold strokes. I think of reading their poetry as similar to going to an art museum and musing on the modern paintings. The longer you linger on their poems, the more they will open up and show you, about the writer, about life, and about yourself. I will link to the video of Eric Whitacre’s setting of Paz’s poem, “Water Night.” I have performed this piece several times and between the words and Whitacre’s beautiful chords, it gives me goosebumps every time.
4. Pablo Neruda. Mentor to Paz, another gorgeous early modern poet. I do wish that I could read enough Spanish to understand his and Paz’s poems in the original. That is still a life goal for me. Someday I hope to be able to enjoy them as they were written. Here is a great example of his work.
I Remember You As You Were
by Pablo Neruda
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
5. Wallace Stevens. I know I have sung Mr. Stevens’ praises in this blog before; in fact, I encouraged people to write a 13 Ways poem in ode to his “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” did I not? If not, maybe we should do that next! I guess I’ll have to go look now. :) In any case, I know I have included that poem in this blog before, so I’ll share another one today. This one I used in a paper for my master’s degree, and I think it is just stunning.
Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself
by Wallace Stevens
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside.
That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
6. Maya Angelou. I highly recommend her series of autobiographies to anyone unfamiliar with this remarkable woman. Still with us in her nineties, she is a national treasure and still sharp as a whip. Her poetry sways and mesmerizes with its rhythms and her unmistakable voice.
Alone
by Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
7. Emily Dickinson. It is still a bit sad to me that no one who knew Dickinson when she was living was aware of her marvelous gift of poetry. She is another poet whose writing is understated, even a bit terse, but it really brings out new dimensions in the reader’s understanding of what the English language can do. Her economy of language was one of the first times I recognized the value of making what you say count.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
8. Christina Rossetti. Her poems have often been set to music, and for good reason; she had a terrific skill for setting prayers and praises into poetry. My favorite Christmas carol, in fact, is her poem, “A Christmas Carol,” which is better known as “In the Bleak Mid-Winter.” While we now realize that there was probably not snow in Christ’s birthplace at the time of his birth, I still think it’s a beautiful poem. Here is a link to a performance of the carol by the wonderful group Chanticleer.
9. Derek Walcott. I was won over by his book-length poem, Omeros. I can’t seem to find much that is not really long, but please do look him up. He was raised in St. Lucia, and has since lived for a long time in New York City, so his vastly different influences have served to enrich his poetry.
10. Joseph Brodsky. He was sentenced to Siberia for being a poet at the wrong time in Russia, and later defected to America. Again, I have to read him in translation, but his words are so consistently striking. This poem in particular has the added bonus of referring to the famous father and son of Homer’s Odyssey.
Odysseus to Telemachus
by Joseph Brodsky
My dear Telemachus,
The Trojan War
is over now; I don't recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
so many dead so far from their own homeland.
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.
I don't know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can't remember how the war came out;
even how old you are--I can't remember.
Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we'll see each other
again. You've long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes' trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.
I will continue this list at a later date; at this point I need to get some sleep. Please do share a list of your favorite poets as well!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
12 Days of Motherhood: part 2
Here's the promised second half of a mom's take on the 12 Days of Christmas. Pretty much just for my own entertainment, but enjoy anyway. :)
Mom’s Twelve Dreams of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
two loving brothers
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
five toothless grins...
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eight splashy bathtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
ten imaginary games,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eleven surprise hugs,
ten imaginary games,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
twelve sleep-in mornings,
eleven surprise hugs,
ten imaginary games,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
Mom’s Twelve Dreams of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
two loving brothers
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
five toothless grins...
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eight splashy bathtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
ten imaginary games,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eleven surprise hugs,
ten imaginary games,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
twelve sleep-in mornings,
eleven surprise hugs,
ten imaginary games,
nine giggly evenings,
eight splashy bedtimes,
seven silent naptimes,
six sweet-boy snuggles,
five toothless grins,
four ‘yuv you mommy’s,
three toddler giggles,
two loving brothers,
and a peacefully sleeping baby.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
12 Days of Motherhood: part 1
Here's my attempt at a take on the 12 Days of Christmas, focusing on the not-so-nice parts of motherhood. I will come back with a more positive one soon, I promise!
The 12 Nightmares of Mom’s Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
an endlessly crying baby.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
two poop explosions
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
five temper tantrums....
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
ten predawn wakings,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eleven changes of clothing,
ten predawn wakings,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
twelve runny noses,
eleven changes of clothing,
ten predawn wakings,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
The 12 Nightmares of Mom’s Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
an endlessly crying baby.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
two poop explosions
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
five temper tantrums....
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
ten predawn wakings,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
eleven changes of clothing,
ten predawn wakings,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,
twelve runny noses,
eleven changes of clothing,
ten predawn wakings,
nine whiny voices,
eight leaky diapers,
seven sleepless naptimes,
six toddlers screaming,
five temper tantrums,
four grumpy evenings,
three spit-up puddles,
two poop explosions,
and an endlessly crying baby.
Stuck in fast-forward.
I had really hoped to be back before now. I feel, as the title suggests, as if I am stuck in fast-forward. I hate that feeling on principle, but it's especially sad when it's in the middle of the holiday season. This is my favorite time of year, but I haven't gotten nearly anything done yet that I usually do by now. My Christmas cards were just addressed today and won't go out in the mail until Monday. I have one batch of cookie dough refrigerating, hopefully to be baked tonight but perhaps tomorrow. Our tree isn't up yet.
I guess I should cut myself a little slack, since we have a 4 1/2 month old dictating most of my schedule these days. He is a great baby, but it's still a bit unpredictable how much time I will have to get things done any given time he is asleep. I'm also trying to get back into shape; lately I've been averaging 3-4 days on the treadmill per week, and I added my long weekend run back in last week. With the weather as cold as it's been around here, I put a movie on and hop on the treadmill for 90 minutes. Before you gasp, I'll fully admit that I do a slow jog and take walk breaks every 5 minutes.
Anyway, I had an idea for a fun series of poems, taking off on the 12 Days of Christmas. If anyone wants to join me, that's great. If not, I guess I'll do it for my own entertainment. I'll post it in a separate entry, however. Hopefully tonight, depending on how it goes. :)
I guess I should cut myself a little slack, since we have a 4 1/2 month old dictating most of my schedule these days. He is a great baby, but it's still a bit unpredictable how much time I will have to get things done any given time he is asleep. I'm also trying to get back into shape; lately I've been averaging 3-4 days on the treadmill per week, and I added my long weekend run back in last week. With the weather as cold as it's been around here, I put a movie on and hop on the treadmill for 90 minutes. Before you gasp, I'll fully admit that I do a slow jog and take walk breaks every 5 minutes.
Anyway, I had an idea for a fun series of poems, taking off on the 12 Days of Christmas. If anyone wants to join me, that's great. If not, I guess I'll do it for my own entertainment. I'll post it in a separate entry, however. Hopefully tonight, depending on how it goes. :)
Monday, October 4, 2010
watch this space...
I will return (hopefully tonight) to post a brand new poetry challenge as well as another synopsis of the crazy life I have been leading the past month. Watch this space for my triumphant return...or my return, at any rate. :)
Monday, June 14, 2010
I did it!!
I finally wrote the Gaga poem I was hoping to write. I won't make this an official Poetry Challenge because it was so difficult for me to do, but you can certainly join in if you like.
I settled on Lady Gaga's "Telephone," mostly because I decided it's the only one of her songs I don't completely despise. Also, I think this cover of it is one of the cooler things I have seen recently on YouTube.
If you liked that, check out Pomplamoose's other videos on YouTube, I haven't seen a bad one yet.
So, on with the poem. A tiny bit of background: the other reason I chose that song to poem-ize is that while I thought the sentiment expressed (wishing to free herself from unrealistic expectations of a boyfriend) was admirable, I don't think she expressed it nearly strongly enough. So here's my poetic version of the song.
Leave Me the Hell Alone
(inspired by Lady Gaga’s “Telephone”)
Before you can say anything,
just listen to me speak.
I saw the million messages,
the texts you sent, you freak.
You could have made your plans with me,
but you just blew me off,
so now you can go kick some rocks,
I’m sick or something. *cough*
Just because you changed your mind
won’t make me change mine too,
I made some plans with my girlfriends,
I’m not stuck to you like glue.
Your pathetic badgering
only drives me away,
so why don’t you go get a life?
I have my own, OK?
I dare you to pick another song (or even the same one!) and take a crack at poemifying it! Go on, who's it gonna hurt?
Completely off that topic, but I wanted to add this: if you are looking for a cause to support for a Pepsi grant, please check out Give Kids the World. They sponsor trips for children with life-threatening illnesses and their families to Florida to enjoy the various theme parks. Here is the link to vote for them; the top two will win $250,000. http://www.refresheverything.com/givekidstheworld I can't think of a better cause.
I settled on Lady Gaga's "Telephone," mostly because I decided it's the only one of her songs I don't completely despise. Also, I think this cover of it is one of the cooler things I have seen recently on YouTube.
If you liked that, check out Pomplamoose's other videos on YouTube, I haven't seen a bad one yet.
So, on with the poem. A tiny bit of background: the other reason I chose that song to poem-ize is that while I thought the sentiment expressed (wishing to free herself from unrealistic expectations of a boyfriend) was admirable, I don't think she expressed it nearly strongly enough. So here's my poetic version of the song.
Leave Me the Hell Alone
(inspired by Lady Gaga’s “Telephone”)
Before you can say anything,
just listen to me speak.
I saw the million messages,
the texts you sent, you freak.
You could have made your plans with me,
but you just blew me off,
so now you can go kick some rocks,
I’m sick or something. *cough*
Just because you changed your mind
won’t make me change mine too,
I made some plans with my girlfriends,
I’m not stuck to you like glue.
Your pathetic badgering
only drives me away,
so why don’t you go get a life?
I have my own, OK?
I dare you to pick another song (or even the same one!) and take a crack at poemifying it! Go on, who's it gonna hurt?
Completely off that topic, but I wanted to add this: if you are looking for a cause to support for a Pepsi grant, please check out Give Kids the World. They sponsor trips for children with life-threatening illnesses and their families to Florida to enjoy the various theme parks. Here is the link to vote for them; the top two will win $250,000. http://www.refresheverything.com/givekidstheworld I can't think of a better cause.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The before-promised blog...
After all, it IS still the same week as when I had promised this here blog post. I suppose my repeated apologies are falling on deafer and deafer ears so maybe I should just stop making them.
I am not sure how many of my dear readers are watching Glee, but I have to say that like many writers, I have a love-hate relationship with the show. It has moments of brilliance (take, from the "theatricality" episode, the "I Dreamed a Dream" duet between Idina Menzel and Lea Michele), but even in the same EPISODE, moments of...well...WTF-itude (case in point: the duet between the same actresses, performing a bizarre rendition of Lady Gaga's "Poker Face.") I watched transfixed by the sheer messed-upness of singing to your long-lost mother about your...muffin????? I cannot imagine how they got through the scene without breaking into laughter, it just seemed so bizarre.
Anyway, it got me thinking about how much I loathe Lady Gaga. I do not understand her fame one bit. She is not attractive in any way, her outfits are ridiculous, and her songs are vapid, repetitive and uninteresting (unless you want something to dance to at a club at 500 decibels, I suppose). I am one of those people who listen to lyrics, and while she can make a good rhyme, those lyrics are NOT good poetry.
So, as I was thinking about what a bad poet Lady Gaga is (and how somehow she is still paid a ridiculous amount of money for both her own songs and to write songs for OTHER people that are just as bad), I had another thought. Maybe I could take one of her songs and try to turn it into a passable poem. I think, sure, what do I have to lose? Why not?
And then, after doing a little research and looking at several sets of lyrics, I decided it's too late to do it tonight...but I do want to. If anyone wants to join in with their own stab at it, we can make it a poetry challenge! I have to say, on initial examination, we would certainly have our work cut out for us. Or, you can tell me in the comments which of her songs you want me to try to poem-ify. I think I may just have to take the "gist" of a song and write a poem on that. We shall see what I can come up with...LATER!
But because I have left you hanging once again, let me leave you with this.
Annnnd this.
I am not sure how many of my dear readers are watching Glee, but I have to say that like many writers, I have a love-hate relationship with the show. It has moments of brilliance (take, from the "theatricality" episode, the "I Dreamed a Dream" duet between Idina Menzel and Lea Michele), but even in the same EPISODE, moments of...well...WTF-itude (case in point: the duet between the same actresses, performing a bizarre rendition of Lady Gaga's "Poker Face.") I watched transfixed by the sheer messed-upness of singing to your long-lost mother about your...muffin????? I cannot imagine how they got through the scene without breaking into laughter, it just seemed so bizarre.
Anyway, it got me thinking about how much I loathe Lady Gaga. I do not understand her fame one bit. She is not attractive in any way, her outfits are ridiculous, and her songs are vapid, repetitive and uninteresting (unless you want something to dance to at a club at 500 decibels, I suppose). I am one of those people who listen to lyrics, and while she can make a good rhyme, those lyrics are NOT good poetry.
So, as I was thinking about what a bad poet Lady Gaga is (and how somehow she is still paid a ridiculous amount of money for both her own songs and to write songs for OTHER people that are just as bad), I had another thought. Maybe I could take one of her songs and try to turn it into a passable poem. I think, sure, what do I have to lose? Why not?
And then, after doing a little research and looking at several sets of lyrics, I decided it's too late to do it tonight...but I do want to. If anyone wants to join in with their own stab at it, we can make it a poetry challenge! I have to say, on initial examination, we would certainly have our work cut out for us. Or, you can tell me in the comments which of her songs you want me to try to poem-ify. I think I may just have to take the "gist" of a song and write a poem on that. We shall see what I can come up with...LATER!
But because I have left you hanging once again, let me leave you with this.
Annnnd this.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
A Christmas miracle!
I managed to be amazed by the same phenomenon every year, it seems. I go to make one of my husband's favorite kinds of cookies, and when preparing the dough (which uses no eggs, just a lot of butter, sugar and flour) it always looks like it will never go together. Finally, I remember that the recipe has a note that says "if dry, add 1-2 tablespoons milk." I add one tablespoon of milk, fully expecting to have to add another, but five seconds later the entire bowl is filled with a completely cohesive dough. Amazing.
The other thing that I had nearly forgotten about Christmas was a child's wonder at seeing a Christmas tree. The boy and I were watching the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and I was watching his face when they pressed the button. His eyes got really wide, and then he said, "Woooooooow." Just priceless.
My dear friend and reader of this blog, Kristin, has published a poem in an online poetry journal. You can read her fine work here.
Haiku News
Graduation joy
cut short by a fatal bomb
in Mogadishu.
Amnesiac's brain
is dissected as I write;
you can watch it here.
Real-life "Terminal"
unfolds in Tokyo airport;
Chinese man squats there.
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