Girls in books who write poetry, plus One Art, by Elizabeth Bishop

So here's a quote from a Newsweek article about Anne of Green Gables that's been on quite few blogs recently: "The literary smart girl is still showing up in literature, but she's often the sidekick," says Trinna Frever, an "Anne of Green Gables" scholar. "It is a reflection of a culture that's placing less value on intelligence, and also treating intelligence as a stigmatized quality."

I started thinking since last December about heirs to Anne, after reading Undercover, by Beth Kephart (Harper Teen,2007). This book, which was nominated for the YA Cybils awards, is about Elisa, a very engaging "literary smart girl" who writes poetry, falls in love, gets depressed about her family situation, ice skates alone on a frozen pond at night, has a great English teacher, and keeps a notebook of words. It's a lovely book--I just re-read it more peacefully than I had a chance to last fall (what with the other 120-ish ya books to read for the Cybils*), and I highly recommend it to anyone who likes metaphors, words qua words, and books about teenage girls.

I have been meaning to write about Undercover for Poetry Friday since reading it seven months ago, but I wanted to try to find other books about girls writing poetry, to provide context. It is easy to find lots of smart, sassy girls, but harder to find the girls who love words and writing, the same way that Anne, and her literary sister, Emily (the girl featured in LM Montgomery's other series) do. The only slightly modern one I can think of is Julia, in A Room Made of Windows, by Elinor Cameron (1971)(a fine book that, if you've never read it). But are there no other examples of fictional girls writing poetry from the mid 20th century on? I'll be the first to admit that I'm probably missing other obvious ones, but it is a hard thing to google.

Elisa's own poetry, examples of which are given in Undercover, are very good for a young writer. But the poem I like best in the book is one the English teacher makes her students read:

One Art, by Elizabeth Bishop (from Geography III, 1977)

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I remember my English teacher in high school giving us Geography III to read (pretty avant garde of him to do so in 1983), and how my adolescent self found deep dark resonance in her words...I want to go back, and re-visit her again. And viz Undercover-isn't that a nice thing, when a book you like leads you to a poem you like, and inspires you to go read more?

And if anyone can think of other books about girls writing poetry, let me know!

* just wanted to say thank to Harper Teen, and all the other publishers who sent books for us Cybils committee people to read. Out of all the books I was sent, Undercover was one of just a handful I kept for myself, knowing that I'd want to re-read it...the rest found a good home at the library.

Crocs! For Poetry Friday

"It really is a pity
That you had to leave the city
Because of all the horrifying critters

GIANT tabby cats
And defiant scabby rats
Large enough to swallow baby-sitters"

So begins Crocs, by David T. Greenberg, illustrated by Lynn Munsinger (2008, Little Brown). The hero flees the horrors of the urban jungle, to a tropical island where at last he feels at peace. But this does not last long:



"Pudgy as a panda
relaxed on your veranda
wiggling your toes within your socks

You sadly have no notion
All around you, in the ocean
Are tons and tons of terrifying CROCS!"

The crocs are wild, and scary, and wacky as all get out (as only Lynn Munsinger's crocs could be). They wreck crodocilian havoc, but in a playful way, luring the child into their reptilian world, and things are working out happily. Then a croc whose like you've never seen in a picture book before emerges from the ocean...

Cliche time (but true none the less): "playful, rollicking verse" coupled with "enchantingly diverting pictures." (Although actually I don't think "diverting" is used that much). But regardless, this book is fun to read aloud, and fun to look at, and kind of strange. Definitely one for the child who appreciates more than a bit of surreality with their playful, rollicking verse.

David T. Greenberg has, according to the jacket flap, been dubbed "our emerging poet of Gross" by the New York Times. There was only one small grossness in this book, however. I haven't read any of his other books (Slugs, for instance), but I shall look for them. Lynn Munsinger I already know and love, on account of Tacky the Penguin and Custard the Dragon.

For more Poetry Friday fun, head over to the roundup at Under the Covers.

In For Winter, Out for Spring

Generally when I read books of poetry, I try to carefully consider the poems and the illustrations, and think about why, or why not, they work for me. This wasn't the case when I read In for Winter, Out for Spring, by Arnold Adoff, illustrated by Jerry Pinkney (1991, Harcourt Brace and Co.). Instead I found myself thinking about the girl who is speaking the poems. I wanted to be little again myself, and to be her friend. The book is a verse story of her year, and I would like to play in the snow with her, dig the ground after the frost is over, pick mulberries, carve pumpkins, and so on, back to winter.

Which is not to say that I wasn't also appreciating the lovely poems as poems and the gorgeous illustrations, because I was. But the poems and pictures, with their focus on one little girl's experience of family, home, her garden, and the natural world, combine to paint a vivid picture of one very nice girl and her loving family that is more than the sum total of the parts.

Here's a poem I especially liked, but of course Blogger, bless its little heart, isn't letting me format it exactly the way it is in the book. Arggggh.

Aaron

My Older Brother
Once Told Me He
Was the Ruler Of This Hedge
Last
Year I had to Have Permission
To Pick Wild Violets For Mom

This Morning Aaron
Sits
In A
School
And I Am The New Boss
Of Hedge Trees
And Mole Holes
And Violets And Black Bugs
Under
Green
Moss

Thanks very much to Elaine, of Wild Rose Reader, from whom I received this book during her Poetry Month giveaways! It is truly lovely.

Poetry Friday is at A Wrung Sponge today!

Edwin Arlington Robinson for Poetry Friday

It seems to me that there's not that much attention being paid to poems for the 8th grade type kid (perhaps there is, and I am just missing something, which wouldn't surprise me). So here's my suggestion for that age group--the poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935).

When I was twelve, my mother read me some of his poems, and, that being the eighties, I was, like, wow. Even thought the punches that Robinson packs may be obvious to the adult, I think that for a 12 year old, it's a pretty powerful moment when the point of one of his poems is realized. And because the messages aren't wrapped in a lot of metaphor and literary allusion, getting the point is fairly straightforward.

Here's one of my favorites:

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

And perhaps as a reaction to my fascination with Dungeons and Dragons, my mother read me this one several times:

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would send him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing:
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

Oh well. I still think the Medici are rather romantic...

For more great poems, visit today's edition of Poetry Friday at Wild Rose Reader!

For Poetry Friday --- What's Left

What’s Left
(for Peter Hennessy)

I used to wait for the flowers,

my pleasure reposed on them.

Now I like plants before they get to the blossom.

Leafy ones - foxgloves, comfrey, delphiniums -

fleshy tiers of strong leaves pushing up

into air grown daily lighter and more sheened

with bright dust like the eyeshadow

that tall young woman in the bookshop wears,

its shimmer and crumble on her white lids.

The washing sways on the line, the sparrows pull

at the heaps of drying weeds that I’ve left around.

Perhaps this is middle age. Untidy, unfinished,

knowing there’ll never be time now to finish,

liking the plants - their strong lives -

not caring about flowers, sitting in weeds

to write things down, look at things,

watching the sway of shirts on the line,

the cloth filtering light.

I know more or less

how to live through my life now.

But I want to know how to live what’s left

with my eyes open and my hands open;

I want to stand at the door in the rain

listening, sniffing, gaping.

Fearful and joyous,

like an idiot before God.

Kerry Hardiein, from Being Alive, ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe Books 2004

I think this poem will have more meaning for me in a few more years (I don't feel middle aged just yet, and I am not quite ready to be unmoved by the blooming delphiniums) but much of it resonates for me even now. Especially the heaps of weeds lying around! :).

As a critical note--I don't think the woman in the bookstore adds one single thing to the poem. Agree? Disagree?

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Big A little a today!

Eeyore's Poem

I read the last story of the House at Pooh Corner (AA Milne) to my children a few weeks ago—the story that Milne wrote on purpose so as to put an end to it all. I distrusted this particular story as a child (it’s very different from all the others), and I don’t like reading it now because it is about Christopher Robin growing up and that sort of thing makes me sniff.

But anyway, there is a Poem in this chapter, one written by Eeyore. And my children though it was just the funniest poem they had ever heard in all their lives. I had to read it through 5 times in a row that day, and several times on the days that followed, and my seven year old memorized it for that week’s poem memorizing homework. So here it is, with a bit of Narrative Context:

"Don't Bustle me," said Eeyore, getting up slowly. "Don't now-then me." He took a piece of paper from behind his ear, and unfolded it. "Nobody knows anything about this," he went on. "This is a Surprise." He coughed in an important way, and began again: "What-nots and Etceteras, before I begin, or perhaps I should say, before I end, I have a piece of Poetry to read to you. Hitherto--hitherto--a long word meaning--well, you'll see what it means directly--hitherto, as I was saying, all the Poetry in the Forest has been written by Pooh, a Bear with a Pleasing Manner but a Positively Startling Lack of Brain. The Poem which I am now about to read to you was written by Eeyore, or Myself, in a Quiet Moment. If somebody will take Roo's bull's-eye away from him, and wake up Owl, we shall all be able to enjoy it. I call it--POEM." This was it:

Christopher Robin is going.
At least I think he is.
Where?
Nobody knows.
But he is going -
I mean he goes
(To rhyme with "knows")
Do we care?
(To rhyme with "where")
We do
Very much.
(I haven't got a rhyme for that "is" in the second line yet.
Bother).
(Now I haven't got a rhyme for bother. Bother)
Those two bothers will have to rhyme with each other
Buther.
The fact is this is more difficult
than I thought,
I ought -
(Very good indeed)
I ought
to begin again,
But it is easier
To stop.
Christopher Robin, good-bye,
I
(Good)
I
And all your friends
Sends -
I mean all your friend
Send -
(Very awkward this, it keeps going wrong.)
Well, anyhow, we send
Our love
END.

"If anybody wants to clap," said Eeyore when he had read this, "now is the time to do it."
They all clapped.
"Thank you," said Eeyore. "Unexpected and gratifying, if a little lacking in Smack."
"It's much better than mine," said Pooh admiringly, and he really thought it was.
"Well," explained Eeyore modestly, "it was meant to be."

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at The Miss Rumphius Effect today!

Father Fox's Pennyrhymes

For those who like a bit of dark humor, but gently done, and in small doses, leavened by much old-fashined fun, there is Father Fox's Pennyrhymes, by Clayde Watson, illustrated by Wendy Watson (1971). It's kind of a twisted mother goose enacted by dressed-up rural Vermont foxes, who give voice to many snarky, humoerous, and even sweet asides in the pictures (so I can't really do it justice).

Here's an example of one of the "darker" rhymes:

Little Martha piggy-wig
Run away and dance a jig!
If you weren't so fat and sweet
You wouldn't be so good to eat.

The picture shows little Martha, the only pig on the fox-covered playground, jumproping for dear life (literally).

Poking around on line, I see that I am not make a new and earthshaking discovery here. Oh well. It just got a huge blast of publicity back in January,here at Read Roger, and Sam Riddleburger looked at it in some detail last September here, and doubtless there are many others. But I am the first, as far as I know, to feature little Martha.

I shall eagerly look for Father Fox's Christmas Rhymes when it becomes seasonally appropriate to do so.

The Poetry Friday round up is at Kelly Fineman's place (Writing and Ruminating) today!

Two snow poems by Robert Graves

It has been snowing today here in Rhode Island. The part of me that has to bring in firewood and drive places is dubious about the whole thing, but the gardener part is happy to see the bare soil covered, so as to better grow things next spring. (As, I think, Laura said to Almanzo, or vice versa, in The First Four Years, "Snow is poor man's fertilizer").

Here are two beautiful snow poems, by Robert Graves (early to mid 20th century, English, author of I, Claudius but primarily a poet in his own mind).

Like Snow

She, then, like snow in a dark night,
Fell secretly. And the world waked
With dazzling of the drowsy eye,
So that some muttered 'Too much light',
And drew the curtains close.
Like snow, warmer than fingers feared,
And to soil friendly;
Holding the histories of the night
In yet unmelted tracks.


She Tells Her Love

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And put out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

Poetry Friday is at Big A little a today!

Poetry Friday--Valentine's Day ish: Jenny Kissed Me

An old chestnut, but very sweet:

"Jenny Kissed Me"

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

--Leight Hunt, 1784-1859

I've always been fond of this poem (except for the "into" in the fourth line- just "in" sounds so much better to me). Apparently the Jenny in question was Carlyle's wife, but I have always imagined her a little girl...


The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Hip Writer Mama's place today!

Once I Ate a Pie- puppy poems for Poetry Friday

Once I Ate a Pie--13 Dogs Tell All, by Patricia MacLachlan and Emily MacLachlan Charest, illustrated by Kay Schneider (2006, Joanna Cotler Books)

If you have a picture book age child, say 3-7, who loves dogs and is learning to read, this is the book for you. Even kids like mine, who aren't crazy about dogs, loved the sweet puppies, the "Good" Dogs, the "Bad" Dogs (like the pie eater), and the sleepy older dogs featured in this book. Each of the 13 dogs featured has its own picture and its own poem. The pictures are enough to melt the non-doggiest heart. The poems are little vignettes of the dogs' behaviour, rellying on typeface, font, and layout rather than rhyme and rhythm to set them apart from prose. Without being able to do these things in blooger, it's hard to convey the full charm of these poem-lets, but here's an example:

Wupsi

My name is Wupsi, but they call me “cute.”
“Who’s cute?” they ask, smiling.
I cover my eyes with my paws and pretend to sleep.
“Who’s cute?” they call again.
I run to them. I can’t help it.
I am cute.

And he is, as is this book! Which makes it a good one, I think, for people interested in poetry for the uncertain reader.

(When googling for a picture, I found that Mother Reader had also reviewed this book for Poetry Friday, way back when in August of 2006. She thought it was awfully cute too).

This week's Poetry Friday Roundup is at AmoXcalli!

Learning to read with Douglas Florian

It was a slightly sticky week reading-wise for my 7 year old son--he just didn't want to read any of the chapter books I offered him. So I turned to poetry, specifically the animal poems of Douglas Florian, with the happy result that he read.

Poems are more friendly to read than the densely filled pages of chapter books--less intimidating visually, and once you've read a poem, you have clearly accomplished something. Florian's poems in particular, I think, are great for the reluctant reader. They are funny. They are informative. They have a fairly straightforward vocabulary. And I like his whimsically varied illustrations.

Here are a few poems that struck my fancy:

The Cheetah (from bow wow meow meow it's rhyming cats and dogs, 2003, Harcourt)

The cheetah is fleet.
The cheetah is fast.
Its four furry feet
Have already passed.

The Dachshund (also from bow wow meow meow)

Short up front
And short behind
But so long in-between.
The fleas all ride
Upon my side
In my s t r e t c h limousine.

The Diamondback Rattlesnake (from lizards, frogs, and polliwogs, 2001, Harcourt)

Fork in front,
Rattle behind.
The lump in the middle?
Don't pay any mind.

Scales up high,
Scales down low.
The lump in the middle?
You don't want to know.

Diamonds above,
Diamonds below.
The lump in the middle?
A rabbit too slow.

All three of these are pretty easy, quick, and funny to read--great confidence boosters.

My son also decided to bring home from the library Shel Silverstein's Falling Up --apparently the boy who is the Alpha Reader in my son's class has been reading it (having finished Eragon Harry Potter Cornelia Funke etc). Silverstein's poems, thought, aren't as uniformly easy readerish as Florian's; likewise Jack Prelutsky.

Any recommendations for other poets or books we could look for that still unfluent reader who likes science might be able to read easily?

And as a total aside, Shel Silverstein has a new edition of an old out of print book coming out this March-- Don't Bump the Glump which looks rather interesting.

The Poetry Friday round up is at Karen Edmisten's place today!

H.D. for Poetry Friday

I have been fond of imagist poet H.D. (Hilda Doolittle, 1886-1961) ever since I ended up at the same college (Bryn Mawr) as she did, was very taken by her picture, and decided on reading some of her poems that our minds worked much the same way (in the way that one does, when one is young and at college. I am now pretty sure our minds don't, although I still like her poetry).

What I did not know, until today, wandering around on line hoping to be inspired for Poetry Friday, is that H.D. also wrote children's stories, before committing herself to poetry. Two of them are available on line, here. I think she made the right choice. Here's one of my favorite poems:

Sheltered Garden, from Sea Garden (1916)

I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest --
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,
precipitate.

I have had enough --
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch --
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent--
only border on border of scented pinks.

Have you seen fruit under cover
that wanted light --
pears wadded in cloth,
protected from the frost,
melons, almost ripe,
smothered in straw?

Why not let the pears cling
to the empty branch?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit --
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped, shrivelled by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
with a russet coat.

Or the melon --
let it bleach yellow
in the winter light,
even tart to the taste --
it is better to taste of frost --
the exquisite frost --
than of wadding and of dead grass.

For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
I want wind to break,
scatter these pink-stalks,
snap off their spiced heads,
fling them about with dead leaves --
spread the paths with twigs,
limbs broken off,
trail great pine branches,
hurled from some far wood
right across the melon-patch,
break pear and quince --
leave half-trees, torn, twisted
but showing the fight was valiant.

O to blot out this garden
to forget, to find a new beauty
in some terrible
wind-tortured place.

- H.D.

Poetry Friday is at Mentor Texts today!

P.S. The internet is truly amazing. I did not know that H.D. stared in a movie with Paul Robeson in 1930 (courtesy of Wikipedia)

Four Fur Feet for Poetry Friday

"Oh, he walked around the world on his four fur feet,
his four fur feet, his four fur feet.
And he walked around the world on his four fur feet,
and never made a sound-O."

So begins Four Fur Feet, by Margaret Wise Brown, illustrated by Remy Charlip (1990, Hopscotch Books). The walk around the world take a black pawed creature (the four fur feet are all we ever see) through cities, by rivers filled with boats and streams filled with fish, past a railroad yard, and through a countryside full of all kinds of animals. At last the black beast reaches a meadow, where he lies down to dry his paws (they'd gotten wet crossing the stream).

"And the sun shone down on his four fur feet,
his four fur feet, his four fur feet.
And the sun shone down on his four fur feet
and made them feel all warm-O."

As the creature moves around the world, the reader has to move the book around too, until at one point it's upside down. All part of the fun.

To my mind, the illustrations don't invite a great deal of interested looking--they are made of lots of ink lines, sometimes with individual shapes colored in, as on the cover, sometimes just drawn on a solid color background. But since the book itself is (literally) moving, it might be for the best that the pictures aren't such eye-candy that the young read-ee wants to keep the reader's arm from turning.

And it is the words, the swing and rhythm of them (that Margaret Wise Brown at her best has such a good ear for), which make this book great fun. Although it is "four fur feet" that really makes it--this verse dosen't have them, and suffers as a result:

"And as he slept, he dreamed a dream,
dreamed a dream, dreamed a dream.
And as he slept, he dreamed a dream
that all the world was round-O."

This book has practical utility, in that the poem can be adapted to those situations where you are trying to get your four year old child to move. Here's an example from last night:

Oh he walked to his bed on his four fur feet,
his four fur feet, his four fur feet,
Oh he walked to his bed on his four fur feet,
and didn't get up till the morning! (ha ha)

Or you can walk up the stairs, to the car, to the door, etc. It is interesting and effective at the moment (two days after reading), but I'm not sure how long it will last. (Fast forward ten years: Oh he took out the trash on his four fur feet...)

On the right is the 1994 edition of the same story, illustrated by W.H. Marx. I much prefere the earlier one, with its very mysterious creature. Leaving the creature to the imagination of the reader makes it much more interesting. You can draw a set of four fur feet for everyone:



And then they can draw their own creature, like so:


More creaures (including mine) will be added later--I forgot to bring them with me to scan.

And finally, back to the poetry part of it all, there's a lesson plan up on the web here on how to use this book to explain alliteration to young kids.

The Poetry Friday Roundup is here at the Farm School today!

For Poetry Friday: Epistle to be Left on Earth

Here's a poem I love that always comes to mind this time of year. I love it for the utter beauty of the pictures the words make...

I am having trouble formating it as the poet intended, so please take a look at it here, because the formating really does matter. But here it is anyway, without the indentations:

Epistle To Be Left In The Earth

by Archibald MacLeish

...It is colder now,
there are many stars,
we are drifting
North by the Great Bear,
the leaves are falling
The water is stone in the scooped rocks,
to southward
Red sun grey air:
the crows are
Slow on their crooked wings,
the jays have left us:
Long since we passed the flares of Orion.
Each man believes in his heart he will die.
Many have written last thoughts and last letters.
None know if our deaths are now or forever:
None know if this wandering earth will be found.

We lie down and the snow covers our garments.
I pray you,
you (if any open this writing)
Make in your mouths the words that were our names.
I will tell you all we have learned,
I will tell you everything:
The earth is round,
there are springs under the orchards,
The loam cuts with a blunt knife,
beware of
Elms in thunder,
the lights in the sky are stars --
We think they do not see,
we think also
The trees do not know nor the leaves of the grasses hear us:
The birds too are ignorant.
Do not listen.
Do not stand at dark in the open windows.
We before you have heard this:
they are voices:
They are not words at all but the wind rising.
Also none among us has seen God
(... We have thought often
the flaws of sun in the late and driving weather
pointed to one tree but it was not so.)
As for the nights I warn you the nights are dangerous:
The wind changes at night and the dreams come.

It is very cold,
there are strange stars near Arcturus,

Voices are crying an unknown name in the sky

And as usual I am left wondering what the dreams and voices out there are, and I tell myself that Macleish is offering a bit of hope at the end of his narrator's denial of anything Beyond.

And as usual I wonder if "we are drifting" nowhere in particular, or if "we are drifting north by the Great Bear" and if it makes a difference. Probably the former, but the later is how I read it first, and it stuck.

NB: I present the poem as punctuated and laid out (well actually I am still working on this part, grrrr. 10 minutes later-- I am giving up--HOW DOES ONE GET BLOGGER TO ACCEPT THE FACT THAT ONE REALLY WANTS SPACES EVERYTIME ONE TYPES THE SPACE BAR???? Is there html code for this?) in The New Oxford Book of American Verse --there really is no final period. Which I think makes a difference...

Poetry Friday is being hosted at Susan Writes today--thanks Susan!

Poetry Friday--The Sing-Song of Old Man Kangaroo

I am cheating here a bit today, by not actually sharing a poem, but rather what the author (Rudyard Kipling) calls a "sing-song." It's been going through my head for days, so here are bits from the Just So Story of Old Man Kangaroo and Yellow Dog Dingo.

Kangaroo wants to be "popular and very truly run after," so at the bidding of the Big God Nqong,

"Off ran Dingo-
Yellow-Dog Dingo-
always hungry, grinning like a coal-scuttle,
ran after Kangaroo."

And Kangaroo runs.

"Still ran Dingo-
Yellow-Dog Dingo-
always hungry, grinning like a rat-trap,
never getting nearer, never getting farther,
ran after Kangaroo.

He had too!

Still ran Kangaroo, Old Man Kangaroo.
He ran through the ti-trees; he ran through the mulga;
he ran through the long grass, he ran through the short grass;
he ran through the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer;
he ran till his hind legs ached.

He had too!"

Kipling put many "real" poems into the Just So Stories (1902), but they are nowhere near as good as the poetry that the words of this story make. If you've never read it, do, but not to yourself--read it out loud to someone, or get a copy on tape and listen...My boys (7 and 4) loved these stories, and the words are rather more fun for the grown ups than (to quickly set up a straw man) the Magic Tree House Books as read by their author (said Annie. said Jack. said Annie).

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Literary Safari today, so head on over for more Fun with Words!

For Poetry Friday--The Wild Carrot Field, by Susan Pendleton

I have been sorting through 20 boxes of books donated to my library booksale by the Brown University library (left over from their booksale). About a third of the books are poetry--very obscure poetry, for the most part. As I picked up one slim volume (They Will Remain, by Susan Pendleton), this picture fell out:


It is Susan.

I then read her poems, hoping I would like them. I didn't, quite, like most of them, but this one struck a chord--it is the best poem about weeding I've ever read:

The Wild Carrot Field

Sun browned field,
Wild carrots dipping;
My task to pull them
While the minutes go slipping.
In beauty bending,
Nodding in grace
Shimmering, pestilent
Queen Anne's lace;

Two thousand, three thousand
Grime and stain.
Last year, this year,
Next year again.
Some folks pity,
Seeing me bend.
"She has taken a task
That will never end."

Yet there comes strangely,
Plodding like this,
Almost hopeless,
Some hint of bliss.
Red sun slanting,
Shadows so fair!
I pause to worship
With head bare.

Wiping the sweat
With torn sleeve.
(There is a heaven
I do believe.)
Colors deepen
With shadowing.
Beauty holds me
Imprisoning.

Little wind blowing
Sets the lace shaking.
Loveliness here
For a heart breaking,
Let me continue,
Six, seven-
If I stop too sudden
It might snap heaven.

Susan Pendleton was born in Connecticut in 1870. Her poems haven't been widely published--this anthology was compiled in 1966 and privately printed.

The Poetry Friday Round Up is at Two Writing Teachers this week

A Guest Columnist for Poetry Friday

I turned this over to my husband this morning, having left the poems I wanted to talk about at home. Welcome, Patrick.

Charlotte and I were discussing why the poetry in Jack Prelutsky's Scranimals is such a letdown. Inventive to be sure (bananaconda, porcupinapple), but dull. I think it's because he has no confidence in his readers, so feels the need to insist that the rhyme scheme structure the reading of the poem. How does he do this? With too many commas. See how commas can straitjacket your voice:

The comma's the curse,
of children's verse,
leaving no choice,
for the speaking voice,

to sail o'er the chasm,
no, they make us spasm,
odically bumble,
gripe, grizzle, and grumble.

(Charlotte: This is by Patrick, not Prelutsky, incidently)

(Now remove the bulk of the commas and re-read it. It doesn't improve the poem (what could?), but it does grant the reader interpretative freedom of a sort.)

I prefer the semantics to the metrics of rhyme: a series of rather magical coincidences that confronted the rational mind with hitherto unperceived and outrageous comparisons; a bit like Magritte. Hammer the rhyme scheme home with neon nails and you have doggerel. Bossy old commas.

When we were kids in Liverpool we chanted Blake's "Tiger, tiger" like the Shipping Report:

Dogger, Fisher, German Bight,
In the forests of the night

Then one day I heard it read as "burning bright in the forest of the night." No comma, no pause.

So I don't mind rhyme. Auden rhymes. Charles Causley rhymes. Shakespeare sometimes rhymes. Yet neither compel the speaking voice to bang along on the desk with a big stick. I know, I know, speaking poetry is difficult. Here's an awful reading of Tiger Tiger.

Ok, now here's a poem our 7 year-old likes*, from Charles Causley's Figgie Hobbin:

I Saw A Jolly Hunter

I saw a jolly hunter
With a jolly gun
Walking in the country
In the jolly sun.

In the jolly meadow
Sat a jolly hare.
Saw the jolly hunter.
Took jolly care.

Hunter jolly eager-
Sight of jolly prey.
Forgot gun pointing
Wrong jolly way.

Jolly hunter jolly head
Over heels gone.
Jolly old safety catch
Not jolly on.

Bang went the jolly gun.
Hunter jolly dead.
Jolly hare got clean away.
Jolly good, I said.

Charlotte here: So much from trying to shield our little boys from GUNS.
Patrick here: As our 7 year-old would say, "Self-to-text reference!": I first heard Causley in a folk club in Liverpool; or rather, I heard his much-anthologized poem Timothy Winters sung. I'm surprised Loreena McKennitt hasn't plundered his oeuvre yet.
He was in the Navy in WWII, and one collection of poems was named Union Street, after the red-light district of Plymouth, much frequented by sailors on leave. My Mum lived on Union Street for more than 20 years, but always omitted those two words from her address. The shame! (Charlotte here--she still managed to get mail).

Informative aside (from Charlotte): Charles Causley (August 24, 1917 – November 4, 2003) was a Cornish poet and writer. He wrote several books of poetry for children, of which Figgie Hobbin (1970 and many subsequent reprints) is perhaps the best known.


Here's what W. H. Auden thought of him "Causley stayed true to what he called his 'guiding principle'....while there are some good poems which are only for adults, because they pre-suppose adult experience in their readers, there are no good poems which are only for children." (quoted in the 2005 edition of the Norton Anthology of Children's Literature, p 1253)." (thanks, Wikipedia).

*Charlotte here again--actually, our 7 year-old likes Prelutsky just fine too.

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Whimsy Books today!

For Poetry Friday-- Burma

I have been thinking, and hoping, and praying for the people of Burma. So for Poetry Friday, here are some poems from and about Burma.

First, a poem from from the English colonial period. Kipling's "The Road To Mandalay" was the only poem about Burma that came into my head without help from google. As is so often the case with Kipling, the writing is superb, the images intense, and the blatant colonialism disturbing. Here's the first verse:

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say;
"Come you back, you British Soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay;
Can't you 'ear their paddles clunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

You can read the rest of the poem here.

Second, a poem from the dictatorship. I found this at the New Republic website, in the UPDATES FROM THE WORLD'S TYRANNICAL OUTPOSTS- Today in Despotism column from November, 2005

"Meanwhile, art and politics merge, as always, in Burma's poetry. The following verse honors the "13th Myanmar Traditional Cultural Performing Arts Competition in progress." The author is concerned but defiant:

If Our Walls Encroached

Our Myanmar nationalistic character
Intended to be strengthened, with a
wall of culture
Is reinforced unfailingly each year
It has been 13 years by now.
It'll be a world village, it'll come
And if with the bravado spirit
We are complacent, and they encroach
Work to multiply the weeds within
That sly bunch of dirty minds
They are there, we know.
Come, come along
Those that are there, the many weeds
Even those between the walls, will
wither
And vanish--just remember.

Experts in Burmese poetry advise that the final two words be read in an urgent whisper."

But what the poet/government might not realize, is just how strong weeds can be, and how hard they are to uproot. Especially weeds like hope.

I then found the Burma Digest, a journal of human rights in Burma. This link will take you to an older website, where you can read many tragic, stirring, and hopeful poems from the side of the oppressed.

Here's one that caught my eye:
Welcome to the Final Phase of Myanmar's National Convention

A nation with rising illiterates
Sponsoring the so called
‘National Convention’
It must be an invention
To go with a newly redoing of Burma’s
Ancient tradition
The transition from Pyinmana
To Nay Pyi Daw
If you own a brown mask or a bright costume
You must be the right candidate to participate in the
Masquerade for the next Myanmar’s National Convention
A bright costume to cover up your iron fist and bloody gun
A brown mask to hide your pale courage and ignorant mind
Make sure to brush your teeth with black market toothpaste
The only kind available in Burma at this time
For they surely do not need beetle nut stains
On their hall of gleaming bright shame

May K Ng, May 2007


The Burma Digest site is now here. The last entry states simply that the entire internet in Burma has been shut off.

The Poetry Friday roundup is here, at amoXcalli.

Trains for Poetry Friday

In honor of the upcoming Carnival of Children's Literature--Take A Ride on the Reading Railroad! (please see the post just before this one to hop on board) I have train poems today for Poetry Friday.

Here's an old favorite:

Travel, by Edna St. Vincent Millay (from Second April, 1921)

The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing,
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.

Here's another I like, by Edward Thomas

Adlestrop

Yes, I remember Adlestrop--
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Aldestrop actually looks like a place I'd like to go.

Here's a new one that tickles me, from a webpage of collected Train Haiku etc

on the train
my usual thoughts
about derailment

- John Stevenson (who I think is this John Stevenson.

And finally, here's a link to one of the more famous train poems, the Night Mail, by WH Auden--
"This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order"

And now I have that wretched Thomas the Tank Engine song in my head-- "hear the sound of the night train, the clickety clack of the night train..." Speaking of Thomas, there's a list at Amazon called "Beyond Thomas: Train Fiction and Poetry for Young Children." There's some good stuff on it.

There is also lots of good stuff at the Poetry Friday Roundup today, hosted by Sara at Read Write Believe.

ps: One more family favorite train poem, by Scotland's inimitable poet, William McGonagall.

Here's the opening of The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

The bridge collapsed in 1879, not long after McGonagall had written a poem in its praise. Here's a link to the full text of this truly memorable poem.

For Poetry Friday: The Shell, by Ted Hughes

My older boy has an enlightened second grade teacher--instead of set assignments, they have homework choices each week, and one of these is always the memorization of a poem. Here's the poem all of us ended up memorizing this past week:

The Shell, by Ted Hughes

The sea fills my ear
with sand and with fear.

You may wash out the sand,
but never the sound
of the ghost of the sea
that is haunting me.

This poem is anthologized in The Mermaid's Purse, by Ted Hughes, illustrated by Flora McDonnell (2000). I looked at it with some suspicion when my husband brought it home (associating Ted Hughes, in my ignorance, with suicide and darkness), but now I think it is a lovely book. Ostensibly it's for children 4-8, but to heck with that. I think that with poems such as this, the older you get the more meanings you can see.

In this case, we talked about what "the ghost of the sea" might mean. The children do not yet (I think) have much experience with regret, loss, and the cruel relentless inexorable erosion of the coast of life by the passage of years (ha ha), although they are aware of global warming and we are all glad we live on high ground. Nor do they truly realize that even though we live within 45 minutes of beaches we didn't go once this summer (although there's still tomorrow) and therefore they have Bad Parents (but I really hate sand in my shoes). So the ghost of the sea might not have as many layers of meaning for them as it does for me, but they will come. And in the meantime, the children still like the poem.

For more about Ted Hughes, here's a review of his collected poems from Kelly at Big A littl a.

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at here at Hipwritermama today!