Showing posts with label poetry month. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry month. Show all posts
Friday, April 21, 2017
Poetry Friday: A Better Resurrection (Christina Rossetti)
April has brought both poetry month and Easter this year. I've been grateful for this coinciding, as poetry month tends to push me to reading and writing more poetry. When my heart is moving out of the Lenten season and into the celebration of Easter, especially when the world is waking up into spring, there is a lot to ponder.
This year, there is more than ever to ponder as I am in the midst of my continued battle against cancer. I was there this time last year too, but far too exhausted and in shock (I had just finished my initial intensive chemo treatments) to do much thinking or writing. Exhaustion has become just part of the new normal landscape, but thankfully shock does wear off, and you find ways to move forward as boldly and creatively as you can. You find life in the midst of illness, beauty in the midst of brokenness, hope in the midst of worry, prayer in the midst of pain.
I could go on, but Christina Rossetti shares it all so much more profoundly in her poem "A Better Resurrection" which I've pasted below.
Today's Poetry Friday Roundup is at Tabatha Yeatts' blog The Opposite of Indifference.
A Better Resurrection
I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is in the falling leaf:
O Jesus, quicken me.
My life is like a faded leaf,
My harvest dwindled to a husk:
Truly my life is void and brief
And tedious in the barren dusk;
My life is like a frozen thing,
No bud nor greenness can I see:
Yet rise it shall--the sap of Spring;
O Jesus, rise in me.
My life is like a broken bowl,
A broken bowl that cannot hold
One drop of water for my soul
Or cordial in the searching cold;
Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;
Melt and remould it, till it be
A royal cup for Him, my King:
O Jesus, drink of me.
~Christina Rossetti
Monday, April 10, 2017
From the Archives: Review of Mary Oliver's "Thirst"
I can't believe we're ten days into April already and I've not posted anything for poetry month! Having gone back on the chemo trial, I do have a few reasons (one big one being fatigue) for not having done much to celebrate. To remedy that, and yet save myself some energy, I thought I'd dig into my Epinions archive for some poetry reviews I wrote a few years ago. They will likely have some minor revisions.
And to kick things off, I thought I'd start with my 2013 review of Mary Oliver's 2006 poetry collection Thirst. Though I'm not sure I've ever met an Oliver collection I didn't like, this one is one of my favorites.
Hoping to make some posts soon in honor of Holy Week and the upcoming Easter season too.
************
Thirst by Mary Oliver: Standing Still and Learning to Be Astonished
(Originally published on Epinons.com in 2013; slightly revised 2017)
Although I've known and enjoyed poems by Mary Oliver for over two decades, it was just recently that I read one of her poems online and found myself thinking "I really must read more." I went searching out the collection that included the particular poem that spoke to me so deeply, and I'm glad I did. Thirst, a collection of 43 poems published in 2006, was a lovely read -- and a book I know I will go back to.
Reviewing poetry often feels daunting. That’s especially true when reviewing poems by someone like Mary Oliver, whose style is so light and gracious that you get a sense of her words alighting on pages like birds perching on branches. Anything I can add in my prosaic review feels a little bit like snow weighing down the branch. There’s a temptation to just use the occasion of a review to point to the poems themselves. Reading poetry – rather than talking about it – will always be the best way to experience it.
But I really did love this book, so I will add my decorative frosting to the branch on which the poems perch.
The title "Thirst" comes from the final poem in the collection, a small prose poem which begins: “Another morning and I wake with thirst/for the goodness I do not have…” It’s a prayerful poem in which the poet confesses both her love for all the good she does have and her longing to know and love and experience more good. It includes one of my favorite lines in the whole collection, one directed Godward: “Love for the/earth and love for you are having such a/long conversation in my heart.” Yes.
That “long conversation in my heart” really describes the feel of this entire collection. In all 43 poems, we hear the poet’s voice – speaking to us, speaking to the world around her, speaking to the Lord – in a slow, measured, loving way. She observes and notes, wonders and questions, longs and celebrates, and each poem seems to provide a small epiphany, a lesson she has learned about herself in relationship to love.
The clarion call of the entire collection is the first poem “Messenger.” This was the bright-winged bird I found perched online, the poem that sung so clearly and beautifully to my heart that I went running after it. It begins “My work is loving the world.” The rest of the poem, and indeed the rest of the collection, seems to bear out that declaration, as Oliver notices the specific beauty and sacredness of created things and finds her place in the world as a grateful singer.
“Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished…”
she writes, in words that I find I too can claim. I quote here not just to share a part of the poem I love, but to give you a taste of her metrics, the way she breaks lines and finds music in words.
While nature is the underlying music in most of the poems here, other notes emerge as important refrains. A number of the poems in this volume have to do with aging, death, and grief. In several poems, such as “After Her Death,” and “What I Said at Her Service,” Oliver wrestles overtly with her grief over the death of her partner of many years. Her wrestling with loneliness and her grief over the loss of human love has a quiet counterpart in her poems about her beloved but elderly dog Percy. The different kinds of loves – for beauty, for animal companions, for a human friend and lover – all swirl gently together like different colored liquids in a glass. And the glass is offered up gently as a cup she and the reader can sip together.
Oliver’s meditations on nature are always gentle and astute, and there are countless numbers of them that I love in this collection, including “Walking Home from Oak-Head,” “Ribbon Snake Asleep in the Sun,” (which reminded me much of Emily Dickinson), “Swimming With Otter,” and “The Beautiful, Striped Sparrow.”
What’s particularly moving in this volume, however, are the ways she turns so many of those meditations Godward, moving them into the realm of prayer. Although I don’t know anything specific about Oliver’s spiritual journey, it seems clear to me through these poems that she has come/is coming to a newfound sense of God’s presence – both in the created world, and in the world of the church. She connects her poetic work of loving attention to her life as a Christian. Three poems, presented in a row, seem to speak especially deeply to her growing faith: “Coming to God, First Days,” “The Vast Ocean Begins Just Outside Our Church: The Eucharist,” and “Six Recognitions of the Lord.” For readers who are perhaps not used to Oliver moving specifically and concretely in the realm of faith, these poems may come as a surprise. As someone who shares that faith, I found them deeply moving. She wears the voice of a Christian mystic simply and well. Her clear-focused eyes and poetic heart seem ready-made for understanding all of life in a sacramental way.
Then there is the poem “More Beautiful than the Honey Locust Tree Are the Words of the Lord” where she seems awash in awestruck praise, recognizing that even her finest, choicest words are just one drop of the ocean of praise that sings all around her:
“It is close to hopeless,
for what I want to say the red-bird
has said already, and better, in a thousand trees…”
And yet she continues to write, to pray, to be what she feels called to be:
“Lord, let me be a flower, even a tare; or a sparrow.
Or the smallest bright stone in a ring worn by someone
brave and kind, whose name I will never know.”
That humility and gentleness pervades the entire collection. Thirst both quenched my thirst for poetic beauty, and made me thirsty for more.
Thirst
Poems by Mary Oliver
Beacon Press, 2006
9780807068977
And to kick things off, I thought I'd start with my 2013 review of Mary Oliver's 2006 poetry collection Thirst. Though I'm not sure I've ever met an Oliver collection I didn't like, this one is one of my favorites.
Hoping to make some posts soon in honor of Holy Week and the upcoming Easter season too.
************
Thirst by Mary Oliver: Standing Still and Learning to Be Astonished
(Originally published on Epinons.com in 2013; slightly revised 2017)
"All
the quick notes/Mozart didn't have time to use/before he entered the
cloud-boat/are falling now from the beaks/of the finches..."
Although I've known and enjoyed poems by Mary Oliver for over two decades, it was just recently that I read one of her poems online and found myself thinking "I really must read more." I went searching out the collection that included the particular poem that spoke to me so deeply, and I'm glad I did. Thirst, a collection of 43 poems published in 2006, was a lovely read -- and a book I know I will go back to.
Reviewing poetry often feels daunting. That’s especially true when reviewing poems by someone like Mary Oliver, whose style is so light and gracious that you get a sense of her words alighting on pages like birds perching on branches. Anything I can add in my prosaic review feels a little bit like snow weighing down the branch. There’s a temptation to just use the occasion of a review to point to the poems themselves. Reading poetry – rather than talking about it – will always be the best way to experience it.
But I really did love this book, so I will add my decorative frosting to the branch on which the poems perch.
The title "Thirst" comes from the final poem in the collection, a small prose poem which begins: “Another morning and I wake with thirst/for the goodness I do not have…” It’s a prayerful poem in which the poet confesses both her love for all the good she does have and her longing to know and love and experience more good. It includes one of my favorite lines in the whole collection, one directed Godward: “Love for the/earth and love for you are having such a/long conversation in my heart.” Yes.
That “long conversation in my heart” really describes the feel of this entire collection. In all 43 poems, we hear the poet’s voice – speaking to us, speaking to the world around her, speaking to the Lord – in a slow, measured, loving way. She observes and notes, wonders and questions, longs and celebrates, and each poem seems to provide a small epiphany, a lesson she has learned about herself in relationship to love.
The clarion call of the entire collection is the first poem “Messenger.” This was the bright-winged bird I found perched online, the poem that sung so clearly and beautifully to my heart that I went running after it. It begins “My work is loving the world.” The rest of the poem, and indeed the rest of the collection, seems to bear out that declaration, as Oliver notices the specific beauty and sacredness of created things and finds her place in the world as a grateful singer.
“Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished…”
she writes, in words that I find I too can claim. I quote here not just to share a part of the poem I love, but to give you a taste of her metrics, the way she breaks lines and finds music in words.
While nature is the underlying music in most of the poems here, other notes emerge as important refrains. A number of the poems in this volume have to do with aging, death, and grief. In several poems, such as “After Her Death,” and “What I Said at Her Service,” Oliver wrestles overtly with her grief over the death of her partner of many years. Her wrestling with loneliness and her grief over the loss of human love has a quiet counterpart in her poems about her beloved but elderly dog Percy. The different kinds of loves – for beauty, for animal companions, for a human friend and lover – all swirl gently together like different colored liquids in a glass. And the glass is offered up gently as a cup she and the reader can sip together.
Oliver’s meditations on nature are always gentle and astute, and there are countless numbers of them that I love in this collection, including “Walking Home from Oak-Head,” “Ribbon Snake Asleep in the Sun,” (which reminded me much of Emily Dickinson), “Swimming With Otter,” and “The Beautiful, Striped Sparrow.”
What’s particularly moving in this volume, however, are the ways she turns so many of those meditations Godward, moving them into the realm of prayer. Although I don’t know anything specific about Oliver’s spiritual journey, it seems clear to me through these poems that she has come/is coming to a newfound sense of God’s presence – both in the created world, and in the world of the church. She connects her poetic work of loving attention to her life as a Christian. Three poems, presented in a row, seem to speak especially deeply to her growing faith: “Coming to God, First Days,” “The Vast Ocean Begins Just Outside Our Church: The Eucharist,” and “Six Recognitions of the Lord.” For readers who are perhaps not used to Oliver moving specifically and concretely in the realm of faith, these poems may come as a surprise. As someone who shares that faith, I found them deeply moving. She wears the voice of a Christian mystic simply and well. Her clear-focused eyes and poetic heart seem ready-made for understanding all of life in a sacramental way.
Then there is the poem “More Beautiful than the Honey Locust Tree Are the Words of the Lord” where she seems awash in awestruck praise, recognizing that even her finest, choicest words are just one drop of the ocean of praise that sings all around her:
“It is close to hopeless,
for what I want to say the red-bird
has said already, and better, in a thousand trees…”
And yet she continues to write, to pray, to be what she feels called to be:
“Lord, let me be a flower, even a tare; or a sparrow.
Or the smallest bright stone in a ring worn by someone
brave and kind, whose name I will never know.”
That humility and gentleness pervades the entire collection. Thirst both quenched my thirst for poetic beauty, and made me thirsty for more.
Thirst
Poems by Mary Oliver
Beacon Press, 2006
9780807068977
Thursday, April 04, 2013
Celebrating Poetry Month: With Sijo and Science
The sweet girl and I enjoyed reading Linda Sue Park’s Tap
Dancing on the Roof this week. It’s a collection of sijo, a Korean form of
poetry that follows a certain syllabic (or stress) pattern in English. The
easiest forms of it are either a three line poem with each line running 14-16
syllables, or a 6 line poem with each line running 7-8 syllables, though other
variations are possible.
Topics can vary, with the introduction of a given topic in
line one, further description in line two, and a surprising twist in line
three.
Every since reading the book, I can’t seem to stop thinking
in sijo form. It lends itself to fun musings.
Given our school science experiment today – we dissected an
owl pellet – I couldn’t resist trying my hand at a sijo musing on that very
subject…
The soft brown fluff
of owl pellet disguises a digested feast:
each tiny bone, claw,
beak, a new piece in this predator puzzle.
I’m sure the prey was
puzzled too when it heard the soft whoosh of wings.
(EMP,
4/4/13)
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
The Poet Laureate of Spring
A new poem for you today, born of my musings on the beauties of spring and how my heart always turns to Robert Frost this time of year. Happy Poetry Month!
Come join me in the land of Spring,
where tulips play a fanfare on the trumpet,
a field of blue flags is unfurled,
and the dogwoods are yipping and barking.
Looking as though his heart might melt,
Mr. Frost was given the key to the city,
a key as emerald as the grass where he stood:
poet laureate of all that’s green and fair and good.
~EMP 4/4/12
Come join me in the land of Spring,
where tulips play a fanfare on the trumpet,
a field of blue flags is unfurled,
and the dogwoods are yipping and barking.
Looking as though his heart might melt,
Mr. Frost was given the key to the city,
a key as emerald as the grass where he stood:
poet laureate of all that’s green and fair and good.
~EMP 4/4/12
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Bright Wings and Morning Laughter
This morning at the breakfast table I was perusing my library copy of Bright Wings. It's an illustrated anthology of poems about birds, edited by Billy Collins, with paintings done by David Allen Sibley (described as "America's foremost bird illustrator.") I haven't known Sibley's work before, but the paintings are beautiful, and I found myself making little admiring sounds as I turned the pages.
At one point I murmured "oh, lovely..." and the sweet girl, finishing her bagel, perked up.
"What's lovely?" she asked.
"This pelican," I said, holding the book out so she could see the picture.
She cocked her head. "Is that painted by Audubon?" she asked.
"No," I said. "By someone else, someone painting today. It does remind you a bit of Audubon though, doesn't it?"
She nodded. "I think," she declared, "if Audubon was still alive, he might say: COPYCAT!" And then added, as though she wanted to be completely fair, "And then this guy could say -- excuse me, but that's my job."
At one point I murmured "oh, lovely..." and the sweet girl, finishing her bagel, perked up.
"What's lovely?" she asked.
"This pelican," I said, holding the book out so she could see the picture.
She cocked her head. "Is that painted by Audubon?" she asked.
"No," I said. "By someone else, someone painting today. It does remind you a bit of Audubon though, doesn't it?"
She nodded. "I think," she declared, "if Audubon was still alive, he might say: COPYCAT!" And then added, as though she wanted to be completely fair, "And then this guy could say -- excuse me, but that's my job."
Monday, April 04, 2011
Poetry Month
I can't quite believe this, but I'm three for three with the poetry prompts at Poetic Asides this month.
This feels highly ironic. Last year, I was so excited going into Poetry Month -- I set goals (reading, writing, blogging)! I set goals -- and I met very few of them. This year, scrambling as I am in what I'm beginning to think of as "the never ending busy season called my life" my only unstated-to-anyone but myself goal was simply to enjoy more poetry this month. Read more (myself, and with the family), visit poetry blogs as I can, maybe write a bit from time to time.
So the fact that I have actually written a rough poem for each of the first three days of the daily prompts at Poetic Asides is a wonder to me. I'm actually not posting them there (that would feel too much like pressure) just playing with them in my journal. A few of them may wend there way here at some point! I just picked up the fourth prompt, which I shall mull over as I cook dinner...
I am just plain having fun with poetry this month. The sweet girl is enjoying our daily visits to Gotta Book's 30 Poets/30 Days. We've been enjoying some poetry books picked up from the library hold shelf on Saturday. I even launched my first ever write-off at Epinions in honor of Poetry Month.
Not bad for a lady who hasn't finished her taxes, is behind in every imaginable way with teaching and writing deadlines, is swamped with church commitments, can't possibly catch up on laundry (maybe ever again), and doesn't even want to think about all the record-keeping she needs to do for homeschool.
I have a feeling that writing poems right now is my way of taking deep breaths.
This feels highly ironic. Last year, I was so excited going into Poetry Month -- I set goals (reading, writing, blogging)! I set goals -- and I met very few of them. This year, scrambling as I am in what I'm beginning to think of as "the never ending busy season called my life" my only unstated-to-anyone but myself goal was simply to enjoy more poetry this month. Read more (myself, and with the family), visit poetry blogs as I can, maybe write a bit from time to time.
So the fact that I have actually written a rough poem for each of the first three days of the daily prompts at Poetic Asides is a wonder to me. I'm actually not posting them there (that would feel too much like pressure) just playing with them in my journal. A few of them may wend there way here at some point! I just picked up the fourth prompt, which I shall mull over as I cook dinner...
I am just plain having fun with poetry this month. The sweet girl is enjoying our daily visits to Gotta Book's 30 Poets/30 Days. We've been enjoying some poetry books picked up from the library hold shelf on Saturday. I even launched my first ever write-off at Epinions in honor of Poetry Month.
Not bad for a lady who hasn't finished her taxes, is behind in every imaginable way with teaching and writing deadlines, is swamped with church commitments, can't possibly catch up on laundry (maybe ever again), and doesn't even want to think about all the record-keeping she needs to do for homeschool.
I have a feeling that writing poems right now is my way of taking deep breaths.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Homeschool Group Poem: Spring
I've been enjoying sharing poetry wherever I go this month. On Friday, I had a few minutes to share some springtime poems with our homeschool group. Then three of the girls (including the sweet girl) tried their hand at writing a poem together.
I love doing wordplay exercises with kids. These three girls, ages 6-10, had so much fun just playing with words. I liked seeing their eyes spark with creativity as we brainstormed ideas together. I loved catching their energy as they watched their web of words grow as I jotted them down on newsprint. I threw out all sorts of sensory and imagination sparking questions about spring: what does it look like? sound like? what are the colors of spring? if it had a taste, what would it taste like? if it was a girl dressing up for a party, what would she wear?
That last question really got them going. As the answers poured forth, so did the first line of their poem. I recognized it as soon as I heard it. And once that line came together, the rest of it tumbled out from them in excited exclamations. They watched their joint-poem grow on the page, and then all three of them proudly signed it.
Here's what they came up with:
Spring
Spring is a lady
with a leafy hat.
She dances with
the wind.
She sings and whistles
with the birds.
She bows with the trees
and sways with
the flowers.
~by S, A & A, three very creative girls!
I love doing wordplay exercises with kids. These three girls, ages 6-10, had so much fun just playing with words. I liked seeing their eyes spark with creativity as we brainstormed ideas together. I loved catching their energy as they watched their web of words grow as I jotted them down on newsprint. I threw out all sorts of sensory and imagination sparking questions about spring: what does it look like? sound like? what are the colors of spring? if it had a taste, what would it taste like? if it was a girl dressing up for a party, what would she wear?
That last question really got them going. As the answers poured forth, so did the first line of their poem. I recognized it as soon as I heard it. And once that line came together, the rest of it tumbled out from them in excited exclamations. They watched their joint-poem grow on the page, and then all three of them proudly signed it.
Here's what they came up with:
Spring
Spring is a lady
with a leafy hat.
She dances with
the wind.
She sings and whistles
with the birds.
She bows with the trees
and sways with
the flowers.
~by S, A & A, three very creative girls!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Poetry Postcard 3
So many of my favorite poetry moments this month have come through reading the excellent interviews in The Poetry Makers series at the Miss Rumphius Effect. I especially love the quotes on poetry and writing I'm getting to add to my collection. Some of these come in the section where the poet is asked to share their own favorite quotes, but many others just jump off the page in the midst of the conversation. Here are a few I've especially enjoyed chewing on:
“Poems are not meant to be solved; they are meant to be savored.” --Allan Wolf
"I write so that I might become a better reader." --Allan Wolf (isn't that a delicious reversal from how we usually hear it?)
"I have a little notebook in my back pocket and a pen in my front pocket at all times. I actually get a little panicky when I’m without them." -- Allan Wolf (I resonate with this one!)
"...poems are for noticing, for wondering, for describing something so interesting you want to capture it in words, save it forever, share it with the world, make people see what you see, feel what you feel." -- Heidi Mordhorst
"...it’s fun for me to go through three or five or eight drafts of a poem. I like to watch it change and muscle me into where it wants to go instead of where I think I want to take it. Some people like to drive poetry around. I like to be poetry’s passenger." -- Ron Koertge
"My basic approach when I write is to waste no words." -- Charles R. Smith Jr.
"Fingers hover over the keyboard, brain chases down words, lassoing them like stray calves. Thesaurus, rhyming dictionary close at hand. If I get stuck, I push away from the desk – take a nap, eat some chocolate, take a walk. Shake the words loose. Return to the desk. And, to steal Ms. Yolen’s line, keep B.I.C. (Butt In Chair) until I’ve got something." -- Stephen Swinburne, on describing his writing process.
“Poems are not meant to be solved; they are meant to be savored.” --Allan Wolf
"I write so that I might become a better reader." --Allan Wolf (isn't that a delicious reversal from how we usually hear it?)
"I have a little notebook in my back pocket and a pen in my front pocket at all times. I actually get a little panicky when I’m without them." -- Allan Wolf (I resonate with this one!)
"...poems are for noticing, for wondering, for describing something so interesting you want to capture it in words, save it forever, share it with the world, make people see what you see, feel what you feel." -- Heidi Mordhorst
"...it’s fun for me to go through three or five or eight drafts of a poem. I like to watch it change and muscle me into where it wants to go instead of where I think I want to take it. Some people like to drive poetry around. I like to be poetry’s passenger." -- Ron Koertge
"My basic approach when I write is to waste no words." -- Charles R. Smith Jr.
"Fingers hover over the keyboard, brain chases down words, lassoing them like stray calves. Thesaurus, rhyming dictionary close at hand. If I get stuck, I push away from the desk – take a nap, eat some chocolate, take a walk. Shake the words loose. Return to the desk. And, to steal Ms. Yolen’s line, keep B.I.C. (Butt In Chair) until I’ve got something." -- Stephen Swinburne, on describing his writing process.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Mother-Daughter Poem: Shell
We've been reading lots of wonderful poetry this month, but on Friday we tried our hand at writing a joint poem. The sweet girl has been playing a lot with her shell collection lately (a number of beautiful shells her Dad picked up on the beach in South Carolina last year) and we spent a while just doing some wordplay exercises with the shells (what do they look like? what do they feel like? what colors are they?) before we wrote this poem together.
Shell
The long silver shell
is swirled.
It looks like it has
a window.
When I look through it
I think I can see
the sea.
~EMP & SBP, April 2010
Shell
The long silver shell
is swirled.
It looks like it has
a window.
When I look through it
I think I can see
the sea.
~EMP & SBP, April 2010
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Poetry Review: The Mouse of Amherst
I just posted a review of Elizabeth Spire's book The Mouse of Amherst. It's a charming tale told through the eyes of a little white mouse who lives in a hole in the wall in Emily Dickinson's room.
It's been an Emily Dickinson kind of month. With the sweet girl, I read the Emily Dickinson volume in the Poetry for Young People series. Late in the evenings, a bit at a time, I've been watching a video version of Julie Harris' one-woman play The Belle of Amherst, recorded sometime in the late 1970s, I think. It's a fascinating (somehow both funny and sad) portrait of the reclusive genius. I've also been meandering my way through a lovely book called Emily Dickinson's Gardens, as much about her flowers as it is about her life and poems, hence good springtime reading (though it actually cycles through all four seasons).
I'm hoping to pull together a unit study on Dickinson soon, as I keep getting ideas for supplemental activities and learning trails. Some of her poems definitely spoke to the sweet girl, who surprised me by choosing the poem "A Letter to a Bee" (the one that begins "Bee, I'm Expecting You...") for memorization. Not the easiest of Emily's poems to memorize, and yet she's done it and done it well. I think we'll definitely return to Dickinson again in the years to come!
It's been an Emily Dickinson kind of month. With the sweet girl, I read the Emily Dickinson volume in the Poetry for Young People series. Late in the evenings, a bit at a time, I've been watching a video version of Julie Harris' one-woman play The Belle of Amherst, recorded sometime in the late 1970s, I think. It's a fascinating (somehow both funny and sad) portrait of the reclusive genius. I've also been meandering my way through a lovely book called Emily Dickinson's Gardens, as much about her flowers as it is about her life and poems, hence good springtime reading (though it actually cycles through all four seasons).
I'm hoping to pull together a unit study on Dickinson soon, as I keep getting ideas for supplemental activities and learning trails. Some of her poems definitely spoke to the sweet girl, who surprised me by choosing the poem "A Letter to a Bee" (the one that begins "Bee, I'm Expecting You...") for memorization. Not the easiest of Emily's poems to memorize, and yet she's done it and done it well. I think we'll definitely return to Dickinson again in the years to come!
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Patchwork Post
I wasn't sure what to call this post ~ just so many bits and pieces that are too small to make posts of their own!
Fuse #8's 100 Children's Novels countdown is heading into the homestretch. Four spots left, and all four of my "must-be-there" books have yet to be named. So once again I'm predicting/hoping that here's what we'll see, counting down from 4-1: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; A Wrinkle in Time; Sorcerer's Stone; Charlotte's Web. I actually have no clue about order and am basing my predictions on the random thoughts that a) I've had a funny feeling all along that Charlotte/Sorcerer would come in as 1 and 2 (and my husband reached the same conclusion independently, leading me to believe we can't both be wrong!) and b) if the American/British pattern holds for books in the first two spots, it may hold for books in the third and fourth spots as well. I know...that makes little logical sense. Just humor me!
The sweet girl is loving the 30 Poets/30 Days over at Gotta Book. Just like last year, one poem in particular has totally captured her imagination. This year it's the poem "Re:Me" by Calef Brown. She's read it five or six times (and it's a long poem) and chortles her way through every time. We both appreciate its sense of fun, clever rhymes and wordplay. She's now trying to write a funny poem in imitation. Last night she got down from the dinner table and brought back paper and pencil. "I need to begin writing my poem," she explained. And then she asked, "Does it have to have punctuation in it?"
The taxes are alllmoooossstt done. Have I mentioned how much I don't enjoy having to work out self-employment taxes? And yet I love the freedom of working from home, which allows me to do other things I love, like homeschool. So I will try not to complain. Though I must say that I did a lot of sighing over the utterly un-downloadable forms on the state website. All I really have to do tonight is assemble the forms, write the checks, and make copies for the files. And I can do that while...
watching Scarecrow and Mrs. King! How utterly delighted I was to get the Season 1 DVD (which for some reason had never been released until this year) from my sister for my birthday. Scarecrow is just about my favorite television show of all time, perhaps recently dethroned by LOST (though let me wait on that judgment until the finale) and it's been so much fun to see these early episodes again. I even finally got to see the season 1 Christmas show, one of the few episodes of the entire series I'd never seen. Like the rest of them, it was sweet and sentimental in that wonderful early 1980s/Cold War/spy adventure sort of way.
I'm in a real reviewing slump at present, but last week did finally post my review of Eric Metaxas' book Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End Slavery. If you know anyone looking for an introduction to the life and work of the great Wilberforce (perhaps someone who saw the recent movie and is intrigued to know more) point them to this excellent book.
Sherry over at Semicolon kicked off her classical poems postings with a reflection on Psalm 23. That happened to be on the list of favorites I sent her. She's going to be posting about poems that got multiple votes/mentions, and in chronological order. I especially smiled to see that she posted a link to Keith Green singing "The Lord is My Shepherd." This Easter week has definitely been colored by Keith's music for us, especially this live recording of "The Victor" on youtube. I both tear up and smile whenever I watch it.
Fuse #8's 100 Children's Novels countdown is heading into the homestretch. Four spots left, and all four of my "must-be-there" books have yet to be named. So once again I'm predicting/hoping that here's what we'll see, counting down from 4-1: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; A Wrinkle in Time; Sorcerer's Stone; Charlotte's Web. I actually have no clue about order and am basing my predictions on the random thoughts that a) I've had a funny feeling all along that Charlotte/Sorcerer would come in as 1 and 2 (and my husband reached the same conclusion independently, leading me to believe we can't both be wrong!) and b) if the American/British pattern holds for books in the first two spots, it may hold for books in the third and fourth spots as well. I know...that makes little logical sense. Just humor me!
The sweet girl is loving the 30 Poets/30 Days over at Gotta Book. Just like last year, one poem in particular has totally captured her imagination. This year it's the poem "Re:Me" by Calef Brown. She's read it five or six times (and it's a long poem) and chortles her way through every time. We both appreciate its sense of fun, clever rhymes and wordplay. She's now trying to write a funny poem in imitation. Last night she got down from the dinner table and brought back paper and pencil. "I need to begin writing my poem," she explained. And then she asked, "Does it have to have punctuation in it?"
The taxes are alllmoooossstt done. Have I mentioned how much I don't enjoy having to work out self-employment taxes? And yet I love the freedom of working from home, which allows me to do other things I love, like homeschool. So I will try not to complain. Though I must say that I did a lot of sighing over the utterly un-downloadable forms on the state website. All I really have to do tonight is assemble the forms, write the checks, and make copies for the files. And I can do that while...
watching Scarecrow and Mrs. King! How utterly delighted I was to get the Season 1 DVD (which for some reason had never been released until this year) from my sister for my birthday. Scarecrow is just about my favorite television show of all time, perhaps recently dethroned by LOST (though let me wait on that judgment until the finale) and it's been so much fun to see these early episodes again. I even finally got to see the season 1 Christmas show, one of the few episodes of the entire series I'd never seen. Like the rest of them, it was sweet and sentimental in that wonderful early 1980s/Cold War/spy adventure sort of way.
I'm in a real reviewing slump at present, but last week did finally post my review of Eric Metaxas' book Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End Slavery. If you know anyone looking for an introduction to the life and work of the great Wilberforce (perhaps someone who saw the recent movie and is intrigued to know more) point them to this excellent book.
Sherry over at Semicolon kicked off her classical poems postings with a reflection on Psalm 23. That happened to be on the list of favorites I sent her. She's going to be posting about poems that got multiple votes/mentions, and in chronological order. I especially smiled to see that she posted a link to Keith Green singing "The Lord is My Shepherd." This Easter week has definitely been colored by Keith's music for us, especially this live recording of "The Victor" on youtube. I both tear up and smile whenever I watch it.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Poetry Postcard 2: Synchronicity and Process
I’m loving the synchronicity of my daily forays into poetry this month. Yesterday I checked in at Poetic Asides for the prompt of the day, which happened to be “write a history poem.” It could be the history of anything. I remembered my rough draft attempt, a few years back, to write a poem about my personal history (based on this template ~ the “Where I'm From” poem) and thought it might be fun to try to capture similar roots by writing a poem called “A Selective History of Me.”
What form that might have taken I don’t know, but then I stumbled upon this post at Wild Rose Reader, celebrating list poems. I think I’ve had poetic lists on the brain lately, since I’m re-reading Charlotte’s Web to the sweet girl…and E.B. White does delight in lists. Though his lists come in the midst of prose, they are their own bits of poetry. I decided I would try writing a list poem about my life.
The process has been interesting so far. I set out with no specific thoughts about how to shape the list, what limits to place on it. I began with an image from the day I came home from the hospital, an image of a welcome home banner on the wall of my family’s living room. I’ve actually seen that image in old home movies taken on Dad’s old Super-8 movie camera. Since I was starting at the beginning, my homecoming as a baby, the list began to flow naturally from there and move forward chronologically. The stanzas began to break themselves naturally into seasons of my life: babyhood and preschool, early school years, etc. I hadn’t consciously made the decision to do that, but it seemed to make sense, and I could tell (by my swift crossings-out, when I sensed that events or images felt out of order) that chronology matters to this poem.
So does concreteness. At first I toyed with naming significant people in my life, or at least significant relationships somehow, but it soon became clear that I needed to stick primarily to images (sights, sounds, smells) and artifacts. It’s been interesting to sense how many people and events stand behind those things, and to pick and choose which ones matter most. It’s also been interesting to note how much easier it was to zero in on a few key images from childhood. The farther I go into the past, the more starkly a few key images or events stand out as the ones I remember best or feel formed me most. The closer I get to the current-day, the more cluttered and richly layered things get, and the harder it is to pick and choose. I do find myself returning, like a migrating bird, to certain kinds of images, especially those drawn from nature and from books. And some recurring bits of language are cropping up as I revise, lending the whole exercise a bit more structure.
And then of course I found this quote, from poet Gene Fehler, over at the Poetry Makers series: “As far as ideas for writing poems, my favorite way to begin is to think of these four words: "What I remember most" -- and go from there.”
Sweet synchronicity.
What form that might have taken I don’t know, but then I stumbled upon this post at Wild Rose Reader, celebrating list poems. I think I’ve had poetic lists on the brain lately, since I’m re-reading Charlotte’s Web to the sweet girl…and E.B. White does delight in lists. Though his lists come in the midst of prose, they are their own bits of poetry. I decided I would try writing a list poem about my life.
The process has been interesting so far. I set out with no specific thoughts about how to shape the list, what limits to place on it. I began with an image from the day I came home from the hospital, an image of a welcome home banner on the wall of my family’s living room. I’ve actually seen that image in old home movies taken on Dad’s old Super-8 movie camera. Since I was starting at the beginning, my homecoming as a baby, the list began to flow naturally from there and move forward chronologically. The stanzas began to break themselves naturally into seasons of my life: babyhood and preschool, early school years, etc. I hadn’t consciously made the decision to do that, but it seemed to make sense, and I could tell (by my swift crossings-out, when I sensed that events or images felt out of order) that chronology matters to this poem.
So does concreteness. At first I toyed with naming significant people in my life, or at least significant relationships somehow, but it soon became clear that I needed to stick primarily to images (sights, sounds, smells) and artifacts. It’s been interesting to sense how many people and events stand behind those things, and to pick and choose which ones matter most. It’s also been interesting to note how much easier it was to zero in on a few key images from childhood. The farther I go into the past, the more starkly a few key images or events stand out as the ones I remember best or feel formed me most. The closer I get to the current-day, the more cluttered and richly layered things get, and the harder it is to pick and choose. I do find myself returning, like a migrating bird, to certain kinds of images, especially those drawn from nature and from books. And some recurring bits of language are cropping up as I revise, lending the whole exercise a bit more structure.
And then of course I found this quote, from poet Gene Fehler, over at the Poetry Makers series: “As far as ideas for writing poems, my favorite way to begin is to think of these four words: "What I remember most" -- and go from there.”
Sweet synchronicity.
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