Ghazal Challenge

Welcome to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Denise HERE. Thank you, Denise, for hosting!

What is Poetry Friday? Find out more about it HERE.

I learn so much from reading the Poetry Friday blogs each week, about poetry forms, about poets I have never read, and more. Last week, I learned about the ghazal.

What is a ghazal? It’s a poetry form that is not easy to write. The Poetry Foundation describes it HERE. And Catherine Flynn, and others have recently written and posted ghazals.

The form isn’t easy, and my first attempts failed. Actually, it seemed impossible, but poetry writing requires feeling stumped. I needed the right subject and I stumbled upon . . . .fried chicken.

My ghazal is about my mother who was the chief chef at our family restaurant. I think if she were here she might like it. The restaurant is long gone, and this is one of the few photos I have. Here I am in the 1990’s with my two boys, Phil and Matt.

When this photo was taken, my brother owned Scully’s and my sons thought it was cool to visit Uncle Mike in the kitchen.

When the restaurant opened in the fifties, the first item on the menu was fried chicken. It looked like this:

Scully’s fried chicken looked just like this.

Hungry yet? My mother cooked a tons of it. She’d roast huge pans of chicken halves in tomato juice sprinkled with Alamo seasoning then batter, bread and fry the roasted chicken in a deep fryer, sprinkle it with a touch of celery salt and serve. Here’s my Mom in the kitchen.

The ghazal poetry form is described on the links above. I can’t claim this follows the form perfectly. But here it is. There were days when Mom would have have surely referred to our popular dish in derogatory terms.

SCULLY’S FRIED CHICKEN

My mother raised her kids making good-lickin' chicken,
plated and parsleyed tons of gold frickin' chicken

Standing by the stove breading breasts and thighs,
Dad at the bar served the hot quick chicken.

Southern fried from New York, not New Orleans,
still it was crispy good kickin’ chicken.

Fried scallops, too, fried shrimp and fried fish,
but most of our customers wanted bone pickin’ chicken.

Florida bound at the end of thirty years spent
serving mouth-watering plump thick chicken.

© Janice Scully 2021

Stay well, everyone. My thoughts are with all the brave teachers, children, and health care workers. Thanks, Denise, for hosting. You will find a list today’s Poetry Friday blogs on her blog, HERE.

MY CARNEGIE LIBRARY

Welcome to Poetry Friday! This week we are hosted by Tricia Here. Thank you, Tricia, for hosting.

Driving back to Syracuse from the Jersey Shore Friday afternoon of Labor Day weekend, I visited the town where I went to school, Port Jervis, on the Delaware River. I lived three miles away in the small town of Sparrowbush.

I hadn’t been to either place for several years and drove through town to see the Carnegie Library where I had discovered books. What was it like now? I wondered. On the outside it looked exactly the same.

Andrew Carnegie, a Scottish American capitalist who made his fortune in steel, felt the rich had a moral obligation to distribute money in ways that help the common man. He spent 350 million, which was a large portion of his wealth, on philanthropy. He helped build 2,500 public libraries world wide and much more, including Carnegie Hall. You can read more about Andrew Carnegie here.

THE CARNEGIE LIBRARY IN PORT JERVIS, NY

Inside my Carnegie Library, it seemed the front desk was frozen in time, unchanged in fifty years. Two librarians were behind it, and the library was otherwise empty that Friday afternoon. I didn’t feel comfortable taking pictures inside because I think the librarians sensed my disappointment at seeing the drab, and frankly, threadbare carpet and the furniture they claimed with pride was “original.” Their funding is through the school and I sensed there is little money available for frills.

Yet, thanks to them, there was an exhibit on Stephen Crane that included a walking tour they were enthusiastic to share. I now know that author Stephen Crane lived in Port Jervis for many years. In fact his relationships with Civil War Veterans there in the 1880’s inspired THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE, which I loved as an adult. It turns out that much of his other writing is loosely based on people and places in Port Jervis. I didn’t have time to take the walking tour, so maybe I’ll have to return. I also hope to read more of Stephen Crane’s writing. Maybe I’ll recognize Port Jervis in his lines.

STEPHEN CRANE

Here’s a quote I found on the above link. (Hartwood was a nearby town, I think.)

“My idea is to come finally to live at Port Jervis or

 Hartwood. I am a wanderer now and I must see enough

but – afterwards – I think of P.J. and Hartwood.”


Stephen Crane’s October 29, 1897 letter from London, England, to his brother William in Port Jervis, New York.   

As my husband and I had arrived in to Port Jervis as school had just let out. Busses were lining up. Middle school kids were laughing and chatting on sidewalks. I wondered if any would stop at the library. I hoped so.

IF NOT FOR THE LIBRARY AND BOOKS

We’d know only what we are told

in school

at home

what others think we should know.

Beware of libraries!

©Janice Scully 2021


	

Sicilian Artist, Antonio Ligabue

Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted by Elizabeth Norton Here. Thank you, Elizabeth for hosting this week!

Often I surprise myself with the topics I find for my weekly posts. I think that is what I enjoy most about writing this blog. It often takes me places I’ve been and have forgotten. Wonderful places. This week it is Sicily. It was beautiful, but, oh, it was hot when my husband and I traveled there in 2016. One day it was 107 degrees F. This dog knew how to stay cool.

So we spent some time indoors at a small, out of the way museum. That was where I discovered artist Antonio Ligabue. You can read details about his life and see some of his work Here. His paintings and drawings were gaining attention in Italy during the early 1950’s. He passed away in the 1960’s.

Ligabue was a genius who suffered from mental illness which is one reason why he has been likened to Van Gogh. Another reason is his work. Below is a still life that charmed me. I love his whimsical flowers that dwarf the table. I love the ornate setting.

Below is a signed self portrait. I was taken by the playfulness in his work, personality in his face, suit, and hat!

This is a quote from Mr. Ligabue, likely at a time when he felt frustrated or unable to make ends meet, was posted at the museum:

Io sono un grande artista, la gente
non mi comprende, ma bu giorno I miei quadri costeranno tanti soldi e allora tutti capiranno chi veramente era Antonio Ligabue.

I am a great artist. People don't get me, but one day my paintings will cost a lot of money, and then people will truly understand what kind of man was Antonio Ligabue.  

I don’t know what his work would cost now. But no matter what price, I think he was a wonderful artist, not to mention self-confident in his abilities.

TO A STRIVING ARTIST
A poem inspired by the life of Antonio Ligabue

You might be disappointed
that your work isn't noticed
right away,
 
perplexed.

But someday,
who knows when,
maybe in seventy years,
or much sooner,
someone may discover your
painting and ask,

"Who IS the artist?"

and because a small
steady smouldering fire
has slowly caught on,
 
someone nearby
will tell them.


©Janice Scully

Stay safe and well, everyone, and have a wonderful weekend.

Francis Perkins, a Picture Book Biography and a Limerick.

Welcome to Poetry Friday! We are hosted this week here by Carol at her blog Apples in My Orchard. Thank you, Carol!

You can find out more about Poetry Friday here.

Last week I mentioned listening to children’s author Melissa Stewart’s work shop on picture book biography. She discussed writing about historical figures who are not widely known. To catch a publisher’s eye, the author needs to find something in this past life that still resonates today.

Francis Perkins is not currently widely known. She was nominated by FDR to be the first woman cabinet secretary. She ran the Department of Labor.

She was a compassionate woman who didn’t blame the poor who suffered during the depression as some did. She chose to help them. She was the social justice voice behind the 1935 New Deal legislation.

Francis Perkins, behind FDR

THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE PHOTO: Francis Perkins and Her New Deal for America, is a picture book biography by renowned author Kathleen Krull, Illustrated by the talented Alexandra Bye.

There have always been figures in American history who felt that it is not the responsibility of taxpayers to help the poor. This debate is still going on today. Some continue to believe that if the poor should simply work harder, they wouldn’t be poor.

But Francis Perkins knew that there were “unnecessary hazards to life” and “unnecessary poverty.” The elderly who cannot work are only one example. The New Deal is why Social Security, unemployment insurance, and a minimum wage exist today. It was the beginning of a safety net for Americans and this book is a reminder of the suffering in America that inspired it.

Francis Perkins is relevant today because of her passion for social justice. I am grateful for her service to the country.

FRANCIS PERKINS' NEW DEAL

There once was a woman named Francis
Who FDR thought would enhance his
Department of Labor,
we SO owe her a favor!
From our bustling coastlines to Kansas. 

© Janice Scully

I AM FARMER: A picture book about a dream come true

Welcome to Poetry Friday! This week Christie is our host HERE at Wandering and Wondering. Thank you for hosting, Christie!

To start off, a shout out to Janet Wong and Sylvia Vardell. This afternoon I attended their workshop on poetry anthologies, entitled Anthologies 101. It was inspiring and informative. It was also everything anyone needs to know on how to find submission opportunities, how to begin indie or self publishing, and advice on how to get your poems into the hands of a publisher. Though the workshop was just a beginning and there is much to know, I have a clearer idea how to move forward and I hope get more poems into books.

When I sat down today to decide what to share this week, I pulled from my stack of picture books, I AM FARMER, a 2019 book written by Baptiste and Miranda Paul and gorgeously illustrated by Elizabeth Zunon.

Why this book? First of all, it’s August and I have been getting deliveries of home grown produce from my neighbor. I love carrots, beets and onions that are still covered in soil because they were picked that morning.

In addition to receiving such bounty, this week I listened to Melissa Stewart’s excellent workshop on picture book biographies. She discussed how to choose a topic. This is crucial if you want to publish a picture book biography.

I AM FARMER is an appealing topic to a publisher because, although it’s about an obscure living person, a man named Tantoh Nforba from Cameroon, his life and work is acutely relevant today to people everywhere, including the U.S.. One theme is about respecting the land and protecting water because our lives depend on it. The book also tells a story about a diverse people and a diverse culture not widely known by most people who live in the U.S..

Miranda and Baptiste Paul are both poets and the lyrical writing shows that. The Book begins with a poem:

THIS IS NORTHWESTERN CAMEROON

Green

Wet

Alive

The rainy season has begun.

Check out the colors in Zunon’s illustrations.

We meet Tantoh as a boy who is smart and inquisitive. He will face many obstacles in his life.

At school, he wants to know everything there is to know about farming, though this will not earn him respect. Only the poor are farmers. They call him “Farmer” which is considered disrespectful, but not to him. He persists in his interest. I love this spread which shows his determination.

The page begins: “Tantoh wants to learn more. He wants to learn everything.

And though his intelligence and talent as a farmer are finally recognized, his struggle is to over. His personal encounter with drinking bad water and subsequent illness, shows him the importance of water conservation in his community.

The book begins with ends a short poem, and ends with another, but I won’t spoil it by posting it. I hope this book finds its way into classrooms everywhere to inspire kids to follow their dreams.

Jone Macullogh’s Moonrise

Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted by Mary Lee, here. Thank you, Mary Lee for hosting. She’s changed up her blog, it’s got a different face, so check it out.

I’ve taken a month off in an effort to focus on my WIP, a novel in verse. I want to share some poems at a Highlights conference in September. I’m making progress, so I thought I’d return to my blog and see what everyone else is up to and find some poetry inspiration. I hope everyone is enjoying summer.

For me it’s not summer without daisies, and with the rain and sun this past month in Syracuse, we’ve had plenty.

But one of the very best things that happened this July was the arrival of a package from Jone Rush MacCulloch, part of Tabatha’s summer poetry swap. I thought it was a book, but no. It was Jone’s artwork! I knew it was coming, but that day it was a wonderful surprise.

I apologize for the lack of clarity. It’s hard to reproduce with my I-phone. But maybe you can glimpse the whimsical feel to the collage, full of trees, birds, musical notes, the moon, and an interesting, mysterious landscape and sky. I’ve reproduced the poem, which is full of sensory images, below.

INTO THE MOONRISE
by Jone Rush MacCulloch

     Robins
singing night vespers
    in the trees.

  Fragrant breeze
of raspberry copses

   Against purple clouds
as they sail into the moonrise.

   Who remembers? 

I used her poem as a mentor and wrote this in response:

INTO THE SUNSET

Cicada song
ebbs and flows.
A dog barks.

Daisies dim their lights.
Cone flowers darken,
leaves exhale. 

Summer night--
nothing to do
until morning. 

© Janice Scully 2021

Have a wonderful August. Things could be better in terms of the pandemic and we will all have to be careful and make the most of the situation. One thing I’ve done this last month is watch less news. One time hearing the important events is enough. More time for poems. It’s been a relief.

Summertime and Baseball

It’s Poetry Friday this week hosted by Laura Shovan here. Thank you Laura for hosting.

Tonight, July first, my husband, my visiting son and I were invited, by my other son, to an event. At NBT Stadium in Syracuse the Syracuse Mets, our local team and the farm team for the New York Mets, were playing. I confess I am not an avid fan of baseball games. But happy to do something out in the world together with my family, the four of us all went. I was glad I did. It was a lovely, cool summer night and we sat behind home base and met others as happy as we were to be there.

NBT Stadium in Syracuse home of the Syracuse Mets
Inky blue black sky
over a chartreuse diamond--
The Mets showing off.

There was only a small reminder in the elevator of the pandemic.

Our baseball mascot
cavorting in his fur suit--
inspires wellness.

As New York is 70% vaccinated, I saw no face masks. The night normal, as normal as possible given what we’ve been through. The chocolate ice cream was delicious.

I wrote two haiku here to share, posted above. But lots of baseball poetry has been written for kids. Sylvia Vardell’s 2007 post here provides a wonderful list of books of baseball poetry.

I hope all of you enjoy many evenings this summer with friends and family. I’m hoping for vaccinations to continue and the pandemic to be OVER.

Edward Thomas’ THE OWL

Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted by Linda Mitchell here. Thank you Linda for hosting!

Not long ago, after the snow melted and spring was on the way, I stopped at Woodstock, NY, on my way home from a family visit. This creek runs through town.

Woodstock is not where the famous 1969 music festival was held. That was Bethel, NY, but Woodstock is an arts community, with craft shops and an independent bookstore. There I found this wonderful 2021 anthology of poems entitled, 100 POEMS TO BREAK YOUR HEART, edited by Edward Hirsch who is a poet and a teacher. Though it is not about poetry “mostly for children,”as in my blog title, I do think that some older adolescents might enjoy and learn from this book.

Hirsch has chosen one hundred stunning poems, most I’ve never heard of, and gives us a brief history of the poet and discusses why each poem continues to stir readers’ emotions.

Poet Edward Thomas was a young man, born in 1878, who loved walking and studying nature. I discovered him in this book and found this lovely photo on Wikipedia.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

Thomas is known today for his war poems. “The Owl” was written in February 1915 after the start of World War l. Still a civilian, with great empathy he describes the comforts of food, fire and rest during one evening, knowing these are things that soldiers and unfortunate others, are not able to enjoy that night.

THE OWL
by Edward Thomas (1915)

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry cold, and tired was I,
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others couldn't, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. 

Three months later, Thomas joins the British Army, and two years later, died during a shell blast.

There are a few interesting craft notes that Hirsch brought to my attention. One is the owl’s cry which recalls the owl in Shakespeare’s LOVE’S LABOUR LOST. But in contrast to the Bard’s owl with its “merry note”, Thomas’ owl is melancholy.

Also the owls cry is introduced at the last line of the second stanza and the stanza break extends it’s effect with, “Shaken out long and clear upon the hill.”

The last line of the third stanza, which Hirsch describes as “an important hinge” to the poem, is eleven syllables. All the rest in the poem are ten. A hinge because it introduces the “others” that Thomas is thinking of.

In the fourth stanza, the word “salted” is a wonderful word that can simply make us think of seasoning in food, but also brings to mind tears, and sadness the author feels thinking of all those others outside the inn where he finds comfort.

This poem broke my heart. Hirsch discusses THE OWL, and many others, in a clear and accessible way.

Have a wonderful weekend, everyone.

Cagey Red Fox

Happy Poetry Friday, today hosted by Buffy Silverman Here. I know Buffy loves wildlife, so maybe she and others will enjoy seeing a snapshot of the fox that often wanders through our yard. Today, he posed with his dinner, as if unsure what to do, then shortly after the photo was taken, grabbed his fresh catch and ran off. I love the shape and color of this lovely creature, but always stay away when he appears.

CAGEY RED FOX

passing through

it seems you can tell

I am spying on you.

Hunting for dinner

is what foxes do,

And that unlucky squirrel

looked scrumptious to you.

©Janice Scully 2021

I love middle grade humor and one of the funniest books I know is Roald Dahl’s THE FANTASTIC MR. FOX. I’ve written about humor previously, a topic close to my heart. I’m sure many of the teachers post on Poetry Friday or stop by, and their students are fans of Roald Dahl. I think that perhaps the author might have seen a creature like the one above with a similar face and whimsical tail, and was inspired to write this story.

The main character, Mr. Fox, is endlessly clever and determined to steal food. The antagonists, three greedy farmers, are equally as clever as well as mean, and are determined to keep him away from their farms. The conflict makes for a great deal of humor.

I hope everyone is enjoying summer, are well and getting some fresh air.

EVERYWHERE BLUE: A Novel in Verse

Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted by Carol at http://carolwscorner.blogspot.com. Thank you, Carol, for hosting!

My posts have been a little shorter with the summer. Have been out and about as much as I can and seeing friends and enjoying my post-vaccination freedom here in Upstate NY. I hope restrictions are loosening up elsewhere.

The novel in verse, EVERYWHERE BLUE, BY JOANNE ROSSMASSLER FRITZ, published this year by Holiday House deserves another shout out. On 4/22/21, Jone Macculoch posted an excellent interview with the author here if you want to know more about this talented poet.

What I loved most about this book was the musical terms and feeling that coursed through the novel from first page to last. For instance, the book is divided into four parts and each part is named by a musical term: Diminuendo, Adagio, Staccato, and the last is Crecendo. Like a piece of music, the plot and tension builds through poetry.

The novel begins with this poem:

(this is just the first part)

NOVEMBER

November pulls me down.
Like a diminuendo in music,
gradually dying away.
Darkness falls too early
and the chill creeps in.

Before dusk,

        before we learn the truth
        about my brother,

this day plays out
like any ordinary day,
a symphony of sameness. 

Just the way I like it.

The twelve year-old oboe playing main character, Madrigal, faces a problem: her brother, named Strum, has disappeared from college. This is discovered early on and the rest of the book kept me on edge. It’s a mystery, and the author tells the story in poems, mostly free verse, but peppered with carefully crafted and well placed forms such as villanelle, couplets and haiku. As the mystery of the missing brother plays out, we get to know Madrigal’s parents and sibs as they attempt, each in their own way, to deal with this mysterious loss.

Chekov said that happy families are all alike, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. By the end of the novel, we understand what it is in this particular family that has caused it to be troubled.

I won’t, of course, reveal how this plot resolves, but the ending gives us hope, and this is a family we like, grow to understand, and in which we see ourselves. I love that in the end, we see Madrigal, who has struggled with playing her oboe, finds more feeling in her music as her family heals.