Welcome to Poetry Friday! Thank you, Susan Bruck, for hosting here at Soul Blossom Living.
I’ve kept busy this week revising work. I’ve also been reading Mark Twain’s, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and the Adventures of Huckleberry Fin. I’ve never read them cover to cover. Twain writes characters with heart breaking humanity. For instance, Twain Huck is unable to be “good” and turn in Jim, an escaped slave, to authorities. He knows if he were a well bred boy and had good character, he would. Twain shows us through character, how slavery corrupted American society. Through his work, we can gain insight into how we became the America we are today.
For an adventure, I baked this week. I have always wanted to make pita bread, and I was surprisingly successful. I read the directions carefully and found it wasn’t that hard. They were crisp and tasty and I surprised my neighbor from Lebanon with some. I used the recipe in my old Fanny Farmer Baking Book, but there are many good recipes on line. Here’s one.
Here are the pita before their plunge into a 500 degree oven . . .
Welcome to another Poetry Friday! We are hosted today by Linda at TeacherDance. Make sure to stop and see what poetic intrigue she is up to.
This has been another horrible week in the national news and I fear for my Asian friends and family members. How can they not feel threatened by the racial violence that is taking place, it seem, all over the country? Meanwhile the pandemic will continue for a while. I’m sure, like me, many turn to nature for some solace.
This week while walking down a street I began to notice the squirrels’ nests in the highest branches of trees. They are uncovered in the winter because leaves have fallen. They inspired a poem that I will share, but first, I discovered this poem by Amos Russel Wells who was born in Glen’s Falls, N.Y., during the Civil War. I thought his poem was charming.
To A City-Park Squirrel
by Amos Russel Wells
Dear little exile from woodlands dear,
How can you keep your wilderness grace,
How can you bound so merrily here,
Shut in this narrow and formal place?
Still your fancies are forest-free,
Still as gallant you swing and glide
From dusty tree to skeleton tree
As once you roamed through the woodlands wide.
Surely you must, on a witching night,
Flee from the prisoning haunts of men,
Over the housetops take your flight,
And bathe yourself in the woods again!
It’s easy to imagine this squirrel taking flight! (Actually, I wouldn’t mind fleeing into a city, like New York, to satisfy my pandemic travel fever.) Anyway, the poem resonated with me because as I looked at the squirrels’ nests this week on my street, I began to imagine they lived in high rises. This isn’t the first time these furry and common creatures have showed up in my writing.
Welcome to Poetry Friday, the coming of Spring edition. Heidi Mordhorst, at My Juicy Little Universe, is hosting HERE. Be sure to stop by to see what poems she is sharing this week.
Spring is coming to Central New York and everything seems imbued with new hope. They are lowering the age for vaccines and people are lining up. I don’t think it’s too wishful to believe that as time goes on more and more people everwhere will agree to take it.
Today, I waited for a LaMiPoFri to come to me as I stared out my living room window at the early spring colors, mostly brown, but some green. I noticed my husband left a ladder by the porch.
THE BOTTICELLIAN TREES, by William Carlos Williams, provides images of trees changing in spring. Trees/ alphabet metaphor to me was unusual. It’s a lovely poem. Below is the beginning, and the rest HERE
THE BOTTICELLIAN TREES
The Alphabet of
the trees
is fading in the
song of the leaves
the crossing
bars of the thin
letters that spelled
winter
and the cold
have been illuminated
with
pointed green
by the rain and sun--
I hope everyone is well and enjoying the first days of spring, at least they are the first days in Central New York.
It’s the first Friday of March (where has the time gone?) and a new month of Poetry Fridays. Thank you Kathryn Apel for hosting this week at Katwhiskers! She has an inspiring post and acrostic poem about writing, persistence and passion. Congratulations to her on her new picture book, “A Bird in the Herd.”
I have been polishing a work in progress, a collection of non-fiction poems for third grade about something we all know about, the wonder of digestion. I have been thinking about humor and what facts to include where.
Though I didn’t get to every February prompt offered by Laura Shovan, I gave one or two a try every week. The poem I want to share this week is from a prompt by Randi Sonenshine on day #25, using this photo for inspiration.
The prompt is about the ways living things try to blend in. The photo above is of an octopus that is disguised as coral. I’m not sure I see it, but that is the point, isn’t it? The master of disguise, the walking stick, aka stick bug, came to mind.
Stick bugs are found all over the world except Antarctica or Patagonia. They can be a foot long, but most are several inches. They are fascinating to look at because it’s hard to tell at first if it is a twig or a bug.
There are about 3,000 species and usually they will reside in one single tree their whole life, eating its leaves. Oaks are popular. They live about one year and survive mainly by their ability to avoid detection by taking on the color and texture of wood, although some use unpleasant secretions and sharp spines to defend themselves.
I have no idea if Lady Gaga wants to avoid the paparazzi but I imagine she does, at least on Sunday morning.
Good luck to our teachers as they get vaccines soon and children returning safely to school. With children in mind, I’ll close with a joyful verse by William Blake. We all know how children want to play and resist coming back indoors at the end of a summer day. Hopefully kids will have more freedom this summer.
NURSE'S SONG
by William Blake
When the voices of children are heard on the green
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast
And everything else is still.
"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies."
"No, no let us play, for it is yet day
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly
And the hills are all cover'd with sheep.
"Well, well, go & play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed."
The little ones leaped & shouted & Laugh'd
And all the hills echoed.
Poetry Friday this week is hosted by Karen Edmisten Here. Thank you, Karen for hosting this week! Please stop by and see what she is sharing today.
And to begin, congratulations to Irene Latham for her Caldecott Honor award for her picture book, THE CAT MAN OF ALEPPO! And happy birthday, too!
This week I will share work by Edna St. Vincent Millay, a poet was born in Maine in 1892 and lived to be only fifty eight. She wrote drama, librettos, and poetry, winning the Pulitzer Prize in 1923. Early on, she wanted to be a pianist, but since her teacher felt her hands were too small, she decided to write, to our benefit. Some thought her writing was naughty and outrageous, others found her the refreshing voice of the twentieth century woman.
She was the daughter of an independent mother, divorced from a “frivolous” husband. She became a practical nurse to support her children. Of her mother, Millay wrote: “I cannot remember once in the life when you were not interested in what I was working on, or even suggested that I should put it aside for something else.” You can read more about her fascinating life in the link above. But why choose a poem by her today?
Maybe because the end of the pandemic is more forseeable, I’ve been fantasizing about road trips. I can’t complain about a thing because I have much to be grateful for. Still everyday I think about summer and swimming in my favorite park in the Fingerlakes, visiting Maine or the Jersey Shore, the Adirondacks, places I love. I want to see my sister who lives across the country. So when I read the poem, TRAVEL, by Millay, I felt perfect. The language she uses, the sensory details created in me longing to board a train.
Edna St.Vincent Millay
TRAVEL
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 it's 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.
I also have a poem to share from day eight of Laura Shovan’s February poetry Project. The photo for the prompt, with such beautiful detail, was provided by Buffy Silverman.
I hope the numbers of vaccines in arms accelerate and all the communities most severely impacted by the pandemic get their shots! All of us want to see our family and friends, get the kids in school, and maybe feel more freedom see more of the world, before too long.
It’s Poetry Friday, this week hosted by Ruth at her blog, There is no Such Thing as a God Forsaken Town, HERE. Thank you, Ruth! I look forward to seeing what you have in store for us.
Earlier this month, I came across this creepy image, on Laura Shovan’s blog, as a prompt for poets. The photo came from The Alliance for Chesapeake Bay. I’d never seen anything like it. No, they are not human hands. But they sure do look like human hands, dead ones.
So, I thought, did I really want to write about this gruesome image, the fungus OSCOMYCETOUS? Of course I did! And I will share my poem:
This is just a prompt, I’m not normally so gruesome. Some good things are actually happening even in the midst of this pandemic. Over the last month it’s clear that Covid is no longer being ignored.
It’s Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Molly Hogan HERE at Nix the Comfort Zone. Thank you for hosting, Molly!
This week, I spent some time on the prompts Laura Shovan posted on Poetry Friday LAST WEEK. “Bodies” are the theme for her February Poetry Project. Thank you, Laura, for inviting us to be part of it. I found the prompts fun and challenging.
As I was choosing a subject for this week’s post I realized that Valentine’s Day is a few days off. I remember sending valentines like the one below made with paper lace doilies for my classmates. Be Mine, Valentine!
I searched for a love poem this week and on my shelves I found an old one, written in 1606 by Ben Jonson. Looks white, he’s not someone you would swoon over, perhaps, though that’s in the eye of the beholder. But I think he makes up for it in depth of feeling and earnestness. That’s really what matters.
BEN JONSON
Though four hundred years old, his love poem, in iambic meter, was immediately familiar, and so smooth to read aloud, maybe that’s why someone eventually put it to music:
SONG: TO CELIA
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.
But thou theron didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
I like the notion that the rose the lover gives to his love, Celia, could not wither. His love for her imbues it with life.
To write my own poem for this post, I found a Van Gogh painting, a picture that offered a possibility for an ekphrastic poem appropriate for Valentine’s Day.
The Dutch genius is one of my favorite artists, and I know I’m not alone. His yellows and blues, his skies and his flowers never fail to evoke strong emotion whenever I look at them. In this painting, Starry Night over the Rhône, at first I didn’t notice the two figures in the lower right. But there they were, with this fabulous backdrop, walking closely together as if oblivious to it. If they are lovers, maybe the stars and water are transformed by their love, like Jonson’s roses.
I hope everyone has a good week. Maybe Valentine’s Day can provide momentary levity this week during the pandemic while teachers, health care workers, the government, and all essential workers continue to get the country back on track.
Do you want more info about Poetry Friday? Check HERE.
Welcome to Poetry Friday, this week hosted by Jone Rush MacCulloch, here. I wonder what her muse has in store for us this week!
A snow storm passed through Syracuse yesterday and the world here is white- the trees, the roads, the yards and roofs of houses. I’m thinking about going out side later and what I will wear, so that I am cozy and warm when I do.
And while staring out at this new world and thinking about what to post this week, I stumbled upon A.A. Milne and his 1924 book of poems, WHEN WE WERE YOUNG, which is in the public domain. Such joyful verse! Hear these poems read on you tube here.
I love the innocence in A.A. Milne poems and his connection with the voice of a child. Being British, Milne no doubt understood well the importance of dressing for miserable weather, as in this poem:
HAPPINESS
by A.A. Milne
John had
Great Big
Waterproof
Boots on;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Hat;
John had a
Great Big
Waterproof
Mackintosh--
And that
(Said John)
Is
That.
What is it about this simple poem? First, the title. Who wouldn’t wonder what the poet is about to say about happiness, which is something we think of and search for, lately especially. The title draws us in.
Happiness is not about grand things. Rather it’s about things like being warm and dry when we’re out and about in the weather. It’s recognizing and appreciating basic things really do make us happy. Children seem to know this. Here’s a short ditty with my possible snow adventure in mind:
It’s Poetry Friday, this week Hosted by Jan Annino at Birdseed Studios. There, you will find links to information about poet Amanda Gorman, including info about her upcoming picture book CHANGE SINGS..
Today I tried writing a few nestlings. If you don’t know about Irene Latham’s book, THIS POEM IS A NEST, definitely check it out.
In this book, the author has written a long four part prose poem, each part about a season. This is the “nest.” Then, using only the words from that poem, she writes “nestlings.” A long poem is a good idea when composing your nest, as it gives you lots of word choices to write nestlings. And you want your nestlings to take you in different directions. Her nestlings cover topics such as time, colors, animals and much more.
Here is a poem I posted a while ago that I again revised. It’s my “nest.”
And below are my few nestlings. I found it challenging, but titles can be put to good use, and you can employ any word you like in a title.
AUTUMN PLAY
swirl and hide
in rainbow
leaves—
SUMMERTIME
dirt
on tiny hands
OUTSIDE, IN WINTER
sun flash
in
mirrors
IN SPRINGTIME WHAT TO LOOK OUT FOR
On the ground-
fat caterpillars.
SOMETHING IMPOSSIBLE TO DO
snare
rain
drops
THE BEST THING TO DO IF YOU BOUGHT SOME:
return
cracked
cymbals
Writing nestlings gets you to think about words closely, a good thing for a poet. In Irene’s book you will find inspiration for all sorts of poems beyond nests and nestlings. It’s full of good ideas.
I just finished a three session workshop with Georgia Heard on revision. It was a wonderful group of poets, among them several Poetry Friday poets. Janet Wong attended one session adding her expertise. We spent much time discussing looking for places in a poem that are too abstract and replacing them with more evocative images. Georgia is a master at critiquing poems and is always kind and generous.
Have a good weekend and good luck as you try to get on the vaccine list. I am so happy scientists are front and center. Bless those working so hard to get the country going again. Yay science! Yay poetry!
Thank you, Laura Shovan, for hosting Poetry Friday today Here.
First, what an amazing and stunning star-studded inauguration! It brought me so much joy to see the performing arts and music back on the national stage.
Here’s a link to a highlight of the day, the inaugural poem, by lovely and brilliant Amanda Gorman.
Acceptance of others was one theme of the day, so it reminded me of. . . . the gulls on Appledore Island. Bear with me.
A host in the past to the likes of Blackbeard and Captain John Smith, Appledore Island is a half mile wide, made of rock and shrubs. It is the largest in an archipelago seven miles off the coast of Maine known as the Isles of Shoals.
Research student Mary Caswell Stoddard from Yale arrived on Appledore Island in 2007 and found many hundreds of Herring Gulls, like this one, nesting:
Great Black-backed Gulls liked the one below, lived among them, too. They delighted in dive bombing researchers with a Kek Kek and bites to their legs and heads. Helmets are required gear.
But one day a newcomer was observed in a nest on a ledge on the island. It had yellow feet! It didn’t belong in Herring Gull territory. The new bird was a Lesser Black-backed Gull.
This yellow footed gull was soon observed “cavorting” on a cliff with another species, a Herring gull. Mary Stoddard, the researcher, noted that the newcomer was gradually accepted by the ornery Herring gulls nesting all around just as she herself, sitting in a makeshift blind, was accepted with time. The newcomer gull lived peacefully with the Appledore gull population.
Stoddard writes :
“. . . the initial excitement and the subsequent dullness eventually gave way to a satisfying equilibrium: At some point, I realized that I knew gull-speak. I understood the patterns and peculiarities of the Lesser Black-backed Gull and his mate–what times of day they preferred to incubate, which neighbors they particularly disliked, how they communicated with one another using mew calls and head tosses.”
Stoddard wrote about the gulls in Birdwatching Magazine. From 2008 to 2011, this same male Lesser Black-backed Gull (sex determined by DNA testing) returned to the exact same spot on Appledore to breed with his Herring Gull mate. They had chicks that survived, something that interested researchers, as the gull parents were of different species.
Nature is an endless well of stories about living things, like the Lesser Black-backed Gull, finding a way to live and thrive among others who are different.
This haiku might describe what the researcher saw through her binoculars.
