janice.scully – Page 22 – SALT CITY VERSE

Letters to Home from Vietnam

My brother, Jim, was flying to Vietnam just as astronauts Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins were hurling towards the moon on Apollo 11. It was July 1969 and Jim had just turned twenty. He spent a year in combat and his platoon was attached, at least part of the time to the 173rd Airborne Brigade. I was sixteen, and to say the least, naive about what dangers he was about to face. My parents never discussed politics or the war, but I remember my mother sending packages of bread, socks, batteries, candy and other things he requested. I had no idea Jim wrote letters to my parents, until he passed away last year after a long difficult illness.

When attended his memorial service in California I was delighted that his wife, Cindy, shared with me a packet of letters from Jim to my parents. I was amazed to receive them, read every word and transcribed them. As children, Jim was fun and sweet. I saw that again in the letters. He used to tease me like big brothers did, and I remember how determined he was to grow his hair long and wear bell bottoms in high school, which my father railed against.

I was so grateful to see his handwriting and to read his sentences. He was a very good writer who thought about details. It was touching how much he depended on “goodies” sent from home. He talked about his duties as a soldier, as well as his fears and longing for home. This is an ending of a six page letter:

Page 6

I'm expecting these packages any day now. Wish they'd hurry up and get here. I'm getting hungry for some decent food from back in the world. I really look forward to the goodies. 

Well that's about all for now. I gotta go clean my mortar and get ready to fire tonight. I'll write a few lines tomorrow. Love, Jim

I have written poems based on his letters and it’s helped trigger memories about my family. The letters seem to lend themselves to poetry and I’ve thought a lot about what it means to take his words and rework their form, adding line breaks and pauses. How could they be part of a memoir of that year from my point of view as a high school senior? Or a fictionalized novel in verse? I’m not sure what this will evolve into, but it’s been meaningful to me.

I’ll share one of many.

QUIET NIGHT IN VIETNAM, 1969
 

 There’s nothing happening.
 I worry it’s so quiet. 
 
 This fire base hasn’t been hit
 in over 30 days, but
 before that, 
 it was hit
 two or three
 times a night.
 
 My C.O. said this
 place has taken more
 enemy rounds
 than any place in Vietnam
 except Ben Het. 
 
 That’s hard to believe
 because
 it’s so damn quiet. 
 
 One of these days 
 I’m gonna leave this place
 forever
 and it will be behind me
 for good. 

 And I wonder how I’m gonna act. 
 
 ©Janice Scully 2020

Welcome to Poetry Friday! Rebecca Herzog is our host at Sloth Reads.

Charleston, a City of the Past and the Present.

Before I begin, congratulations to Kay McGriff, the winner of last weeks giveaway! She will soon receive a copy of David L. Harrison’s AFTER DARK. Enjoy!

My husband, Bart, and I traveled to Charleston, S.C. last weekend for a family wedding. It’s a beautiful, gracious city, full of friendly people. As a tourist, I felt caught between two worlds, the Antebellum South and today.

If you enjoy old things, there are many to see in South Carolina, beginning with the trees. Everywhere are lovely live oak trees with long spiraling limbs and hanging Spanish moss. This live oak has a name, “Angel Oak” and is said to be about five hundred years old!

Slavery was presented honestly at tourist sites. Charleston was the center of the domestic slave trade after the importation of slaves was banned in 1807.

We visited the Slave Mart Museum on Chalmer’s street, where visitors see and hear the disturbing details involved in selling men, women and children.

We saw the brick and pastel antebellum houses on a walking tour, then drove to the Middleton Place, a plantation 30 minutes away, where the horses, goats, pigs, and the chickens below have a very leisurely life, as the wealthy Middletons who once lived there did.

An alligator lounged fifteen yards away by a stream, but I didn’t get close enough to snap a shot.

At this upstairs Confederate Museum in downtown Charleston, curated by the Daughters of the Confederacy, I saw small and dusty uniforms that were made for the physically smaller men of that time. I saw rifles, buttons, bullets, letters from soldiers, army cots, etc. The mission, according to a woman I spoke to, is to pay respect to Confederate soldiers. Small Confederate flags were on sale for a dollar. I didn’t buy one, though I paid eight dollars to get in.

The upstairs museum is run by the Daughters of the Confederacy.

Robert E. Lee had his own special room:

Robert E. Lee Room at the Confederate Museum

Before I left, I rode past the Mother Emmanuel AME Church, a beautiful white church which was the site of the horrific shooting in 2015. Out of respect, I didn’t take a photo. The church is a not far from where the Democratic debate was about to take place on 2/26/20.

In the Charleston Market and in museum gift shops, beautiful, sturdy and expensive sweetgrass baskets were sold. This is a Gullah tradition, originating in West Africa. When I saw the skill it takes to make one one of these baskets, I understood why they cost so much. At a park gift shop, a woman was weaving a basket and she inspired this poem:

 WHAT IS IS WORTH? 
 
 Charleston is the second most preserved
 city in the world, 
 next to the Vatican,
 the tour guide said.
 
 See the pastel and brick antebellum mansions
 with side porches to catch cool breezes,
 built by slaves.
 
 See the plantation mansion and gardens,
 the two man made lakes shaped like 
 butterfly wings,
 built by slaves.
 
 See St. Philip’s Episcopal church-
 The towering corinthian columns 
 private family pew boxes, 
 were rebuilt by slaves 
 after the fire in 1835.
 
 Today, a black woman weaves
 sweetgrass baskets
 like her ancestors,
 at a gift shop, 
 her face impassive.

 She bends and sews
 the stiff uncooperative grass,
 just so with her needle,
 securing each row
 one by one till the
 basket is done. 

 Tourists pass by
 whispering about
 the high cost
 of her work.
 
© Janice Scully 2020

Thank you, Karen Edmisten, for hosting Poetry Friday today. Please stop by and check out her post about February and the poem she is sharing this week.

BOOK GIVEAWAY–AFTER DARK: Poems about Nocturnal Animals, by David L. Harrison, Illustrated by Stephanie Laberis.

I’m excited to be part of the discussion about an exciting new non-fiction picture book :

First: HOW CAN YOU WIN A COPY? Leave a comment on the left of this post by 2/24 and a way to contact you. A name will be randomly chosen and David L. Harrison’s AFTER DARK will be sent to the winner. Spread the word about this wonderful book on Facebook, Twitter, or other favorite platform.

David L. Harrison, the author of A PLACE TO START A FAMILY and THE CRAWLEY SCHOOL FOR BUGS, and 95 other books for kids, has a picture book coming out 2/25/20, AFTER DARK, (Wordsong) Illustrated by Stephanie Laberis, whose delightful art work appeared recently in PIPSQUEAKS, SLOWPOKES AND STINKERS by Melissa Stewart.

Harrison’s AFTER DARK will entertain, teach and, encourage kids to see themselves in the exploits and habits of 21 different nocturnal friends. Check out the great review in Publishers Weekly. In Kirkus, AFTER DARK is referred to as a “fine collection of poetic odes.” These wonderful poems beg to be read aloud, revealing the drama in the lives of creatures out and about in the dark.

For example, a poem about a deer mouse, entitled “A Night’s Work,” is a story of survival, a mouse’s dramatic close call. In Harrison’s poem, the suspense is evoked by his short lines, sentence fragments. In the accompanying illustrations by Stephanie Laberis, we see a suspenseful mini three act play. In this first illustration, above, the mouse goes about his business looking for food:

Mouse creeps 
without sound--
stops, listens.

Sniffs dirt
between corn rows,
finds a kernel
snatches it--
stops,
listens.

Owl's about
stares for mouse--
Fox is out.
sniffs for mouse--
stop listen.

In the second picture below, predators approach for the kill. Will they succeed?

Cheeks bulging
mouse races
Owl plummets
Fox strikes.

Talons rip
Teeth snap
empty air.

The last, this adorable mouse has escaped his close call:

Heart pounding,
mouse bounces
down his hole
for now.
corn forgotten
in his cheeks.

Mouse is safe for now, but so scared that he has forgotten the tasty dinner he’s gathered in his cheeks.

Another poem, Night Class, about skunks shows the importance of family. For example, in this single illustration we see a family of skunks going about their business, with danger present, in this case a dog. It’s a good thing Mama’s there.

NIGHT CLASS

Mama skunk
knows the story.
Never play
in an empty street.

Danger lurks
beyond the light,
in dark doorways,
behind trash cans,
around the corner. 

Mama skunk
knows the story.
Never play
in an empty street. 
The street is 
never empty.

Little skunks stays close to Mama. That’s how they survive.

Here’s a poem about the porcupine that would be particularly fun for two kids to read together. Short lines are paired with longer ones that feel to me like a response when read aloud. And who won’t admire the scrappy looks of this porcupine?

DON'T LET HIM
NEEDLE YOU

Eats shoots and leaves-
even bark.
If you hear him coming,
better hark.
You wouldn't want to bump him
in the dark.

He's a mind-his-own business
kind of guy.
Would rather climb than walk,
rather shy,
but thirty thousand needles
testify
to thirty thousand reasons
to pass him by.

With tooth and needle fury--
a shocking sight--
he'll battle any rival
to gain the right
to approach a waiting female
in hopes she might
accept him as her mate 
tonight.

Porcupine is a “mind-his-own-business/kind of guy” who is ready to battle if threatened but when he wants to get close to a female, he awaits permission.

I think Harrison’s writing paired with these dark, sweet but a little spooky, illustrations, go beyond teaching kids just the non-fiction facts, which are clearly listed in the back matter. Children can see and feel in themselves the need for safety, to eat and survive, and for the protection of a family.

I asked David Harrison if, as he wrote, he thought about how children identify with these animals on an emotional level. He responded:

“I don’t identify with animals in any sort of spiritual way but my respect for other living things runs deep enough to be evident in my writing. On my desk or near me are skulls of a black bear, a python, and a rattlesnake plus replicas of a short-faced bear and a saber-tooth cat. . . . Now and then I think about the animals they once were, living lives that are now in the distant past. . . If I write about the short-faced bear, I want my readers to feel its size, sense its presence, understand how hearts must have beat faster when it came around. This creature was more than a fact. It was a bear!”

In AFTER DARK: Poems about Nocturnal Animals, we understand much more than the facts about these important creatures.

Poetry Friday hosted by Cheriee Weichel at Library Matters, from Vancouver, sharing her insights into children’s lit . Today she introduces us to the clever work of Vancouver Poet, Avis Harley.

WHITE ROSE by KIP WILSON

It’s Poetry Friday and thank you to Linda Baie at Teacher Dance for hosting. Happy Valentine’s Day! Linda has a sweet Valentine’s poem and some lovely hearts for us all to enjoy.

To celebrate, I’ll share a few hearts on a book mark by artist Michelle Kogan.

Lately, I’ve been reading novels in verse to study craft for my own work in progress. I’d like to recommend WHITE ROSE by author Kip Wilson.

This wonderful story is told in a non-linear fashion, back and forth in time. For me, this added to the suspense of this story about a group of teens rising up to resist Hitler’s lies. It’s based on a true story. Kirkus describes the story as as an “intense, bone chilling experience.” I agree.

Sophie, the smart and brave teen main character, with her brother Hans and other friends were part of a group called White Rose. The mission group’s mission in 1943 was to distribute suitcases of pamphlets telling the truth about the crimes of Hitler and the Reich, to encourage revolt. They didn’t fully appreciate what they were up against.

The book begins near the end of the story, in 1943 at Gestapo Headquarters. Sophie, the protagonist, has been arrested. The reader doesn’t know what Sophie has done, and this reader was hooked immediately:

FEBRUARY 18, 1943
Gestapo Headquarters

The cars screech to a
halt, officers pull
us out by the arms, haul
us inside and off to
         separate
rooms, my heartbeat
pounding 
all the while,
boom-boom
boom-boom

The ‘boom, boom” of Sophie’s beating heart, signifying her fear, is repeated in poems artfully throughout the book, an effective device to create suspense. The next poem takes us to her interrogation.

INTERROGATION

I carefully blend
a cupful of lies
into the bucket of truth
spread out in front of me
as Herr Mohr shoots
questions after question
trying to watch me off-guard.

               Fräulein Scholl, why were you
               carrying
               an empty suitcase with 
               you to the university?

There are more questions, but Sophie takes pride in being a clever liar.

From 1943, we are swept back to a year before their nightmare, 1935, with poems about Sophie, her four siblings and parents, a loving and bookish German family living in the town of Ulm. Before everything changes, she is joyful. She even falls in love. But the community of Ulm is dismantled relentlessly, step by step, by Hitler’s Reich:

RIPPLES

The signs begin 
to appear like
mushrooms after a rain. 

On the Stuttgarterstrafse bridge:
Juden in Ulm nicht erwünscht!
(Jews not wanted in Ulm!) 

On park benches:
Nur fur Arier
(Only for Aryans.)

Sophie and her friends and siblings are expected to be good German youth and support the war effort. But after several years, Sophie and her brother Hans rebel and join White Rose, a group dedicated to spreading the truth and fomenting revolt.

But they can’t save their country, and these idealistic young people are turned in to the Gestapo by a janitor in the university where they are distributing pamphlets.

But, just before the novel ends, the reader is returned to 1934, a flashback of a happier time, when even Sophie believed Hitler’s fantasy of a sunny German future: “The youth is the future/of this Reich.” The reader appreciates how much Sophie has lost at the hands of the Nazis.

Their execution in 1943 follows and this story about these brave young people ends. For me, these young characters risking all for the truth were irresistible.

********

To end, I would like to send a Valentine’s Day greeting to a favorite creature. When I used to visit my mom in Florida, we would go to a place called Blue Springs State Park on the St. John’s River near Deland, Florida, to see the Manatees. It was a sleepy spot on the river shaded by trees hung with Spanish moss. It’s been a while and I often think of these interesting, nonchalant, half-ton friends, sometimes green tinged from algae blooming on their backs.

GREETING

Gentle manatees
hovering in the quiet--
Best wishes to you.

About Sewing and a haiku

Thank you Laura Purdie Salas for hosting Poetry Friday this week. Stop by and read her music inspired verse.

I have always liked making things and my mother encouraged me to sew.

She left the Singer on the dining room table for me to use when I wanted. She’d be downstairs cooking in our family’s restaurant kitchen and I could always find her if I needed help. Her birthday was last month.

I don’t spend much time sewing now. But I am about to finish a small quilted wall hanging, the size of a extra large place mat, with wonky stripes inspired by the amazing quilting artist Maria Shell. It’s free form “modern quilting” with no rigid rules, like a free verse poem.

Without my mother’s encouragement I probably would have never learned to sew. I sometimes wonder if sewing has become a frivolous activity in the 21st century. But I know it isn’t.

The man who owned the fabric store where I grew up was a Holocaust survivor. His wife, an expert seamstress, used to help me pick out fabric. I’d look at bolts of fabric for hours and they were always patient and kind to me.

Thirty later I saw Mr. S again. He was elderly and his wife had recently passed away. It was touching to see him again. He told me that they hid together for many months, as teenagers, in a cave in the woods near Warsaw to escape the Nazis. With needle and thread Mrs. S sewed warm clothing with cloth that he stole during night time excursions to town. Her sewing helped keep them warm. My teachers or parents never taught me about the Holocaust, unfortunately, even as I had Jewish friends in school.

To end, I’ll share a haiku I wrote this morning inspired my the amaryllis blooming in my kitchen, four flowers blooming north, south, east and west.

Bold amaryllis,
a lighthouse casting four beacons!
Who keeps the lights on?

ORDINARY HAZARDS, BY NIKKI GRIMES (and another haiku of a president)

I can’t believe another Friday is here! Thank you, Jone Rush MacCulloh, for hosting Poetry Friday at Deo Writer. A journal give away, don’t miss it!

Last week I posted two novels in verse and one memoir in verse. This week I read another wonderful memoir in verse.

At a Highlights retreat I attended over a year ago, Nikki Grimes, the award winning author of numerous books for young people, talked with attendees about her work in progress, a memoir in verse, about her troubled but fascinating childhood. She spoke with much insight about the challenge of retrieving memories. And in ORDINARY HAZARDS, she writes:

                      THE MYSTERY OF MEMORY #4
                       
                       Where do memories hide?
                          They sneak into
                        Hard-to-reach crevices,
                       and nestle quietly until
                          some random thought
                         or question burrows in,
                          hooks one by the tail
                               and pulls
                       Finally, out into the light
                                it comes,
                               sheepishly.

Nikki Grimes writes so honestly in poems about the struggles she faced beginning in the 1950’s as a very small girl. This includes her mother’s mental illness, a frightening foster care system, poverty, assaults and bullying by local gang members, and sexual abuse by her step-father, to name some of the “hazards” she encountered. And overlying all of this is one of the largest, the ever present racism that she, as black person, faced every day. The setting is New York City.

Nikki moves from home to home, school to school, often feeling like an outsider. She writes in her notebook concerning one of her foster homes:

Notebook

"Don't get comfortable,"
my foster sister Grace tells me.
"You don't belong here."
Thanks a lot! Like I don't know
I don't belong anywhere . . .

She describes her relationship with her mother who was schizophrenic, alcoholic, and unreliable. But it’s clear how important her mother is in these evocative lines.

SIZE DOESN'T MATTER

Four-foot-nine.
Such a tiny person
to have her initials
carved so deeply into
the meat of my soul.

There is a lot of heartbreak in these pages, but this memoir is also full of joy.

She writes about her many blessings, such as her sister’s affection, her faith in God, the comfort she discovers in books, her gift for writing, teachers who encourage, school friends, a father who was there to support her as an artist, amazing mentors, such as James Baldwin, who when she was a teen, asked to see her work, and always, her indomitable spirit. She more than survives.

She meets others who provide a larger, world view. In her notebook is this excerpt:

Notebook

"This too shall pass,"
my teacher tells me.
I'd suck my teeth and turn away,
but I don't because 
Mrs. Wexler told me
she's a Holocaust survivor,
and I read
The Diary of Anne Frank

It’s impossible to do justice to ORDINARY HAZARDS with these few lines. It must be read and it’s well worth the time.

Now, as for a poem of mine to share here at Poetry Friday, I’ll share a fifth “Guess who haiku,” about yet another president.

Does anyone recognize this guy? Read on.

 Soon after the war
 declared Reconstruction done—
 fear ruled the bayous.


 

 #19 RUTHERFORD B. HAYES (1877-1881) This president removed all the troops from the South, ending Reconstruction. He believed in racial equality but wrongly believed Southern whites would treat blacks fairly. A hundred years of lynching and other violence against blacks followed.

Three Novels in Verse (and a tanka about a president)

My thanks to Kathryn Apel for hosting Poetry Friday! My heart aches when I hear about all the fire and loss in her country. I’m so grateful she took the time during this busy time to send us a poem.

I’ve been disturbed this week with politics, but Poetry Friday provides some relief. Briefly here I will mention three great reads I recently read and at the end share another poem, a tanka, of our first president.

When reading a middle grade or YA novel, the reader wants to find out early what the main character desires and not be confused on page twenty wondering, “What does this character want? What’s the story about.” There are many new novels in verse on my reading list, but here are three that hooked me right away and kept me reading..

SOARING EARTH, a memoir in verse by Poet Laureate for Young People, Margarita Engle, opens with a lovely poem narrated in first person by the author as a 13 year old girl.

EARTHBOUND (First Two Stanzas)

Summer visits to the enchanted air of Trinidad de Cuba are
illegal now, transforming my mother's hometown into
a mystery of impossibility, no longer reachable
in real life

My roaming dreams can only ramble through the library,
dancing on flat, shiny pages, across all the countries of
National Geographic magazine, cooing villages
with brilliant sunlight, bright parrots, green jungles,
tropical heat.

She is a curious girl who can only dream of Cuba, her mother’s “enchanted” place of birth, a place illegal for them to visit.

The protagonist, a “bookworm,”is too young to travel anywhere and “can only ramble through the library.” Her longing builds in subsequent poems. She wants to learn, grow up, leave home, and find her voice, a desire which will reach readers no matter what race and nationality.

And in the contemporary novel in verse, ALL OF ME, by Chris Baron, main character, Ari, tells us in the first poem what he wants, to fit in.

BEFORE SUMMER (first two stanzas of seven)

WHO AM I?

The life in my head seems
so different from the life outside
where I am so big
that everyone stares,
but no one sees the real me.

My name is Ari Rosensweig.
This year, I am the newest seventh grader
at Mill Valley Middle School.
I have sandy-brown hair
and green eyes like my father's.
I'm average height, but

I am a fat kid, and I hate it when
people call me names.

What will Ari do? He is a Californian, a Jewish boy struggling with his weight, bullying, a distant father and a looming Bar Mitzvah. I was hooked and liked him right away, a courageous boy who doesn’t give up. He faces his problem as best he can. The author’s attitude towards body image and weight was understanding and compassionate.

OTHER WORDS FOR HOME by Jasmine Warga, like Engle’s book, is about a girl with a foot in two cultures. After fleeing war torn Syria with her mother to stay with her doctor uncle in America, Jude struggles with this new culture. What does she want? It’s complex. At first, in Syria, she wants her family to be safe and we sense the danger she faces right away. But later, after fleeing to America, she is a teen who wants to be accepted in an often hostile social environment:

XIII (stanzas 3-7 out of 10)

Back home
food was
rice
lamb
fish
hummus
pita bread
olives
feta cheese
za'atar with olive oil.

Here, 
that food is
Middle Eastern food.
Baguettes are French food.
Spaghetti is Italian food.
Pizza is Both American and Italian
depending on which restaurant you go to.

every food has a label.
It is sorted and assigned.

Just like I am no longer 
a girl. 
I am a Middle Eastern girl.
A Syrian girl.
a Muslim girl.

Americans love labels.
They help them know what to expect.
Sometimes, though,
I think labels stop them from 
thinking.

Yes, America loves labels. They too easily define everything for us. Warga paints colorful images in her free verse poems. Like Ari in ALL OF ME, she is courageous and I cheered as she overcame many struggles.

All of these were stories had strong hooks and I enjoyed every page. Now for the rest of the new novels in verse sitting on my desk!

Before I close, here is a tanka about our first president:

 GEORGE WASHINGTON

 Indispensable! 
 He patched together ragged,
 hungry men, and won!
 This clever man was a star. 
 Crown and throne? Thank you, but no.
 

 #1 GEORGE WASHINGTON (1789-1797)  Our first President was a warrior, farmer, surveyor, horseman, accomplished dancer, and gentleman, famous even before the American Revolution. His picture hung in every home in America. He was asked to be a king, like George of England, but refused. He wanted to help create a different kind of government.

©Janice Scully 2020

Poet Aileen Fisher: living close to nature and writing for the child you used to be.

Welcome to Poetry Friday, hosted this week at READING TO THE CORE. Here you will find an interesting quote by Flannery O’Connor and a few engaging haiku. Thank you!

The place to begin learning about children’s poet Aileen Fisher(1906-2002) is Renée LaTulippe’s video library at her website No Water River. Here you will find Renée’s interview with Lee Bennett Hopkins about Fisher, the recipient of the 1978 NCTE award for children’t poetry. She authored over 100 books for children.

Aileen Fisher lived close to nature, was someone who would not have had to alter one bit her lifestyle in the face to our global warming crisis. She preferred being home and didn’t fly. For part of her life she lived in a cabin near Flagstaff Arizona with no electricity. She grew her own vegetables. She chose trousers over dresses and was an avid hiker and dog walker, an outdoors woman, always observing nature, the inspiration for so much of her poetry. She was modest, eschewing public recognition and declined traveling even to attend the ceremony, where she received the 1978 NCTE award for children’t poetry.

I began with the 2002 anthology of her work, I HEARD A BLUEBIRD SING, edited by Bernice Cullinan and illustrated by Jennifer Emery. It is a collection of her poems chosen by children. She wrote about nature and also friendship, family and the seasons. Here’s one about our planet:

THE SPINNING EARTH (First and third stanzas) 

The earth, they say,
spins round and round.
It does't look it
from the ground,
and never makes a spinning sound.

And houses don't go whirling by,
or puppies swirl around the sky,
or robins spin instead of fly.

As a child, I remember wondering how the earth could be traveling so fast, yet everything around me appear calm. She did too, apparently.

She wrote about pets. You will notice that her poems are rich with sounds and images:

MY CAT (One of two stanzas)

My cat rubs my leg
and starts to purr
with a soft little rumble,
a soft little Whirr,
as if she had motors
inside of her.

And another humorous one:

CAT BATH (The last two of four stanzas)

I watch and I think
it's better by far
to splash in a tub
with soap in a bar

And washcloth in hand
and towel on the rung
than to have to do all
the work BY TONGUE.

Indeed! A child would enjoy imagining that..

Why am I presenting poems about cats? I chose that topic because my son has a new addition to his household, a cat named Marshmallow. He’s a city cat and quite beautiful. I believe Aileen Fisher might feel a twinge of sadness that he rarely gets to go outdoors.

So, for this week’s Poetry Friday, I came up with this:

A CONVERSATION WITH MARSHMALLOW

What is it like
to be a posh city cat?
Is it possible you actually
prefer life like that? 

Which mouse do you play with,
which stuffed little prey?
Do you enjoy mischief
or snoozing away?

And do you feel lonely
at home the whole day?
If you could tell me
what would you say?

© Janice Scully 2020

Aileen Fisher said, “Poetry is a rhythmical piece of writing that leaves the reader feeling that life is richer than before.” Lee Bennett Hopkins tell us that she wrote for the child that she used to be. If her inner child liked a poem, she figured her audience would too. In her opinion, to write for kids, “You really don’t have to grow up.”

Thank you, Aileen Fisher!

Poet James S. Tippett

Welcome to Poetry Friday. Our host today is Sally Murphy. Thank you, Sally, for hosting and my thoughts are with her and her country in the struggle against the horrendous fires. Sally has shared a soothing poem about the beach and also the good news that she is busy compiling a list of her favorite novels in verse. I’ll look forward to seeing her recommendations.

My post today is about something I’ve been exploring, that is, the work of the first American children’s poets.

James Sterling Tippett (1985-1958) is an American children’s poet who anyone writing for children can learn from. He saw the world from a child’s perspective and it’s clearly evident in his gentle rhyme and in his subjects, still relevant today. As a boy, he lived on his grandfather’s farm in Missouri, but as a young man he moved to Nashville then New York to teach. He wrote of the country and the city with authority.

Crickety Cricket: The Best-Loved Poems of James S. Tippet, is an anthology of his work illustrated by Mary Chalmers.

This is one of those many books I wish I had read to my boys when they were little. First, a sample of his poems about the country and nature:

FAMILIAR FRIENDS (The first of three Stanzas) 

The horses, the pigs,
And the chickens,
The turkeys, the ducks
And the sheep!
I can see all my friends
From my window
As soon as I waken
from sleep.

Because of copyright restrictions, I’ll stop here, but I will say that the poem continues with images of a cat walking a fence, geese swimming, a pony trotting, Cows switching flies, and a mother dog with a surprise of new pups. There is a lot of action in this simple poem.

HOUSE FOR BLUEBIRDS (two of four stanzas) 

Bluebirds,
Come to this house
Which we have hung
For you and your young.

We made a little porch
Where you can sit.
Please, bluebirds,
Come and look at it.

The reader feels the longing in the child’s voice. It’s a sweet poem. Unfortunately, for a child, when you have a bird house, immediate occupancy is unlikely.

In contrast to his poems about farm life, he writes poems about city life. He wrote about the subway and he also wrote about the mystery of an apartment buildings:

THE ROOF (two of four stanzas)

At the top of the stairway
We open a door
And there is the roof
Spread out like a floor.

There are little roof-houses
Behind which we hide
And many tall pipes
And a wall at the side.

To a child living in an apartment building or not, the roof must indeed seem like a world apart, a mysterious place.

It helps me in my efforts to write for kids, to look at poets that came before, like Tippett. Their images and vocabulary are still evocative even for kids today, which I find rather comforting.

Here’s a nature poem I wrote that I’ll share. It’s inspired by a walk my husband and I take along a stream that sometimes is full of frogs. It sat at the bottom of this leafy wall of shale. Sorry, no frogs today! You have to imagine them hiding.

MORNIN’, FROGS!
 
 I thump my feet
 as I walk by the stream.
 Hear the frogs fly,
 fleeing from me.
 
 I mean no harm.
 I'd fancy to be them.
 But they hide under rocks,
 and won't let me
 see them.
 
© Janice Scully 2020

Fog by Carl Sandburg

I woke one morning while I was away with my family in Vermont last week. Outside, the sky was white and mist settled down on the streets. It reminded me of one of a poem I love, FOG, by Carl Sandburg, written in 1916.

FOG

The fog comes in
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

What a perfect metaphor, fog as a living thing, a mysterious cat that creeps in, ever so slowly, opaque, finding a perch, and thinking about who know what. It leaves when it wants.

I wrote the following poem about ten years ago and was my attempt at using metaphor to describe a common winter phenomenon. Have you every lay in bed awake in the early morning when the snow plow passes?

THE SNOW PLOW

Rattles outside.
Gold lights flicker
in the early morning
like a watchman passing
with a lantern,

The lights circle
my bedroom wall
fade and vanish.
Later, out in the street--
boot prints.

© Janice Scully 2020

Happy New Year Everyone. January first is my favorite holiday, full of possibility and hope. I hope it’s a good year for everyone.

Thank you, Carol, for hosting at Carol’s Corner where you will find a poem that is perfect for the beginning of a new year.