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.

MARSHMALLOW

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.

A White Christmas

Thank you, Buffy Silverman, for hosting Poetry Friday and for your review of Liz Garton Scanlon’s excellent new picture book, ONE DARK BIRD.

Happy Holidays!

This week, I’ve been busy getting ready for Christmas and planning to visit my son next week, but not too busy to enjoy our white Christmas and to write a haiku.

It’s been beautiful here in Syracuse today. This photo is just outside my door: fresh snow on branches and gold Christmas lights. 

A cacophony 
muffled in new fallen snow--
peace, this afternoon.

I wish everyone a peaceful Poetry Friday.

Christmas Knitting, Haiku and Presidents

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Elizabeth Steinglass. Make sure you stop by and read her amazing poem about the word “and.” It’s truly brilliant!

It’s getting closer to Christmas. I’ve been knitting rather furiously.

However, this gives me an excuse to watch the impeachment hearings and ignore all else. Though everyone says that most citizens are bored, I have found it fascinating.

I’ve especially enjoyed hearing the many very smart, reasonable, women representatives doing their duty.

So I listen and knit and use the mute button if there is too much yelling.

When I was a student at Vermont College I began to experiment with writing poetry on non-fiction topics. One project was to write a haiku about each American president. I wanted to find a “snapshot” of each life, something about them that interested me. Some snapshots were about small things, like John Quincy Adams’ skinny dipping. Other facts were about momentous things. Each haiku would be accompanied with a few factoids. What I ended up with was a mini-American history, of sorts, in snapshots, in haiku.

I will share the one I wrote about Andrew Johnson, the 17th president (1865-1869), who was the first President to be impeached. 

Andrew Johnson

As a nation mourned
A proud tailor took the oath--
cranking back the clock.

Andrew Johnson, who was Abraham Lincoln’s Vice President, would lead the reconstruction, or rebuilding of the South. He was a tailor. Unfortunately, he was Lincoln’s opposite. As if looking backward from the man he followed, Johnson called slaves “savages” and believed they should not be citizens. The House drafted eleven articles of impeachment against him, based on differences he had with the Congress, but he was acquitted by the Senate.

I loved this project. I read about each president, watched videos about them, found a focus and wrote a haiku. Degregorio’s The Complete Book of the U.S. Presidents informed me. The presidents from the distant past were much easier to write haikus about than the ones I knew in real time.

I might as well finish this post with two others :

Richard Nixon

He strove to befriend
Mao Tse Tung--but his real foes
dwelled inside his head. 


William Clinton

An embarrassing
public debate--we explored
our lesser angels.

Both men were better known to us than Andrew Johnson. Here’s to the holidays and our all too human presidents.

Poems of Gratitude

It’s Poetry Friday and it’s being hosted by Tanita S. Davis at fiction, instead of lies. Thank you, Tanita! On her December 3rd blog post, you can sign up for the “New Year’s Poetry Challenge.” Check it out!

Though my work has been published in Highlights for Children and other magazines, I thought I would share my poem, First Responder, which was included in THANKU: POEMS OF GRATITUDE, edited by Miranda Paul. The illustrations by Marlena Myles are stunning. The thirty two poems by diverse and talented poets, such as Naomi Shihab Nye, Charles Waters, Cynthia Leitich Smith, and Renée LaTulippe, to name just a few, are written in a different form. I knew what a tanka and a found poem was, but a fibonacci poem was new to me, as were others, and each form is clearly described. It’s a useful resource for students of poetry.

The poem I wrote is an hyperbole. I began this poem at a Highlights poetry workshop as a prompt by Rebecca Kai Dotlich and Georgia Heard. They are great and kind teachers. In my poem, “First Responder,” I exaggerated and elevated the purpose of an every day, ordinary, object:

FIRST RESPONDER

Like an ambulance on my desk,
waiting to fix a torn page
or a broken book.

At my service,
armored helper,
cradling a bold, circular
heart, ready
for any emergency,
holding still

for the yank
and the quick rip
of a smooth piece that will
save a poem, a story,
or an injured photograph.

You park nearby
ready to
help again.

Thank you for the opportunity to share it. It feels fitting to be grateful for this book about gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving

Thank you, Bridget Magee for hosting Poetry Friday this week. It’s so fun to hear about Americans celebrating Thanksgiving outside the U.S., in this case, Switzerland. Please stop by at Wee Words for Wee Ones and read her poem.

I envy those who have large families visiting from far away, catching up on news, sharing food and reconnecting over a holiday table. But I feel blessed that my husband and I at least have our two sons with us. And rather than miss a minute with them because I’m cooking, we’re going out for dinner.

At this time of political turmoil and the lack of moral values in our government, I would like to make a tribute to a President Lincoln, who wanted the best for the United States. He was responsible for making Thanksgiving a national holiday. Though I don’t have a photo of Lincoln on hand, I do have a photo of my youngest son, Matt, who dressed up as Lincoln for a third grade show. The picture inspired me then, with his honest gaze at the viewer. It inspires me even more now when honesty is hard to come by from world leaders.

This will be a short post, but I’d like to share some more honest feelings, with a poem I just wrote from, well, a turkey. 

A TURKEY'S PREDICAMENT

If I were a turkey
I'd stay in the barn or
hide in the pig pen
until I was darn sure
Thanksgiving was over

this day of the great feast
the thank you extravaganza.

They could ask for volunteers, at least.

Whether or not it’s Thanksgiving, I have so much to be thankful for. Today I’m grateful for new friends at Poetry Friday.

First Time NCTE Attendee

Thank you Rebecca Herzog for hosting Poetry Friday!

I felt exhilarated, but a bit like a fish out of water here in Baltimore at the NCTE conference that began this morning. I’d attended many writer’s conferences, but never a conference for thousands of English teachers.

However, it must be common to feel a bit lost, because at registration, I was given a yellow ribbon for my name tag: First Time Attendee. I stuck it on my name tag and began to tackle the inch thick catalogue of events.

My situation, a writer new to NCTE, is not a hardship, though the unease of being new is universal. All new folks appreciate being welcomed, as I certainly felt here today in Baltimore. Here’s a haiku to celebrate the day:

NCTE

First time attendee

wearing a yellow ribbon–

conference courage.

About Snow

Thank you Michelle Heinrich Barnes for hosting Poetry Friday. Congratulations on a new Today’s Little Ditty! This is my first time posting here, and I am grateful to be part of it.

Our first snow fell this week, the first storm of winter. When I woke, the ground was white with and inch or two. At the coffee shop later in the afternoon, out the window snowflakes were falling still, but just barely, almost invisible. They meandered. It was the lightest of snows.

Like trees or the sky, there is always a story or a poem one can write about snow. Ellen Yeomans’ new picture book in rhyming verse, illustrated by Andrea Offermann, is about snow and what it means to three children.

The cover shows them full of wonder and expectation:

The story begins:

“Some snow is First Snow

We’ve waited for so long snow.

Is it really snow snow,

or only heavy rain? “

Many different kinds of snow appear in the text and illustrations, such as: ” . . . hit the ground and melt snow.” “Sleet Snow.” “Snow day snow.” The children can’t wait for it to come and stay so they can play all winter in the snow.

The narrative arc revolves around the seasons. Eventually, in the end, it takes these children to “Spring Snow” and “Please, please, no more snow” and a glimpse of upcoming spring activities. The rhyme is perfect and a joy to read aloud.

Back at the coffee shop, the snow I saw out the window was a curious kind of snow that inspired this:

TO A SNOWFLAKE DRIFTING DOWN AFTER YESTERDAY’S STORM

You’re an afterthought,

a glistening decoration,

spiraling down,

about to sprinkle the ground.

Since you are in no rush, tell me:

Is it easy to fall?

Does it take any effort at all?

©Janice Scully 2019

Some Snow Is . . . by Ellen Yeomans, and illustrated by Andrea Offermann, celebrates winter and snow. I never tire of stories about the seasons. If you live in a climate with four distinct seasons, like I do, one has no choice but to embrace snow and try to see its beauty and diversity.

Find Ellen’s Yeomans’ book, Some Snow is . . . , here: