I Carried it in my Pocket

It was a little book of poems that I found on the bottom shelf in the poetry section of Half Price Books. It was the little part that appealed to me, because it could fit in my pocket and because it was a book I could read it in a day ... or an hour.

Now I don't like Cats, the musical. I thought it was silly and a waste of my money. I should be clear that I also don't like cats - the animals - either. I am a dog person. Cats don't do anything. And I am allergic to them. Cats have caused me hospital visits before. I tend not to be overly fond of "cat people" either. Dogs are it.

This little book was fun. I enjoyed it with my boys after school. We read the book out loud. We took turns with the poems. I think T.S. Eliot would have liked how his little book inspired us.

Do you know that it is poem in your pocket day?

I suggest not only putting a poem in your pocket but a whole book of poems.

Or make copies of a poem and hand them out to your friends.

Of course you must read the poem. Out Loud.

To you kids!

Another Poem

I know national Poetry month is over. I never get tired of really great works, however, and this poem made me smile.

Ode on Dictionaries
by Barbara Hamby

A-bomb is how it begins with a big bang on page 
     one, a calculator of sorts whose centrifuge 
begets bedouin, bamboozle, breakdance, and berserk, 
     one of my mother's favorite words, hard knock 
clerk of clichés that she is, at the moment going ape 
     the current rave in the fundamentalist landscape 
disguised as her brain, a rococo lexicon 
     of Deuteronomy, Job, gossip, spritz, and neocon 
ephemera all wrapped up in a pop burrito 
     of movie star shenanigans, like a stray Cheeto 
found in your pocket the day after you finish the bag, 
     tastier than any oyster and champagne fueled fugue 
gastronomique you have been pursuing in France 
     for the past four months. This 82-year-old's rants 
have taken their place with the dictionary I bought 
     in the fourth grade, with so many gorgeous words I thought 
I'd never plumb its depths. Right the first time, little girl, 
     yet here I am still at it, trolling for pearls, 
Japanese words vying with Bantu in a goulash 
     I eat daily, sometimes gagging, sometimes with relish, 
kleptomaniac in the candy store of language, 
     slipping words in my pockets like a non-smudge 
lipstick that smears with the first kiss. I'm the demented 
     lady with sixteen cats. Sure, the house stinks, but those damned 
mice have skedaddled, though I kind of miss them, their cute 
     little faces, the whiskers, those adorable gray suits. 
No, all beasts are welcome in my menagerie, ark 
     of inconsolable barks and meows, sharp-toothed shark, 
OED of the deep ocean, sweet compendium 
     of candy bars—Butterfingers, Mounds, and M&Ms— 
packed next to the tripe and gizzards, trim and tackle 
     of butchers and bakers, the painter's brush and spackle, 
quarks and black holes of physicists' theory. I'm building 
     my own book as a mason makes a wall or a gelding 
runs round the track—brick by brick, step by step, word by word, 
     jonquil by gerrymander, syllabub by greensward, 
swordplay by snapdragon, a never-ending parade 
     with clowns and funambulists in my own mouth, homemade 
treasure chest of tongue and teeth, the brain's roustabout, rough 
     unfurler of tents and trapezes, off-the-cuff 
unruly troublemaker in the high church museum 
     of the world. O mouth—boondoggle, auditorium, 
viper, gulag, gumbo pot on a steamy August 
     afternoon—what have you not given me? How I must 
wear on you, my Samuel Johnson in a frock coat, 
     lexicographer of silly thoughts, billy goat, 
X-rated pornographic smut factory, scarfer 
     of snacks, prissy smirker, late-night barfly, 
you are the megaphone by which I bewitch the world 
     or don't as the case may be. O chittering squirrel, 
ziplock sandwich bag, sound off, shut up, gather your words 
     into bouquets, folios, flocks of black and flaming birds.

Great Books of Poetry

Pick one of these up at the library or your local bookstore. Read. Read. Read. Better yet, memorize one (Story from the NYT).

The End of Poetry Month

The End

A. A. Milne

When I was One,

I had just begun.

When I was Two,

I was nearly new.

When I was Three,

I was hardly Me.

When I was Four,

I was not much more.

When I was Five,

I was just alive.

But now I am six, I'm as clever as clever.

So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

Poetry can be Fun

There was a wonderful story on yesterday's Morning Edition (NPR) that I encourage you to listen to.  In honor of National Poetry Month, Renee Montagne interviewed Kathy Jo Shapiro who has come up with another way to make poetry fun for kids.  She takes famous poems and parodies them by rewriting them for kids.  

All of us were laughing at Ms. Shapiro's take on Poe's Annabelle Lee ... turning it into Macaroni and Cheese.  The boys have heard Annabel Lee and liked it. They loved Macaroni and Cheese.  They asked if I would please, please buy the book.  Well, it will soon be an addition to our library ... if my boys beg me for a poetry book, you can bet I will get it for them.  

Here is a poem from her book I Must Go Down to the Beach Again: And Other Poems.

My Letter from the World

Kathy Jo Shapiro
With apologies to Emily Dickinson
("This is My Letter to the World")

This is my letter from the world
That once it wrote to me:
"Dear Friend," it spelled, in purple buds
Upon a lilac tree.

"Come look around." the letter said
on mountains topped by snow.
“For if you search for a hundred years
There’d still be more to know.

“Please play with me,” it wrote in waves
Beneath a bright blue sky,
Then signed itself, “Sincerely, World,”
Upon a butterfly.

Here is the original.

This is My Letter to the World
Emily Dickinson

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

I Got Carried Away

Have I mentioned how much I love the Texas Bluebonnet Book program? Oh yes, here and here. I think last year's books were better than this year's choices, and one of the standouts was This is Just to Say. My favorite poem from the book follows:

to Kyle
I Got Carried Away
Rueben

Kyle, I'm sorry
for hitting you so hard in dodge ball.
I really just get carried away
in situations like that.
Kids screaming and ducking,
Coach bellowing,
all those red rubber balls
thumping like heartbeats
against the walls and ceiling,
blinking back and forth
like stop lights
(that really mean

go,

Go,

GO!)

See,
I even got
carried away
in this poem.

Why I don't watch the news

Everybody Tells Me Everything
Ogden Nash

I find it very difficult to enthuse
Over the current news.
Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens,
And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

The Best Kind of Afternoon

An Afternoon In The Stacks
William Stafford

Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.

Spanish Haiku

Each year the Texas Library Association sponsors the The Texas Bluebonnet Award reading program (my experiences with it were discussed here). It was established in 1979 to encourage Texas children to read more books, explore a variety of current books, develop powers of discrimination, and identify their favorite books.

One of this years nominees is Yum! Mmmm! Que Rico!: America's Sproutings.

From the School Library Journal:

This concept book serves as a delicious introduction to 14 types of food, all of which have their origins in the Americas. Snippets of information and a haiku poem accompany each one, ranging from blueberry and chili pepper through papaya, prickly pear, and vanilla. Using English and a smattering of Spanish words, Mora crafts a playful introduction to each one.

Here is one of my favorites:

Pumpkin

Under round luna,
Scattered tumblings down the rows,
autumn's orange face.

I love that a traditional Japanese form of poetry steeped in thousands of years of history is being used to reach Texas school children.

From War - a Tree

I will never forget this tree. It grows now on the island of Corregidor which sits at the entrance to Manila harbor in the Phillipines. During WWII, American troops led by General MacArthur held this tiny island for weeks, withstanding brutal bombardment by the Japanese force fortified across a small strait. When the island fell, the surviving American troops were forced on the murderous Bataan Death March.

Today, more than 60 years after the end of the war, Corregidor is a lush and beautiful tourist spot where we were lucky enough to spend a peaceful night in 2006. Our tour guide stopped in front of this tree and recited Joyce Kilmer's Trees and then proceeded to tell us his story.

Trees
Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Our tour guide grew up without the father who had been captured on Corregidor and died on the death march. Thanks to the American soldiers who rebuilt many of the schools in the Phillipines after the war, he recieved an education and was a successful businessman. Now retired, he leads groups of tourists, many Americans like ourselves, on tours of Corregidor as a gesture of thanks. He always stops as this tree and recites the poem he was taught by his wonderful American teacher in third grade. He looked at us and said, "From war - a tree. From loss - beauty."

Here are our trees:

Mom's

J's

M's

This art project came from the post "How to Paint Spring Trees" at That Artist Woman's blog.