Category Archives: Poetry

Children, Literacy, Poetry, Weekend Write-Off, Writing

Sky Magic

I grew up with many students who hated poetry.  Talented students.  Intelligent students.  Students who could write well themselves.  But understand what a poem was really saying?  And enjoy the process?  No way.

And then I became a teacher.  I worked with many teachers who avoided poetry, either because they had experiences similar to my former fellow students or because they figured their students would react in much the same way.

Somewhere between the playful lyricism of picture books and class study of extended texts, readers lose the magic of words, metaphor, and imagery, which is a missed opportunity for all.  Poetry uses words in beautiful and economical ways, providing teachable moments for literary terms and succinct expression.

That’s why when I find a children’s anthology of poetry, I am more than happy to check it out.  The latest one I’ve discovered is Sky Magic, a compilation by Lee Bennett Hopkins.  His volume, My America: A Poetry Atlas of the United States, with lovely illustrations by Stephen Alcorn, once part of my classroom library, is now part of the special collection I plan to share with my own children.  So I was eager to check out this other volume, illustrated by Mariusz Stawarski.

Every poem in Sky Magic evokes the dreamy nature of stargazing and sunny mornings.  Every one is accessible, even those written by ‘adult’ authors.  An excerpt from Tennessee Williams’ The Rose Tattoo mixes well with a poem by children’s author and poet Rebecca Kai Dotlich (whose poems in There’s No Place Like School, compiled by Jack Prelutsky, I love).  All are accessible because they use sparse language to tell stories.  All good poetry does so, through phrases and symbols, examples and metaphors.  And there is no child – young or old – who cannot appreciate a story.  Poetry anthologies made specifically for children have the added bonus of illustrations to add yet another dimension to the story.  Stawarski’s paintings are so evocative of dreamy days and nights, they bring figurative language to literal life.

Share a book such as Sky Magic with the young readers in your life – or the poetry phobes – and usher in the dawn of a new era: another form of storytelling and verbal vision accessible to all.

Legends

In the language of stars
lie stories of old
brilliant legends
told; retold.

Spelling out sagas,
spilling out light,
a mythical manuscript
filling the night.
– Avis Harley

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Living, Poetry, Spirituality

One

Disparate sources

Un-disjointed by you –

The common denominator

Umami

Ujjayi

States of higher being

Sizzling pan-fried hamburger

Time stops and you with it

Don’t be afraid

Let the universe hold you

I’ve got you, she says.

Let go.

You are the center from which infinitesimal spokes shoot out

But you are not the only one

Millions rotate through the atmosphere

Spun by One

 

Feel One thing at a time.

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Living, Poetry

Miniscule Moments

The tiny tasks we do throughout the day.

 

The minutiae that eat up our time, but bear no importance to our conscience.

 

Pulling back the polka-dot cardboard piece to open the window atop the tissue box.

 

Placing items in the corner of the bottom step to fill shelves upstairs later.

 

Milk in fridge.

Bags in plastic column to be pulled out as needed.

 

A picture frame smashing to the floor, its glass front smashing into tiny pieces.

 

One clear shard a tiny scimitar slicing the terracotta tile.

 

There is life to be lived, but the slivers must be vacuumed.

 

And then the hose sniffs the crumbs just around the corner,

the detritus tracked in from outside –

grass clippings and unidentifiable pieces of bark

or dried stalks from dead flowers.

 

Stop.

 

There is always a mess to be cleaned up.

 

But time is limited.

 

We must be sure not suck our precious moments into the vacuum canister, lost forever.

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Poetry

A Night in India

Basmati rice, saffron

Persimmon, metallic gold

Lotus flowers, tumeric

Paprika, paprikash, lentil soup.

Mango lassi for dinner                                                                                                                                                         on an open air veranda

Honey, ginger,                                                                                                                                                                   Come closer, Naan

Fiery balanced by the sublime

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Children, Poetry

Give a Kid a Bucket

Give a kid a bucket,

there’s no telling what he’ll do.

Bucket head, valiant helmet, Frankenstein’s twin.

Collector of pine cones, fancy purse.

Keeper of dreams and special things,

mudpie mixer, sandcastle constructor.

 

Fill it, empty it, and fill it again.

Knock it over and shrill with glee.

Bend the handle to breaking,

come back from the brink.

 

Much more alluring when empty,

Filled to capacity with nothing at all

and everything all at once.

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Automobiles, Poetry

The Song of My Saab

A plaintive cry from the garage

You, me, a curve in the road

The whine of the turbo

The rush of air

The wah-wah-wah of some part of the suspension needing attention

The bing of left low beam failure

The ding of airbag malfunction

Hit the clear button and drop it into gear

The mechanic can wait until tomorrow

Tonight is for the sheer joy of driving

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motherhood, parenting, Poetry

Water for My Soul

poem

Good Morning my family

Do you think that this rain will bring flowers?

 

The lovely poem that my kindergartener brought home yesterday.  More of a survey, really.  She left a space for each family member to respond – except the three year-old “because she can’t write yet.”

God, I hope it brings flowers.  And I hope you stay as lovely and sweet as you are right now.  With your sense of wonder and hope and excitement.

 

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Living, Poetry

Out with the Omens

Is it a bad omen that I keep thinking about this poem since I wrote about chainsaws?  Or is it all the warnings I’ve since received?  Do not fret; safety will be first, people!

“Out, Out—”

by Robert Frost

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19976#sthash.6Fhe7JKp.dpuf

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