Where does a backpack go
confined inside four walls?
Does it sprout legs
and walk off?
Will the underlord of the couch
reveal his hostage?
Where can a blank book hide
from prying eyes?
Filled with private words,
its thick cover is not enough
to disguise it from vengeful fingers and pens.
An errant sock, a puzzle piece, a lego gone astray –
inanimate things seem to take on a life of their own
when children roam the home.
image by Terry Border
After holiday dinner, it’s back home to sweet potato peels on the floor.
curled into ribbons just before rushing out the door.
Dehydrated cantalope cut in the corner,
casualty of a frenzied fruit salad creation.
Boxes and ribbons and crumpled tissue paper
cast about the foot of the tree.
Accumulation of cookie crumbs and candy wrappers,
born of abandoned brooms and dustpans.
Time to pack things away instead of pulling them out,
to undo what took so long to do up,
unwind what’s so tightly wound.
After all the expectation and anticipation,
there is a void –
filled with the scraps of what was pretty and bright.
from xmasfreak.com
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
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.
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
Do you have to go away to realize where home is?
Do you have to go where it’s loud to discover quiet?
Do you have to ask questions to realize there are no answers?
Do you have to mentally and verbally vomit to free your mind and start fresh, to get any sort of meaning, clarity, peace?
Do you have to hear the tiny squeak of baby birds or the squall of a newborn to remember that life is fragile and once was new and precious?
You don’t have to do anything.
There’s that thing described so simply as free will, but which so complexly screws up life.
But if you want to –
If you realize you need to –
Life is infinitely better.
Secrets are only dangerous if you keep them.
Shameful until they are aired.
A counterintuitive twist of fate,
relinquishing them releases you from their grip.
But what of those that belong to the collective –
Not just yours to share.
Do you bind yourself to others in your freedom?
A guilty conscience from your gushing?
How does one get free when he is beholden to others?
I am a bruise
A soft spot on your skin that it hurts to look at
A navy hoodie with black sweats toasty warm from the dryer
An ache so familiar it’s almost comfortable
That vulnerable appendage inviting confrontation
from door jambs and jolly bitches,
pointy corners and conscientious offenders
Apply pressure until I turn green and purple,
puce and chartreuse
A mere shade of who I am
Sore and tender,
when will I be at ease in my own skin?
Chopping Potatoes 