Reflections on a Gift

So, for reasons too numerous to list right now, I'm making some very strong efforts toward discovering happiness in life. They're going exceptionally well but, like anything in the realm of self-improvement, only time will tell. I've got plenty of cause to feel confident, though.

One thing I'm attempting to do is bring things into my life that make me happy. Poetry has always been one of these things, so it's making a return to my life rather than a debut.

It's amazing how turning to poetry can help one navigate pretty much any emotion in existence. Whether it's coping with loss, celebrating a birth, or the happiness and joys of every day life. There's a poem out there for it all.

As I find myself excited by the possibilities that life has to offer for the first time in a long time, I want to share a poem that brought me happiness today.

"Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity"
By John Tobias

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts
    (Hollowed out
    Fitted with straws
    Crammed with tobacco
    Stolen from butts
    In family ashtrays)
Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;

During that summer--
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was--
Watermelons ruled.

Thick imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

----

Does this make you happy, too? Something about the innocence and nostalgia. Or the imagery. Or the idea of preserving our youth. And it has a sweet ending, which you know I love. It also reminds me of one of my other all-time-favorites by Gary Soto.

I apologize for publishing this poem in its entirety. I try to be a responsible digital citizen when it comes to copyright. May the poetry gods absolve me of this sin.

So here's to happiness. And poetry. And life. I'll be back soon with more to share.

photo credit: Wendy Longo photography via photopin cc

National Poetry Month: 30 New Poems--the 16th poem

I think it was Poem #10 where I featured a poem I had never heard before by Naomi Shihab Nye, one of my favorite poets ever. Today I'd like to share a poem by another of my poetry idols, W.S. Merwin. I am in utter awe of anyone, like Merwin or Nye, who every thing they touch turns to poetry gold. Like this one, for example:

"Rain at Night"
by W.S Merwin

This is what I have heard

at last the wind in December
lashing the old trees with rain
unseen rain racing along the tiles
under the moon
wind rising and falling
wind with many clouds
trees in the night wind

after an age of leaves and feathers
someone dead
thought of this mountain as money
and cut the trees
that were here in the wind
in the rain at night
it is hard to say it
but they cut the sacred ‘ohias then
the sacred koas then
the sandalwood and the halas

Read the rest here.

Enjoy your Saturday. Only 14 more poems left!

Poetry Friday: Poetry Month Poem #15

We've reached the middle of National Poetry Month. And yet another Poetry Friday. If you've been following along, you know that my theme for NPM has been "New Poems" and I've been sharing a poem each day that's new to me (and hopefully to you, too).

Today, however, since it is Poetry Friday and the last day of work before my Spring Break, I think I'll break my own rules slightly. I'd like to share one of my favorite poems of all time...so it isn't new to me. Maybe, though, it's new to you.

Gary Soto is an incredibly talented (and quite prolific) writer. Not only does he write terrific fiction for children and young adults, but he also can write some really amazing poems. Here's my favorite of his:

"Oranges"
by Gary Soto
The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December.  Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge.  I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore.

Read the rest of the poem here. It's worth it, trust me. You can also find links to lots of other Soto poems there.

I just love the way he captures such a tender moment in vivid detail. Not only can you picture it in your mind, but also, more than likely, you can connect to it with a memory of your own from your youth. Perhaps you were the boy with the oranges. Maybe you were the girl walking with the boy. I wasn't exactly either one, but I remember being 12 and in love. Mr. Soto describes it way more perfectly than I ever could. I hope you like this one as much as I do.

Please continue to follow along via subscription or by following me on Blogger. And also be sure to check out the Poetry Friday round up at Random Noodling.

Poetry Countdown: Women's History Month--#3

Gwendolyn Brooks said once, of living in Chicago, one of my favorite places in all the world, "If you wanted a poem, you only had to look out of a window." A poet that views the world that way, that finds poetry in the hidden nuances of everyday life, and that expresses her observations in the beautiful way that Brooks did, is bound to hold a top-three spot on my countdown.

I admit that I didn't always enjoy poetry. In my youth, particularly high school, poetry was a chore--something to read that was nearly incomprehensible. Nowhere near the joy that it is to me today. That is, however, except for one poem: "We Real Cool" by Gwendolyn Brooks. You can read it here or, better yet, listen to Brooks read it herself here. I think you'll see why I found it so entrancing.

Brooks also wrote many poems that captured the African American experience in Chicago...an experience that blacks nationwide could relate to. Take, for example, "kitchenette building," a splendid piece:

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,

Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong

Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

But could a dream send up through onion fumes   

Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes   

And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,   

Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,

Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,   

Anticipate a message, let it begin?

Read the poem in its entirety here.

But Gwendolyn Brooks was not limited to being an "African American poet," and I hope no one would dare only categorize her as such. She is truly an American poet, or better yet, a "human poet," as her themes are often universal. One of my all time favorites of hers is "when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story:"

—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,

And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—

When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,

Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon

Looking off down the long street

To nowhere,

Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation

And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?

And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—

When you have forgotten that, I say,

And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,

And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;

And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,

That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner

To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles

Or chicken and rice

And salad and rye bread and tea

And chocolate chip cookies—

Finish this brilliant poem here.

If you have time, please also give the following poems a read:

• "The Bean Eaters"
• "a song in the front yard"
• "Boy Breaking Glass"
• "my dreams, my works, must wait till after hell"
• "The Mother" (be forewarned...this one is gut-wrenchingly sad)

I don't get around in "poetry circles," so I don't know if Ms. Brooks is a well-known poet or not. Nor do I know how highly regarded she is. In my mind, she's near the top, though. And her contribution to poetry deserves recognition.

Again, if you've missed any of the countdown, please feel free to peruse numbers 10 through 4. And stay tuned for numbers 2 and 1 coming up later this week!

Poetry Friday: Women's History Month Countdown #4

Have you been following our Countdown this month? What's that you say? You haven't? Well, my friend, you are in luck. Today we're bringing you our #4 poet in the countdown, Elizabeth Bishop, and if you want to get caught up on numbers 10 through 5, click here.

Elizabeth Bishop left behind a fairly small catalog of poems--she wrote just over 100 of them. But her attention to detail might have been unmatched among her 20th century counterparts. Some of her poems were made up of long, sprawling stanzas that are filled with intricate descriptions, vivid imagery, and beautiful language. Like, for example, "At The Fishhouses:"

Although it is a cold evening,

down by one of the fishhouses

an old man sits netting,

his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,

a dark purple-brown,

and his shuttle worn and polished.

The air smells so strong of codfish

it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.

The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs

and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up

to storerooms in the gables

for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.

All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,

swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,

is opaque, but the silver of the benches,

the lobster pots, and masts, scattered

among the wild jagged rocks,

is of an apparent translucence

like the small old buildings with an emerald moss

growing on their shoreward walls.

Read the rest of this wonderful poem here.

Choosing a favorite Bishop poem for me, I think, is an impossible task. I've blogged about "One Art" before. You can't resist a poem that starts like this...

The art of losing isn't hard to master

IF you don't know this poem, read it immediately. Your life may never be the same.

BUT...wait there's more. You know what my all time favorite poetic form is, right? If you said "sestina" you're correct! Elizabeth Bishop might have written the most amazing sestina of all time. On its own, it's brilliant. When you realize that it conforms to some very strict rules, it leaves you awestruck....

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac


There's no way you can resist reading the rest, is there?

I have to confess--although I knew all along that I wanted Bishop included on this countdown, I was never really sure where to put her. For a time, I thought that maybe #4 was too low, that maybe she was more of an 8 or 9. Now, after reviewing the poems of hers I really like, I am wondering if #4 is too high. She just might be top-three material...take a look at this sampling and let us know what you think:

• "It is Marvelous to Wake Up Together"
• "Sonnet"
• "The Fish"
• "Letter to N.Y."
• "Suicide of a Moderate Dictator"
• JUST ADDED: "A Word With You"

The Poetry Friday roundup is hosted by Mary Lee at A Year in Reading this week. Please stop by and check out all the blogosphere has to offer on this last Friday before the beginning of Poetry Month!

Poetry Countdown: Women's History Month--#8

I need to preface this edition of my Women's History Month Countdown with this--I am not a poetry scholar. On top of that, I'm not very good at enjoying British poets. So on this countdown, you're not going to find Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Christina Rosetti or any of the scores of European (particularly those who are English) female poets who may deserve to be on it. Sorry.

My first two poets on this countdown, Lucille Clifton and Marianne Moore, are certainly deserving. But they also are indicators or things to come. The remaining 8 poets on my list are going to be mainly American, and mainly poets of the 20th century.

That being said, I have done a lot of research for this series, and I've read a lot of poems by poets that I wouldn't normally have read. I've enjoyed it, too. So without further adieu, on to number 8...

Lorine Niedecker's poetry can be described as minimalist, I suppose. Kenneth Koch called it "whittled clean," according to Niedecker's Poetry Foundation's bio page. Without a doubt, though, it is both unique and glorious.

Poet's Work


Grandfather
     advised me:
         Learn a trade


I learned to sit
     at a desk
          and condense


No layoff
     from this
          condensery

Her poems are so small and yet each one of them achieves perfection in its own way. I would imagine that crafting poems like these would have been labor intensive--choosing just the right words and just the right spacing. The hard work pays off, for sure.

Popcorn can cover
screwed to a wall
     so the cold
can't mouse in

See what I mean? Perfection. These four lines are among my favorite in all of poetry, I think. I love that indentation. And the use of "mouse" as a verb. I asked my class once, kind of on a whim, why they thought there was no period at the end of "popcorn can cover." I had no idea what the answer is, I just wanted to hear what they would say. A student responded: "Maybe the story isn't over yet." Maybe.

I think, without a doubt, that she deserves this spot in my countdown. I hope you'll enjoy reading her poems as much as I do.

Another Niedecker "must-read" is "In the great snowfall before the bomb," which has an ending that ranks up there with the greatest I've read. In fact, her poems' endings are one of my favorite things about them.

Please also enjoy these Niedecker greatest hits:

• "When Ecstasy is Inconvenient"
• "Paean to Place"
• "Wintergreen Ridge" (which for the life of me I cannot find online, but it's in her Collected Works)
• "[What horror to awake at night]"

Poets.org also has a really good article called "Who Was Lorine Niedecker?" Like many brilliant genius poets, she was a very interesting person. I think you'll agree.

Be sure to check out the number 10 and number 9 entries in the countdown. AND head over to Liz in Ink for this week's Poetry Friday Roundup.

Poetry Classics: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Once again this winter, here in Michigan we are buried under snow. During the past seven days, almost all of the 12 or so inches on the ground melted away. But apparently winter isn't over yet because Sunday night we were pounded with about another foot.

"Watching it Snow at Night" is right up there with "Mountains on the Horizon" and "Waterfalls" and "Sunsets" and "The Sound of the Ocean" on my "Things in Nature I Love" list. And whenever I take a moment to watch or, even better, stand outside in, the falling flakes in the nighttime, my mind often turns to one of my favorite poems, "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening."

I think I first heard this poem as an elementary school student. Naturally, I was drawn to its near perfect meter and its exquisite rhyme scheme. I return to it often in my teaching and somehow it always comes to mind when there's an evening snowfall. It's ingrained in my memory, for sure. I'd also guess it's one of the most widely known poems in American history. And for good reason. There are some poems that truly will live on forever. And this has to be one of them...

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

I think the opening image of the speaker trespassing in the woods is a great one. But it's the last stanza that gets me. That intentional repetition reinforcing the remaining journey leaves a lasting impression and probably resonates with anyone who has ever walked the earth.

You might enjoy the version of this poem illustrated by Susan Jeffers:

It's one of the books in my collection that I treasure the most.

So wherever you are, and however many feet of snow you are buried beneath, I hope you enjoyed a few moments with this classic poem.

Poetry Idol: The Genius of Ted Kooser

If you've followed The Small Nouns awhile, you've undoubtedly noticed that I have a handful of poets that I write about quite often. I think the leaders would have to be Naomi Shihab Nye and W.S. Merwin. I think I'll start a new series that, until I think of a better name, I'll call "Poetry Idol."


Today it's time to show some love to Ted Kooser, a brilliant poet and former poet laureate of the United States.


Mr. Kooser has been writing great poems for decades. And among the living American poetry greats, he, along with Billy Collins, have to be considered one of the most accessible poets publishing today. His poems make sense to normal people like you and me. But more than that, they resonate.


But Kooser isn't just writing poems. He's also written an amazing book about writing poetry, The Poetry Home Repair Manual.

It, too, is quite accessible and incredibly helpful for aspiring poets. And not only did I enjoy reading about how Kooser thinks about writing, but he also includes some amazing poems that he and others have written that I hadn't read before.


And then there's his website, American Life in Poetry. It's an ongoing anthology of contemporary American poetry. Each week, Kooser features a poem that you've probably never read. And each week, he hits a home run. I've never read a poem on this site that I didn't enjoy.


But wait, there's more. I haven't even shown you any of his poems yet. Here's what has to be one of my all-time favorites...

After Years

Ted Kooser

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant

Please read the rest here. It's glorious, isn't it?


I guess I'm technically a Midwesterner, but Ted's neck of the woods, Nebraska is way more Midwest than here. If there's a poet out there who captures the essence of the Midwest better than him, I don't know who it is...

So This Is Nebraska

BY TED KOOSER

The gravel road rides with a slow gallop   

over the fields, the telephone lines   

streaming behind, its billow of dust   

full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.

On either side, those dear old ladies,

the loosening barns, their little windows   

dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs   

hide broken tractors under their skirts.

So this is Nebraska. A Sunday   

afternoon; July. Driving along

with your hand out squeezing the air,   

a meadowlark waiting on every post.

Read the rest here.

And if you like these, you'll definitely like each and every poem by Kooser featured at Garrison Keilor's The Writer's Almanac. If you only have time for one of them, choose "For You, Friend." It's a week late but keep it bookmarked for next Valentine's Day. And if you only have time for a second, try the incomparable "A Spiral Notebook." Or maybe "Tracks," another good Valentine poem. So tough to decide with a genius like Ted Kooser.

Hope you enjoyed the first ever "Poetry Idol," Ted Kooser. Come back next week for another of my favorites!

Best Valentine Poem Ever

Super special shout-out to Leah of Chopping Broccoli for being the one to introduce me to this poem...


Okay, my feelings about love poems have been documented and maybe I've evolved a bit since I first wrote about them. I like subtle love poems, not the ones that are so mushy that you want to puke. So it being Valentine's Day today (a farce of a holiday if ever there was one), I thought I'd share the greatest Valentine poem ever.

It's not really about love. And it's barely about Valentine's Day. It's actually more about poetry than anything. However, you look at it, though, it's brilliant. Enjoy...

Valentine for Ernest Mann

By Naomi Shihab Nye

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he reinvented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.

Read the rest here. I really like the ending. And the first line. And the idea of poems hiding. And the whole idea that in the process of deriding this person for asking her to write him a poem, Nye has...written him a poem. AND the wordplay of the title is perfect, too, don't you think? Happy Valentine's Day.

My New Favorite Poem

I've always used the term "favorite" loosely. I don't really like the word that much to be honest with you. I find it so limiting. When asked to choose a favorite color or food or movie or book, I invariably end up listing three or five or more. I guess this is my little protest against having to choose just one. Just check out the number of blog posts I've labeled "favorite poems" and you'll see what I mean.

There are, of course, a few instances where I do give only one answer. But ultimately I end up thinking of or discovering a different one within the next hour or so. (e.g. "No THAT one's really my favorite...wait, THIS one...wait...").

And then there are times when I'll choose a favorite and then push it aside for another favorite only to return at a later time and let the original reclaim the throne. This cycle can go on and on for me. And I don't see anything wrong with that.

If you're a teacher, you probably have a set of catch-phrases that you use repeatedly throughout the school year. One of mine is used whenever I introduce a book or a poem before reading it aloud. I always end up saying something along the lines of "This is my favorite book/poem ever and I just have to share it with you." My students moan (I think all of my catch-phrases elicit this response) and say things like "You said that about yesterday's poem." But it's true. I find new favorites all the time.

Now when it comes to poetry, my list of top five poets is pretty secure. You've got Collins and Merwin and Shihab Nye and Hughes and cummings...or maybe Kenyon or Kumin or Williams or Addonizio...

Anyway, I came across this poem in my daily email from Poets.org this week and it immediately became my new favorite:

Rime Riche
by Monica Ferrell

You need me like ice needs the mountain 
On which it breeds. Like print needs the page.
You move in me like the tongue in a mouth,
Like wind in the leaves of summer trees,
Gust-fists, hollow except for movement and desire
Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws
Of a pigeon taste that window-ledge on which it sits,
The way water tastes rust in the pipes it shuttles through
Beneath a city, unfolding and luminous with industry. 


The poem turns slightly at this point, so you'll want to read the rest of it here for sure.

I wonder who the poet is speaking to here--a lover? a child? I also am unable to puzzle out why the poem is called "Rime Riche." There must be some wordplay I'm missing. Makes me want to spend a lot more time exploring this poem. Overall, it's the comparisons (like the ice needs the mountain) and the unique personification ("gust-fists", "water tastes rust") that get me. Without a doubt, this is my favorite poem of all time. For the time being.

Poetry Friday: For Dr. King

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.--what would the world look like if he were still with us? Things would certainly be different, right? How different? How much better? I have to believe that he would have continued to change the world in the decades after 1968. Who knows what our world would look like.

I suppose, though, that wondering what could have been isn't the best way to honor the memory of Dr. King. Making sure we do things to preserve his legacy and spreading his message of peace and justice are better courses of action. I hope I'm doing that, I really do.

There are certainly days, however, where I am not so sure even he would be able to help us. I shake my head and wonder exactly what happened to make our world this way.

My whole point here is to share a poem with you that I think echoes the spirit of unity and peace that Dr. King pushed Americans to achieve. It's a gorgeous and moving peace, and I won't talk too much about it because it certainly speaks for itself.

Shoulders
By Naomi Shihab Nye

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
but he’s not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy’s dream
deep inside him.

The poem turns toward a beautiful ending at this point. Please read the rest here via Google Books. And please check out the Poetry Friday round-up, hosted this week at Laura Salas: Writing the World for Kids.

Poetry Friday: A Poet to Enjoy

Do you ever read a poem by a poet that you really, really love and then spend the next few days, weeks, or months reading all the poems by that person that you can? Like most poetry fiends, I have favorite poets, but I also enjoy discovering writers that are new to me.

That happened this past week when I read New Year's Day by Kim Addonizio.  I blogged about it Sunday and since then, I've found myself somewhat entranced by Ms. Addonizio's work. Granted, I haven't explored everything or gotten my hands on any of her books, but what I've found I've liked. A lot.

The language or her poems is so rich with imagery and emotion. There's also sensuality, which I'm often not drawn to in poetry, but Addonizio makes it work. Her poems operate on many levels and they have such depth that they make me realize what a poetry novice I am--I just know there's more to them that I'm not totally "getting," and trying to write about them probably just makes me seem like a doofus--but I really enjoy reading and re-reading them. Kim Addonizio is a poet to know and one I'll be reading more and more of in the future.

So on this first Poetry Friday of 2011, I wanted to share this poem:


THE NUMBERS
How many nights have I lain here like this, feverish with plans,
with fears, with the last sentence someone spoke, still trying to finish
a conversation already over? How many nights were wasted
in not sleeping, how many in sleep--I don’t know
how many hungers there are, how much radiance or salt, how many times
the world breaks apart, disintegrates to nothing and starts up again
in the course of an ordinary hour. I don’t know how God can bear
seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings,
the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts. I want to close
my eyes and find a quiet field in fog, a few sheep moving toward a fence.
I want to count them, I want them to end. I don’t want to wonder
how many people are sitting in restaurants about to close down,
which of them will wander the sidewalks all night
while the pies revolve in the refrigerated dark.


You can read the rest here via Poetry Magazine.

And since I had a really hard time picking just one Kim Addonizio poem to share, you might also want to read this one:

My Heart
by Kim Addonizio
That Mississippi chicken shack. That initial-scarred tabletop, that tiny little dance floor to the left of the band. That kiosk at the mall selling caramels and kitsch. That tollbooth with its white-plastic-gloved worker handing you your change. That phone booth with the receiver ripped out. That dressing room in the fetish boutique, those curtains and mirrors. That funhouse, that horror, that soundtrack of screams. That putti-filled heaven raining gilt from the ceiling. That haven for truckers, that bottomless cup. That biome. That wilderness preserve.

Read the conclusion at Poets.org.

And if you're like me and you've become a new fan of hers, here are some links to some others you might like:

• "Onset"
• "Eating Together"
• "Quantum"
• "Mermaid Song"

Poetry Friday, which will be hosted HERE March 4, is located this week at Live. Love. Explore! Be sure to check it out.

The Gift of Poetry

Unexpected gifts are always a double-edged sword for me. Maybe it's my personality, I don't know. Before the Christmas break, a teacher I work with gave me a poetry anthology called Teaching With Fire. I thought this was incredibly thoughtful and I was touched that she would think enough of me to remember my love of poetry when picking me out a gift. On top of that, it was completely unexpected, making it all the more meaningful. I only felt bad because I hadn't bought anything for her, hence the double-edged sword effect.

Don't worry, I got over it and soon found that there are lots of great poems contained within (despite its slightly cheesy subtitle: "Poetry That Sustains The Courage To Teach"). The poems are accompanied by vignettes written by the educators who selected them, too, and most of them are pretty interesting.

So if you're a teacher and you like poetry anthologies like I do, even if you never read anything but the poems, this is a pretty good collection. And I think it would make a great gift for a colleague or a teacher-friend as well. I know I've enjoyed it.

Finally, here's one of my favorite poems from the book. It's by the great William Stafford:

The Way It Is


There's a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.

It's one of many in Teaching with Fire that were new to me. If you get a chance to check out this book, I hope you enjoy it.

Enter the New Year: Part One

Resolutions--can't live with them, can't live without them. I can see their value. Change is good. I fully support change: weight loss, smoking cessation, cardiovascular fitness, kindness to animals, returning control of the House to the Democrats...

My only beef with resolutions, I suppose, is that January 1 is such an arbitrary day to set them. Why can't I make a resolution on March 5th? Or any other day of the year for that matter. Why the pressure of the first of this month? All you people setting your goals--why let the calendar be your master? A calendar that some white dude long ago created, randomly declaring January 1 as the beginning of a new year. What did they do before calendars, huh? Maybe their resolutions never failed.

Which brings me to another problem I have...failing. Unless you're some sort of robot you have to know that an astronomical percentage of New Year's resolutions fail within weeks, if not days. Why set yourself up for that sort of letdown? 

Now's the part where I tell you I want nothing to do with resolutions and that my life's journey is one of continual, not just annual, self-improvement...well not quite. I've got resolutions of my own, both personal and professional. I'll spare you the details of the personal goals, which mainly involve trying to not be such a fat boy. There are some relevant professional resolutions I've set, though, including an old one--"write more"--and a new one--"blog more." Part One begins my attempt at the latter.

Here are a couple New Year's poems that I came across at the Poetry Foundation and felt compelled to share:

New Year’s Day

BY KIM ADDONIZIO

The rain this morning falls   

on the last of the snow

and will wash it away. I can smell   

the grass again, and the torn leaves

being eased down into the mud.   

The few loves I’ve been allowed

to keep are still sleeping

on the West Coast. Here in Virginia

I walk across the fields with only   

a few young cows for company.

Big-boned and shy,

they are like girls I remember

from junior high, who never   

spoke, who kept their heads

lowered and their arms crossed against   

their new breasts. Those girls

are nearly forty now. Like me,   

they must sometimes stand

at a window late at night, looking out   

on a silent backyard, at one

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls   

of other people’s houses.

Read the rest at the Poetry Foundation. And please enjoy this one by the incomparable Naomi Shihab Nye, whom I resolve to feature more often at The Small Nouns during 2011:

Burning the Old Year

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Please enjoy the conclusion here. And be sure to check out Part Two!

May your 2011 be safe, happy, and poetry-filled.

A Christmas Poem

So much for my hiatus...this poem came to me via an email subscription and I felt compelled to share it.

Such a large part of the holiday season, no matter what or how you celebrate, is made up of memories. As I share my own favorite Christmas memories (those that I remember; there seem to be so few, but I guess that's an issue for another day) with my children, I realize that so much of this time of year revolves around nostalgia and the pangs of missing those that can't be with you. It can really be a sad time of year if you think about it in the wrong way.

Jeanne Marie-Beaumont writes about it far more eloquently than I ever could in "When I Am in the Kitchen:"

When I Am in the Kitchen
by Jeanne Marie Beaumont

I think about the past. I empty the ice-cube trays
crack crack cracking like bones, and I think
of decades of ice cubes and of John Cheever,
of Anne Sexton making cocktails, of decades
of cocktail parties, and it feels suddenly far
too lonely at my counter. Although I have on hooks
nearby the embroidered apron of my friend's
grandmother and one my mother made for me
for Christmas 30 years ago with gingham I had
coveted through my childhood. In my kitchen
I wield my great aunt's sturdy black-handled
soup ladle and spatula, and when I pull out
the drawer, like one in a morgue, I visit
the silverware of my husband's grandparents.
We never met, but I place this in my mouth
every day and keep it polished out of duty.


Read the rest here, at Poets.org. And subscribe to their Poem-a-Day email. It's worth it. And please have a safe and happy holiday season.

Poems I Love to Teach: Poems I Don't Understand

How's that for a title of a blog post? Maybe I should explain. I find (sometimes, not always) that I'm drawn to poems that are just a little out of reach, just a little too complex for me to truly understand the first time through. Maybe they're still even a little too complicated after five reads. Or ten. Sometimes it's that I enjoy trying to figure it out--but not always. Sometimes I just like to bask in the genius of the poet and recognize that he or she has created something beautiful, even if I don't know what it all means.

Take this poem I read today by Carey McHugh:

You will come first as a sound
and then      a breath

will come like a cold spell      a hipbone

    your lilt above the lake a crowcall
you will come as expected in

iron weather      will craft a blade

from the horse's winter stall

Please read the rest at Poetry Daily.

I don't really "get" this poem, but I like it. I don't even know if I can say why I like it right now. And for me, with poems, that's okay. It's so much fun to chew on a poem, ponder it for awhile. Come back to it over and over and discover something new about it each time. Even if I never find myself really grasping its "true meaning."

I don't react this way to all poems that I don't understand. Heavens, that would mean I'd be swooning in adoration over millions of pieces. But if I poem has some other amazing characteristics, other things about it that I enjoy, then I can give up on any desire I have to truly comprehend and instead just appreciate these poems for what they are.

There's another poem I love--it's called "Password" and it's by one of my all-time favorites, Naomi Shihab Nye. It starts out like this:

I have made so many mistakes
you might think I would sit down 

You really must read the rest via Google Books (and then run out and buy the collection it comes from).

There's so much I don't really "get" about this poem, including the title, but there are so many other things that are just so wonderful about it, like the first two lines, and her use of simple language, and the ending, and so on. I love it completely, but I don't completely understand it. Again, that's okay.

Which brings me back full circle to the title of this post--why do I love to teach these kinds of poems? Well, for one, they stimulate some amazing discussions. If you don't truly understand parts of a poem, you're bound to hear some new ideas from your students. It's one of the reasons I sometimes (but not often) wish that I taught secondary school--the discussions could reach tremendous levels, more so than at the elementary level (which isn't to say we don't have some great ones in my classroom!).

Also, poems like this help prove to your students that poems don't have to be understood to be useful or great. In both the poems I've mentioned, for example, there are countless things that you could "zoom in on," regardless of whether the poem makes sense to anyone in the room. This, as I've said before, is an important poetry lesson to teach.

And on top of all of that, it helps get rid of that whole "teacher as all-knowing ruler of the classroom" sort of thing. When a teacher can admit to students that they don't understand something, I think that's a big deal.

I've gone on for quite some time on this topic. Thanks for reading. I guess it's been awhile since I posted and I had a lot of pent-up poetry energy. And before we go, are there any poems you love that you don't really "get?" Let me know in the comments.

Poets of the Blogosphere

I follow a lot of blogs. It's a pretty good mix of educational technology and literacy instruction, for the most part. And while I follow many bloggers who write about poetry and who share poems of others and who discuss the teaching of poetry, I don't follow many blogs written by actual poets. I know they're out there. I guess I just haven't made time to find ones that suit me. (If there's any you like, please aid my search by passing them along!)

You also have to be a bit of a voyeur, it seems, to read writers' own blogs. It's an intensely personal experience to be able to read firsthand the thoughts and poems of a poet. Maybe I'm blowing this a bit out of proportion, I don't know. Or maybe this is true of all blogs (this one included?). Again, I don't know. Or maybe I'm just biased. Perhaps lurking in my mind is that "if they were any good they'd be published and wouldn't need a blog." But that seems like a mean thought to have. Regardless, I just know I find myself sometimes not all that comfortable with reading poets directly through their blogs.

There is one exception for me, though: Fox the Poet. It's the blog of an Arizona-based poet named Christopher Fox Graham. He shares a lot of poems as well as features about local poetry slams and spoken word events in Arizona and surrounding areas. (He's also introduced me to the concept of the "Haiku Death Match," for which I am eternally grateful). Anyway, I'm not sure how I came across this blog, but I find it to be a good read.

A poem posted on Fox the Poet this week stood out to me. It's called "Orion" and it starts like this:

MapQuest the miles in the sky
it's easier to find you that way
than to traipse the hills between us

(You really should read the rest here.)

You don't find the word "MapQuest" in many poems. I like that. I like it more because he uses it as a verb. I like nouns that can also be verbs. Especially proper nouns. (Tangent alert: Are words like this uniquely 21st century? Are there proper nouns/verbs from pre-2001 that I can't think of right now?)

In the rest of the poem, Graham goes on to make numerous references to different stars that make up the constellation Orion. On the blog, he provides a visual guide to help you out, but to be honest I'd almost rather not have seen it before reading the poem. It would have been more intriguing and puzzle-like. The poem's so good, I would have headed straightaway to Google (proper noun used as a verb!) names like "Meissa" and "Saiph" and "Rigel."

The poem is also long, sprawling, and has a stream-of-consciousness feel to it. These are all things I enjoy about it. A lot of the poems Graham posts are like that. ("This Country" is a good example.) It seems as though he performs at a lot of spoken word / poetry slam type of events and I think these characteristics would make his poems quite enjoyable to hear read live. I'll have to try to make it out to Arizona someday.

So please, give Fox the Poet a try and let me know which poets out there I need to add to my Google Reader. I think it's time I broaden my horizons when it comes to my blog subscriptions.

How Do You Become a Poet?

On my list of "Things I Have a Thing For," pretty close to the top, below "Happy Hour" but above "Dystopian Fiction," you will find "Poems About Poetry." My most faithful of readers will remember that my first Poetry Mix Tape was about these kinds of poems, and I've been trying to collect more ever since.

I've been reading poems about poetry with my students this week. We started with Eve Merriam's brilliant "How to Eat a Poem" and then moved on to one I recently discovered that I thought was a nice follow-up, "Eating Poetry" by Mark Strand. I think my students enjoyed the former, but they weren't really sure if the latter made sense to them. (Although it did give me a chance to stress to them that you don't have to understand a poem completely to really like it.)

Then today we read another Merriam poem that is pretty new to me. It's called "In Reply to the Question 'How Do You Become a Poet?'" It goes like this...

take the leaf of a tree
trace its exact shape
the outside edges
and inner lines

memorize the way it is fastened to the twig
(and how the twig arches from the branch)
how it springs forth in April
how it is panoplied in July

Read the rest here. It's splendid, isn't it? I love the word "panoplied" and is there a kind of play with "forth" and "July" or am I making that up in my head?

By the way, a few spots below "Poems About Poetry" on my list, right between "McSweeney's" and "Lucky Charms" and "Using the Word 'Splendid'" (they are tied), are "Poems with Great Endings." This poem fits into that category, too. Looks like "Poems by Eve Merriam" might need to crack the top-50 during my next list revision.

P.S. Although I posted this on Wednesday, it's been a busy week, so I'm going to pass it off as my Poetry Friday post, too! Be sure to check out the round up at a wrung sponge.

Poetry Friday: Perusing the Bookmarks

I spent some time this evening combing through the poems I've saved and bookmarked recently. These come from blogs I read and feeds I subscribe to. I end up bookmarking poem after poem but hardly ever find the time to go through them. Luckily I did find some time tonight and I came across this gem by Deborah Garrison.

"A Drink in the Night"


My eyes opened
at once for you were standing
by my side, you’d padded
in to ask for a drink in the night.

The cup was—-where?
Fallen down, behind?
Churning in the dishwater, downstairs?
Too tired to care, I cupped
my hand and tipped it
to you. You stared, gulped,
some cold down your chin.
Whispered, “Again!”

O wonder. You’d no idea
I could make a cup.
You’ve no idea what
I can do for you, or hope to.

Read the rest of the poem here. 


I think this one stood out to me because raising children has been hard these last couple months. Not in a bad way, just in a challenging way. But there are always small moments like the one described by Garrison, moments that kind of melt your heart and remind you that it's all so worth it. 


Please also visit Liz in Ink to check out the rest of the Poetry Friday round-up. And thats to Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, the blog where I first read this poem. Oh, and read that article about Deborah Garrison I linked to above, it's pretty interesting.

Poetry Moves I Love to Teach: Repetition

I try to share poems with my students that they'll enjoy. I don't always accomplish this, but I do a pretty good job, I think. I want them to discover the joy of poetry and the beauty of poems. And since I also want to help them become better writers of poems, I try to teach them to notice poetry "moves" in the poems that we read.

I stole the phrase "poetry moves" from a poet/teacher named Joe Tsujimoto. I had the pleasure of meeting Joe last summer at a poetry seminar. He said that he tells his students that "poets have more moves than Michael Jordan." A poetry move is essentially a common characteristic of good poems, a characteristic that makes a poem an enjoyable poem to read.

The list of moves is obviously long, but I do find that if I can expose students to them in their reading of poems that they will tend to try to incorporate the moves into their writing.

One move I introduce early in the school year is repetition. It's one of my favorites...I am drawn in by repeated elements and patterns in poems. Repetition is also a move that's easily imitated.

There are oh so many poems I could hold up as an example, but I think I'll choose one by Jane Kenyon:

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
by Jane Kenyon
I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she will sit beside me. . . . I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . I am water rushing to the wellhead, filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . Please read the rest of the poem here. I realize this poem has so much repetition in it that it ends up reading  like a litany, but it's a pretty good example of what I'm talking  about. I also like to get students to notice poems with more  subtle repetition. Then I get to ask them, "Why do you think  the poet repeats that?" THEN, once they're on the look out for repetition and similar patterns, they'll be able to start noticing breaks in  those patterns and we can talk about why the poet would break the pattern. It  goes on and on.