Poetry Friday: I Love Poetry 180

Last time I posted, I wrote about how much I love Ted Kooser's site, American Life in Poetry. I thought I'd share another of my favorite poetry resources today, Poetry 180.

Poetry 180 is a project started by Billy Collins and the Library of Congress as a way of providing one poem each day for high school students and teachers. You can sign up to have the poems delivered to you via RSS or email.

Here's one from the collection that I really like:

After Us

Connie Wanek

I don't know if we're in the beginning
or in the final stage.
                    -- Tomas Tranströmer

Rain is falling through the roof.
And all that prospered under the sun,
the books that opened in the morning
and closed at night, and all day
turned their pages to the light;

the sketches of boats and strong forearms
and clever faces, and of fields
and barns, and of a bowl of eggs,
and lying across the piano
the silver stick of a flute; everything

invented and imagined,
everything whispered and sung,
all silenced by cold rain.

You can read the rest of the poem here. I hope you enjoy it and I hope you enjoy the Poetry Friday round-up, which is hosted today at No Water River.

Poetry Friday: One of My Favorite Poetry Sites

Do you have someone in your life who not only shares poems with you and who never EVER shares one that isn't absolutely brilliant? How they do it, I'm not sure. But I'm lucky enough to have poet laureate Ted Kooser to do just that for me.

Now, Ted and I aren't friends per se. But I do have an RSS subscription to his site, American Life in Poetry. So we're practically BFFs. And Mr. Kooser is one of those kinds of friends...every poem he shares (one per week) is pure gold. I highly recommend subscribing to his site.

Here's some evidence to support my opinion:

The Word That Is a Prayer 

By Ellery Akers

One thing you know when you say it:

all over the earth people are saying it with you;

a child blurting it out as the seizures take her,

a woman reciting it on a cot in a hospital.

What if you take a cab through the Tenderloin:

at a street light, a man in a wool cap,

yarn unraveling across his face, knocks at the window;

he says, Please.

By the time you hear what he’s saying,

the light changes, the cab pulls away,

and you don’t go back, though you know

someone just prayed to you the way you pray.

Please: a word so short

it could get lost in the air

Read the rest here.

You MUST also read this one, which I featured here previously.

Night Dive 

By Peggy Shumaker

Plankton rise toward the full moon

spread thin on Wakaya’s surface.

Manta rays’ great curls of jaw

scoop backward somersaults of ocean

in through painted caves of their mouths, out

through sliced gills. Red sea fans

pulse. The leopard shark

lounges on a smooth ramp of sand,

skin jeweled with small hangers-on.

Pyramid fish point the way to the surface.

Read the rest of this poem here.

And be sure to check out the Poetry Friday roundup, hosted today at Write. Sketch. Repeat.

Poetry Friday: A.R. Ammons

Is there a greater gift than a book of poetry? A friend and colleague of mine made a special trip to my school earlier this month to deliver a book of poems by A.R. Ammons. He even wrote an inscription and highlighted his favorites! That's how poetry lovers give gifts.

So I've been sort of slowly soaking myself in Ammons's work. He's not a poet I was really familiar with beyond recognizing his name. But I'm definitely a fan.

My favorite so far is called "Staking Claim." But, I can't find a copy online that I'm authorized to use. So instead I bring you the beginning portion of a long but elegant poem called "Corsons Inlet:"

Corsons Inlet

BY A. R. AMMONS

I went for a walk over the dunes again this morning

to the sea,

then turned right along

   the surf

                         rounded a naked headland

                         and returned

   along the inlet shore:

it was muggy sunny, the wind from the sea steady and high,   

crisp in the running sand,

       some breakthroughs of sun

   but after a bit

continuous overcast:

the walk liberating, I was released from forms,   

from the perpendiculars,

      straight lines, blocks, boxes, binds

of thought

into the hues, shadings, rises, flowing bends and blends   

               of sight:

                         I allow myself eddies of meaning:   

yield to a direction of significance

running

like a stream through the geography of my work:   

   you can find

in my sayings

                         swerves of action

                         like the inlet’s cutting edge

Explore the rest of this beauty at the Poetry Foundation. And be sure to check out the Poetry Friday

roundup at Poetry for Children. 

photo credit: Beaulawrence via photo pin cc

Poetry Friday: Birthday Poems

I set out this morning to find a poem about birthdays to share with my wife, whose birthday is today. It turned out to be more difficult than I thought.

When it comes to good birthday poems, it seems there have been a lot of them written from parent, to child. These don't suit the occasion at all, really.

There are also many poems that reference a specific age--15, 64, etc. These were a little too specific for my tastes.

There are also several birthday poems out there that are pretty good...but kind of dark. Yea, that won't do for me.

I did find this gem about birthdays by Stanley Kunitz, though. I like it a lot, but it might not make a good "gift:"

Passing Through

BY STANLEY KUNITZ

—on my seventy-ninth birthday

Nobody in the widow’s household   

ever celebrated anniversaries.   

In the secrecy of my room

I would not admit I cared

that my friends were given parties.   

Before I left town for school

my birthday went up in smoke   

in a fire at City Hall that gutted   

the Department of Vital Statistics.   

If it weren’t for a census report   

of a five-year-old White Male   

sharing my mother’s address

at the Green Street tenement in Worcester   

I’d have no documentary proof   

that I exist. You are the first,   

my dear, to bully me

into these festive occasions.

Read the rest at the Poetry Foundation.

I settled on a poem called "Crossroads" by Joyce Sutphen. It references "middle age," which doesn't apply to my wife, but I like what it's trying to say, so I think I'll share it with her...and you!

Crossroads
by Joyce Sutphen
The second half of my life will be black to the white rind of the old and fading moon. The second half of my life will be water over the cracked floor of these desert years. I will land on my feet this time, knowing at least two languages and who my friends are. I will dress for the occasion, and my hair shall be whatever color I please. Everyone will go on celebrating the old birthday, counting the years as usual, but I will count myself new from this inception, this imprint of my own desire. The second half of my life will be swift, past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder, asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road. The second half of my life will be wide-eyed, fingers shifting through fine sands, arms loose at my sides, wandering feet. There will be new dreams every night, and the drapes will never be closed. I will toss my string of keys into a deep well and old letters into the grate.

Read the rest here.

Today's Poetry Roundup location, at the time of this posting, is difficult to determine. Check with Julie Larios, who posted that she's looking into it. See you next week!

Poetry Friday: A Poet to Know--Heather McHugh

Ok, so you probably already know Heather McHugh. If you don't, though, don't feel bad. Neither did I until a few years ago. Ok, so I knew nothing about poetry until a few years ago. But that is neither here nor there.

Last week, I wrote about Elise Paschen and shared some of her amazing work. I came across a poem by Heather McHugh that I really liked, and I thought, "I should do the same thing for her." So now, I bring you "Glass House:"

Glass House
by Heather McHugh
Everything obeyed our laws and we just went on self-improving till a window gave us pause and there the outside world was, moving. Five apartment blocks swept by, the trees and ironwork and headstones of the next town's cemetery. Auto lots. Golf courses. Rest homes. Blue-green fields and perishable vistas wars had underscored in red were sweeping past

Read the rest of the poem here. Gosh, how I love a poem with a good ending. Make sure you click through, it's totally worth it. And I just love the word "nonplussed." I think I will start using it more.

If you thought that was good, wait until you read "Ghazal of the Better-Unbegun:"

Ghazal of the Better-Unbegun
by Heather McHugh
A book is a suicide postponed. --Cioran Too volatile, am I? too voluble? too much a word-person? I blame the soup: I'm a primordially stirred person. Two pronouns and a vehicle was Icarus with wings. The apparatus of his selves made an ab- surd person. The sound I make is sympathy's: sad dogs are tied afar. But howling I become an ever more un- heard person. I need a hundred more of you to make a likelihood. The mirror's not convincing-- that at-best in- ferred person.

Check out the rest of this poem here. If you're not familiar with the ghazal poetic form (I wasn't until...well, you know), click here. And that one's ending might have been better than "Glass House's," don't you think? "McHugh, you'll be the death of me." The poet talking to herself (or her offspring???). Nice move, McHugh. Halfway to the third person" (a.k.a. the second person) is really, really smart (for lack of a better word), too. Wow! Love those poems.

Here are 2 more you'll like:

• "Etymological Dirge"
• "The Oven Loves the TV Set"

Heck, she's so good, just go to the Poetry Foundation and read all that she has there!

This week's Poetry Friday is hosted by Violet Nesdody HERE. Be sure to check it out.

Photo source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/25228175@N08/4803700847/

Poetry Friday: A Poet to Love--Elise Paschen

Holy Name Cathedral, Chicago

Four Poetry Fridays in a row...after such a long hiatus, I'd say that's pretty good. Today I was going to share a short poem I found and adored. It was so good that I couldn't help but start searching for other poems by the poet. Here's the first bit of the first one I found, "Division Street" by Elise Paschen.

Division Street
by Elise Paschen
". . . Prayer book and Mother, shot themselves last Sunday."                                         Gwendolyn Brooks The spire of Holy Name Cathedral rose like a prayer above Chicago Avenue. I thumbed a leather-bound book in catechism class, recited the Hail Mary. Fire and devils blazed at night. The nuns told my mother I had a calling.

Read the rest of the poem here at Poets.org.

You really have to love a short poem. I've written before about how fascinating I find them. Brevity is not a strength of mine, so I'm awestruck when a poet can weave magic using a few short lines.

But I digress...I was so enamored with this poem that I absolutely had to find more by Elise Paschen. Here's a bit from one that tells sort of a heart-wrenching and uncomfortable story, it's called "Voir Dire:"

When he phoned the next morning from another state,

saying that, after our dance,

after my exit, in full view of the guests,

the waiters at long tables

of open bars, she lunged at him, tearing his tux,

his dress shirt, scratching his chest,

drawing blood with her nails, demanding a response:

"Why can't you love only me?"

You can read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.

Finally, I'll share two more, that you can click these links to read. They're worth it...

• "I Will Leave You in Possession of the Field" from Dangerous Liasons
• "Under the Dome"

Be sure to check out the Poetry Friday roundup over at On the Way to Somewhere, a new member of the Poetry Friday host club.

Poetry Friday: School is in the Air

Our friends among us who are educators are heading back to school soon. During the next five weeks or so, teachers and students will be starting another school year. For me, it will be the start of my 12th full year of teaching. (Although this year for the first time I'm working as an instructional coach, so I'm teaching teachers so to speak.)

Back to school time is always a mix of pleasure and pain. Pain when I think about all the things on my to-do list that didn't get done (I will fix you soon, storm door!) and pleasure regarding the excitement of a fresh start--new students, new goals, new ideas, etc.

So today's poem goes out to all the educators out there. It's a poem with school as the setting, but it's definitely about more than just school.

Handwriting Analysis

by Katrina Vandenberg

On the first day of fourth grade, Mrs. Hunter
collected our penmanship samples to save

until June; by then, she said, we'd write
in the handwriting we would have all our lives.

Though she probably read that in a book
on child development, I was so excited

I could hardly stand it. In nine months
my adult self would be born, she would

send me a letter; in the ways she swooped,
careened, and crossed her t's, I could

read everything I would need to know.
We were writing ourselves into the future.

Read the rest of the poem here. I think it would be a great poem to read with students. I'm curious about what they would think. And about what you think!


Next week I'll try for four Poetry Fridays in a row. I think I can do it! Until then, you should check out this week's Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted at a blog that's new to me and that's definitely worth a subscription, Life is Better With Books.