Showing posts with label naomi shihab nye. Show all posts
Showing posts with label naomi shihab nye. Show all posts

Sunday, April 10, 2011

National Poetry Month: 30 New Poems--Poem 10

We made it to double digits! I don't know about you, but the task of blogging every day for a month, even if it's just posting a little poem and a smidge of commentary, is a pretty big deal. I think the most I have ever posted in a month so far is 18 times. I thought that was pretty impressive. 30 days out of 30? I hope I can pull it off!

Today I bring a poem that's new to me from a poet who I've admired for a long-time. In fact, depending upon the day and which poem of hers I've read most recently, I might consider her my all-time favorite poet. I'm speaking of Naomi Shihab Nye. Here's one I came across while trolling around Poets.org:

"The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat"
by Naomi Shihab Nye

remains all supple hands and gesture

skin of language
fusing its finest seam

in fluent light
with a raised finger

dance of lips
each sentence complete

he speaks to the shadow
of leaves

strung tissue paper
snipped into delicate flags


Read the conclusion here. Don't you just wish you could make language do the things that Naomi Shihab Nye does? I mean, I speak the same language...why can't I do what she does? Instead of wasting time contemplating that question, I'll spend this Sunday being thankful for Ms. Nye and all the poets out there who continually amaze me.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

I Heart Poetry Anthologies

It's snowing again. I think five inches have fallen in the last five hours and there's no sign of it slowing. Nights like this, it's kind of nice to be stuck inside with a nice book of poetry to read, don't you think?

I love poetry books. I like collecting big volumes of my favorite poets' collected works: Kunitz, Cummings, etc. I like reading poets' individual books, too--Merwin, Alexie, and Adonnizio are a few I've read recently.

But for some reason, the poetry books I truly adore are anthologies. Like a mix tape on poetry steroids, a good anthology can keep my attention for weeks or more. And it's anthologies I always return to when seeking new poems and poets to read.

I love their diversity--the intermingling of poetic styles, the combination of poets both lauded and unknown--and yet, when they're done right, the anthology flows seamlessly from one poem to the next. And then there's the fact that you can just dive right in, open it to any one page and maybe discover a new favorite or rediscover a poem near and dear to your heart. Yes, anthologies are the cat's pajamas but unlike feline sleepwear, I think I'll never own enough of them.

Oh, I almost forgot one of the best features of some anthologies--introductions! I get a kick out of reading the anthologist's thoughts about poetry and about how they put their collection together. If you read past the obligatory "There were so many good poems that I couldn't include..." you usually get some insight into the method behind their choices.

Wow, I almost forgot another wonderful feature of many anthologies--appendices! I love it when you get to read a little blurb about the poets included in the book. And it's even better when, as in the Best American Poetry series, the poet's own thoughts are included, letting the reader in to the mystical minds of the writers themselves.

Here's one example of an anthology I came across recently, The Poets Laureate Anthology edited by Elizabeth Hun Schmidt:


It includes poems from every poet laureate of the United States. Ever. As well as short biographical pieces about each one. I learned a lot from this book. I did not know, for example, that William Carlos Williams and Gwendolyn Brooks were each nominated to this position (which at that time was called "Poetry Consultant"--although Williams never actually served!). Good stuff.

Here's "Abandoned Farmhouse" by one of my favorite laureates, Ted Kooser:


He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard.


Read the rest here.

One of my other favorite anthologies is edited by Naomi Shihab Nye and is called This Same Sky.

It features poems from around the world and is a must have, especially for teachers. Take for example, "I Hide Behind the Simple Things" by the Greek poet Yannis Ritsos. Here's the first stanza...

I hide behind the simple things so you'll find me,
if you don't find me, you'll find the things,
you'll touch what my hand has touched,
our hand-prints will merge.

Read the rest via Google Books.

I could go on and on, I suppose. And still I don't think I've truly captured what it is that I love about poetry anthologies and why I prefer them. Maybe something to explore in the future. If you have a favorite anthology, please share it with us in the comments!

Monday, February 14, 2011

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.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Poetry Mix Tape: Prose Poems

It's been awhile since I last posted a Mix Tape. If you aren't familiar with the concept, you should check out the earlier incarnations. I think you'll find it satisfactory and self-explanatory. And to make up for the dearth of Mix Tapes, I'll provide you, dear reader, with an super-sized edition for your reading enjoyment.

For this installment, I'm focusing on prose poems. For awhile, I couldn't figure them out. They seem pretty straightforward, but how can something be both prose AND poetry? Silly me. So naive. Since I started exploring them, I've figured out there's so much more to them than meets the eye. It's all in the language, the imagery, the sounds, the rhythm. All that's really missing are line breaks--they are poems through and through. And when they're well written, I find them irresistible. I think it's the prose poems with a "stream of consciousness" feel to them that I'm drawn to the most.

Take "A Supermarket in California," by Allen Ginsberg for example. I'm not a Beat kind of guy. But a prose poem about Walt Whitman? With the word What's not to love? Take a look:
 What thoughts I have of you tonight Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. 
         In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! 
         What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? 
Read the last two stanzas here and bask in all the psychedelic ramblings that make up this terrific poem.

But wait, it gets better. Ales Debeljak is a Slovenian poet whose following prose poem was published in Naomi Shihab Nye's international anthology This Same Sky:
The sodden moss sinks underfoot when we cross half frozen bays and walk through birch groves, wandering in an uneven circle that widens into darkness, through the minds and bodies of men and animals trapped in last year’s snow - no: trapped from the beginning, emptiness all around us, ice collecting on our pale faces, I can hear you singing on the run, an unknown melody, I can’t make out the words, clouds of breath freeze on your fur collar, eyes open wide as we trudge through silence and weakening starlight, through the fevered babble of children exiled to distant camps, insects, curling up under bark, December or June, no difference
Read the remainder of this beautiful piece here. I think it's all one sentence. And I like that. A lot.

My final sampling reminded me of my 2010 trip to Los Angeles (apparently I'm still obsessed with California). So descriptive and perfectly arranged, Fanny Howe's "Everything's a Fake" starts like this:
Coyote scruff in canyons off Mulholland Drive. Fragrance of sage and rosemary, now it’s spring. At night the mockingbirds ring their warnings of cats coming across the neighborhoods. Like castanets in the palms of a dancer, the palm trees clack. The HOLLYWOOD sign has a white skin of fog across it where erotic canyons hump, moisten, slide, dry up, swell, and shift. They appear impatient—to make such powerful contact with pleasure that they will toss back the entire cover of earth.
You can finish it here.

If you like prose poems as much as I do, allow me to recommend these as well:


Well, I sure have provided a deluge of reading material, haven't I? I hope you're able to take the time to explore these or at least bookmark this page or subscribe via RSS or email or (shameless plug) add me to your blogroll so you can come back and read more when you have time. And if I'm missing one of your favorite prose poems, by all means let me know in the comments.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Poetry Moves I Love: Allusion

I've already confessed to loving poems I don't fully understand. So now it's time for me to admit that I also love poems that make me feel smart. Don't get me wrong, I'm no genius and I was pretty useless as an English/Literature student. But I really like reading a poem that is a bit on the complicated side that I actually "get." I like the feeling provided by noticing things in poems that others might not.

Take for example the poem "Acquainted with the Night" by Robert Frost. I took part in a close reading of the poem during a study of poetic forms (it's written in terza rima). I chimed in with a less than eloquent but moderately insightful comment that I thought the poem was about death. My colleagues nodded in agreement and I think I even heard an "I hadn't thought of that." Inwardly, I beamed. I'm smart. They like me, they really like me! Definitely a good feeling.

Getting back to my original point, I also like the feeling provided by reading a poem that contains an allusion that I understand. Trust me, there are millions of allusions that go completely over my head, especially Biblical ones. But when there's one that I read and I know what the poet is talking about, it's a nice warm feeling. Me smart. Me know poetry.

Such a simple thing really, allusion. But it can completely change the reading of a poem. It's like opening a door you didn't know was there. Maybe it was hiding behind that giant armoire that's too big for the room. But when you push that baby out of the way, turn the knob, and open that door, the poem can change right before your eyes.

So even if it's a silly poem like "We Old Dudes" by Joan Murray, a riff on Gwendolyn Brooks's iconic "We Real Cool," or a reference to G.I. Joe's infamous Cobra Commander in a more adult poem like "[Sonnet] You jerk you didn't call me up" by Bernadette Mayer, understanding an allusion makes a good poem better and a great poem all the more pleasurable.

Of course, there are much more serious allusions out there--Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is chock-full of them (most of which are over my head); David Gascoyne's "Orpheus in the Underworld" is a nice read but I think it becomes downright moving if you know the story of Orpheus. Even a tiny allusion, such as Bruce Smith's reference to Miles Davis in "Obbligato" can provide a richer context and add to the enjoyment of a reading.

So while there's millions of references that will fly by me unnoticed and not understood, the few that I do catch make me happy. And you can't beat that.

I'll leave you with two poems that just might make me happiest of all, two poems that reference the same poet, William Carlos Williams. "An Apology," by F.J. Bergmann is wonderful and hilarious. It is not the most subtle poem, but my poetry ego gets a boost when I notice the not-so-obvious "This Is Just To Say" allusion in the fact that the SUV is "plum-colored."

And then there's this gem by Naomi Shihab Nye called "Honeybee:"

Dipping into the flower zone
Honey stomach plump with nectar


Soaking up directions
Finding our ways in the dark


Fat little pollen baskets
Plumping our legs


You had no idea, did you?
You kept talking about 


That wheelbarrow 
And chicken

Visit this page to read the rest (it's the third page in their little viewer thingy) and keep an eye out for allusions--you wouldn't want to miss an opportunity to feel smarter, would you?

Friday, January 14, 2011

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.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

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.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Poetry Book Review: Time You Let Me In


Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets Under 25 was a book I discovered at the library earlier this year. The poems were selected by one of my poetry heroes, Naomi Shihab Nye. I pretty much have to own anything with her name on it. She's a gifted poet and, for my money, might be the best selector of poems for anthologies working today.

There are some wonderful poems within Time You Let Me In, most by poets you've probably never heard of--I know I hadn't.

Some of my favorites include "Photons" by Nicole Guenther, which has a glorious ending (I'm a sucker for poems with good endings), "foundling," a superb prose poem by Matthew Baker, and "Rootless" by Michelle Brittan, an excellent poem about much more than mung bean sprouts. You also will enjoy Baker's "Ode to Poetry," a hilariously sarcastic poem that turns the ode form on its head, to say the least. My students certainly loved it, although I had to read them a slightly edited version.

I think this book would provide some very teachable poems for middle and high school teachers, although the poems listed above were thoroughly enjoyed by my fifth graders this spring.

Do you know this collection? Do you have a favorite among them or maybe another anthology I should be sure to get my hands on? Please let me know.