Happy Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for one of the greatest poems ever written.

Keep Fishing!

We've all done it. We all do it. We just have to add that one last line. You know, the line that tells everyone what we're doing, really drives home the point. As a poet, I have done this many, many times. As an editor, I have seen this done many, many more times than I can count. As a poet, I don't recognize it until many, many drafts and rejections later. As an editor, it's the giant blue whale in the room. I can't ignore it, but I want to. I want to ignore the added line because your poem is so darn good. But I can't. I can do one of two things. 1) Reject your poem; 2) Ask you to remove that last line. But you know I can't do that. That's a lot to ask of a poet, like asking them to remove their left arm. You see, if we just take the left arm, the rest of your body will look so good. Really, trust me. And so, your darn good poem is thrown back into the ocean. But someday, sooner than you think, you'll fish it out, read it, and realize that the last line is redundant, over explanatory, unneeded. You'll sever it. You'll resubmit. And your poem will become its own glorious and glistening whale, something no one will ignore. So don't lose faith. Keep fishing.

Ponderings of Meaninglessness

There's a certain poetry journal to which I subscribe that has been increasingly frustrating me. I won't name the journal. I admire its content and legacy, but lately it's been making me feel stupid and inadequate as a poet and poetry reader. One of the reasons I write about poetry is to show people how accessible it really is. Poetry should be enjoyable, no matter what emotion it evokes. It shouldn't be difficult to understand. Whether narrative or lyric, you should have an idea of what's going on. And yet, much of the poetry I read in this particular magazine makes no sense to me. In fact, it bores me. I can't follow a story or enjoy an image. It makes me wonder if I'm just dumb. Why can't I appreciate these poems, which I assume are supposed to be among the cream of the crop? But poetry, like anything, can be divided into many types and kinds. I like movies, but I don't like action movies. That doesn't mean there aren't good action movies out there, right?

Maybe I'm not stupid; maybe I just know what I like. But if I'm not stupid, I have to wonder if pretension in poetry serves a purpose. Is it okay to alienate the populace? I know it should be okay; science nerds and math junkies have their own clubs. I may be interested in these two subjects, but I could never follow a conversation between experts; however, I feel like poetry is different, maybe because nobody ever claims that science and math are irrelevant. We should be focusing on inclusion, not alienation. Ultimately, this is a silly meandering. There will always be snobby poets as much as there will always be excruciatingly bad poets. It all has its place, and I don't have to read it. I'm a glutton for punishment, though, so I will continue to read the obtuse poets, too, just until I begin to understand.

Welcome back Uncle Shelby!

Shel Silverstein passed away over ten years ago, but his children's books and poems have no-shelf life. Everything on It was recently published by Harper Collins. I haven't read it yet, but I am excited to purchase it as soon as I get my next paycheck. Last spring, I re-read A Light in the Attic and was disappointed. For some reason, it wasn't enjoyable for me, and I didn't find the poems to be that stellar. I was upset. I wondered if I wasn't open to children's poetry the way I was when I was a kid; however, I am now re-reading Where the Sidewalk Ends. I read it to my son at dinner, post-mushed veggies, while he's sucking back his bottle of milk. We are both having a marvelous time. Where the Sidewalk Ends is even better than I remembered it. It's funny and well-written, and even touches up some heavy things. I think the poem for which the book is named is one of the best, but I also love "Lester" (p. 6), which is not only funny and sad but also quite the social commentary. It is full of imagery but also narrative. Furthermore, it is well written, rhythmic, and a bit of a math lesson, too! "Apples and kisses and shoes" is genius, I think, for representing the simple, yet sublime, things in life.

Lester

Lester was given a magic wish
By the goblin who lives in the banyan tree,
And with his wish he wished for two more wishes--
So now instead of just one wish, he cleverly had three.
And with each one of these
He simply wished for three more wishes,
Which gave him three old wishes, plus nine new.
And with each of these twelve
He slyly wished for three more wishes,
Which added up to forty-six--or is it fifty-two?
Well anyway, he used each wish
To wish for wishes 'till he had
Five billion, seven million, eighteen thousand thirty-four.
And then he spread them on the ground
And clapped his hands and danced around
And skipped and sang, and then sat down
And wished for more.
And more...and more...they multiplied
While other people smiled and cried
And loved and reached and touched and felt.
Lester sat amidst his wealth
Stacked mountain-high like stacks of gold,
Sat and counted--and grew old.
And then one Thursday night they found him
Dead--with his wishes piled around him.
And they counted the lot and found that not
A single one was missing.
All shiny and new--here, take a few
And think of Lester as you do.
In a world of apples and kisses and shoes
He wasted his wishes on wishing.

National Bad Poetry Day

Apparently, August 18th is National Bad Poetry Day. The kind and supportive encourager in me wants to claim that there is no such thing as bad poetry, only bad readers. What I consider bad might be your good. You should be able to write whatever you want. Some one will want to read it, maybe your grandma. But the poet and editor in me just laughs. Yup, I know exactly what bad poetry is. I've written some myself. Bad poetry is usually about love and/or the lack of it. It may involve rainbows and heaven and angelic children. It may rhyme.

It would be pretty horrible, though, to call out bad poetry. I refuse to post any here. So, the only thing I can do is post good poetry and claim that it is a lesson on how to revise bad poetry. Notice the images. Notice the lack of cliches. Notice how it doesn't rhyme or talk about the mystical greatness of life with cheesy, exultant language. It's not too deep. It sounds good and makes people feel some sort of emotion. It's not vague, but it doesn't bang its meaning over people's heads either. In fact, avoiding bad poetry is hard work! And you thought we poets just sat around drinking wine (I do), smoking cigarettes (I don't), and jotting down whimsical lines we'll never touch again (if you don't believe in revision, you're probably gripping some bad poems in your hand at this very moment).

Philip Levine has just been named 2012 U.S. Poet Laureate. Congrats, Phil! Levine is one of many on my long list of favorite poets. Here's a poem called "Our Valley." This is an example of how you can talk about life and the "divine" and stuff like that without being a bad poet (remember, avoid cliches and the cheese-factor).

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22172

Alone with Wine and Moonlight

I'm not terribly superstitious, but when the universe bashes me over the head with something, I listen. Lately, I have been seeing references to the ancient Chinese poets in just about everything I read. I've come to realize that I know zilch about Chinese poetry; somehow, I escaped grad school, and the many years following, without this knowledge. In my profs' defenses, they filled my brain with a ton of poetry; there's only so much a person can learn in two years. That's okay, because I'm always learning. Currently, I am learning about Chinese poetry. Apparently Li Po (circa 701-762 C.E.) is the most famous of these Chinese dudes, so I was hoping not to like him - I have this thing about not jumping on band wagons. Silly, yes, but true. Turns out that Li Po is kind of a lonely, moon-crazed alcoholic. He's awesome. Look at this:

Self-Abandonment
(from More Translations from the Chinese Poets by Arthur Waley, Inspiratrix, 2009)

I sat drinking and did not notice the dusk,

Till falling petals filled the folds of my dress.

Drunken I rose and walked to the moonlit stream;

The birds were gone, and men also few.

Drinking alone under moonlit skies is one of his things, and it makes his poems very melancholy, but also quite magical. Put it all together with some lovely images, and you have some centuries-old poetry that anyone can relate to. It's quiet and intimate, and I will be riding around on the Li Po wagon for a while. But don't fret; I'm not too far into the book, so expect some more gushing over these guys.

Sunshine & Rain

Two out-of-the-ordinary things happened to me today. One, I cut my finger. Badly. Not stitches bad, but bloody compress, take an extra Advil bad. Two, my partner discoverd newborn rabbits holed up in the garden underneath our tomato plants, and I got to hold one in my hands while it tickled me with its tiny feet. One moment was painful. The other was joyous. It was a nice balance to the day. I think that the best poems have this balance. I never get excited about a poem that is just happy, or just sad. Life, as they say, is complicated. I'm reading some Jack Gilbert poems right now. Here's one that coincidingly fills my heart and destroys it.

Feeling History (from The Dance Most of All, Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)

Got up before the light this morning

and went through the sweet damp chill

down to the mindlessly persisting sea.

Stood neck-deep in its strength thinking

it was the same water young Aristotle

knew before he stopped laughing.

The cold waves came in on me,

came in as the sun went from red

to white. All the sea turned blue

as I walked back past the isolate

shuttered villa.

Let's Talk About Lost Treasure!

I don't want to talk about poetry today...okay, that's a lie. I'll be more specific. I don't want to talk about a poem today. What I'd like to talk about are things that inspire poetry. For me, I mostly get inspired when I'm outside walking. It doesn't matter if it's a nature hike or a stroll through town. Something about walking, thinking, and observing my surroundings at the same time gets me writing lines in my head. But other things inspire me, too, and sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest places.

Yesterday, I bought an old library book from a used bookstore. The book is called Sinkings, Salvages, and Shipwrecks (American Heritage Press, 1970) by Robert F. Burgess. The cover is fabulous, like looking through a submarine porthole and seeing a couple of your mates floating over gold coins in their diving suits. The back cover has a photograph of a partially sunken ship. Chapter One is titled "The Archeology of Shipwrecks" and begins "It was a gay, festive crowd that gathered on the quay before the royal palace in Stockholm on an August Sunday in 1628" (9).

These things may not affect you, but I'm hooked. I've been thrown into another world. I can smell the salty sea air, the cool breeze prickling my arms and tossing my hair around, sticking it to my face. I feel exuberant and excited. I'm craving an adventure, a voyage. Seriously, a book cover and an opening sentence did this to me. The characters are coming alive; I'm envisioning the sailors, the guy who commissioned the venture, the lady he brings with him. They probably die a horrible death at sea. That's sad, but then one day a team of diver's discovers the wreckage. It's all so magical and morbid and eerie and cool. Who wouldn't want to write a series of poems about this?

It's something I'm considering at the moment. Maybe I'll write them, or maybe something more important will come along, and I'll write about that. Who cares? As long as you're inspired, you have a universe of poetry waiting to be written. The next time you get excited about something, write about it. See where it takes you. For now, I'll be taking a journey into the deepest, darkest depths of Poseidon's lair, expecting my pen to follow.

Thank you! An Appreciation of Community

This post is a thank you to my friend, Adrienne. She's a poet. After I finished my MFA, I decided not to go into academia. Being a poet and not teaching at a university means I'm on my own. I work hard to keep current on poetry news and new poets, and develop and nurture a poet community. I'm lucky to have poet friends. I turn to friends, like Adrienne, not only for recommendations on new poets and new poetry sites, but for community. She and my other poet friend, Verity, are always there to share poems and ideas with. You should see our Facebook conversations (no, you really shouldn't). We love poetry. We love to talk about poetry. We love to have someone to talk about poetry with. If you're feeling alone in the poetry world, reach out! Post a note with your favorite poem. Ask your friends if they'd like to talk about poetry with you. And please, use the powers of the Internet for good. Check out some of the sites I'm continuously linking to. Today, with a big kudos to Adrienne, I'm linking to a site I just discovered. It's way cool.

http://asitoughttobe.com/

To Prose or Not to Prose

I have been working on a series of prose poems these last few months. It has come to the point where I scoff lines breaks; I feel a certain superiority to those fools sweating over where to pause and start again. Like any silly human, I am prone to poor judgement and biases. While I have loved every minute of my prose-obsession, I have stupidly ignored the fact that it takes a great amount of craft and mastery to pull off a successful line break. So I'm here to briefly discuss the merits of both forms.

1. Prose - It's just plain liberating. When you forget about line breaks, you are free to revel in language. The words stand for themselves. The music comes solely from the choice and order of words. Pauses come from punctuation. Many poets and poetry critics in the past have considered prose beneath them, but I'm here to say shut up and listen!

2. Line Breaks - The traditional form of poetry, poems with lines breaks can create a rhythm that is much more difficult to accomplish in prose. Line breaks can create a fast beat, a slow beat, an awkward beat, any kind of tempo you desire. Sometimes, line breaks can ruin an otherwise good poem. In contrast, a mediocre poem can be elevated with amazing line breaks. I am reading Mary Oliver's Evidence, and although I adore Oliver's body of work, I am not moved by most of the poems in the book until I read them aloud. Yup, I'm going there AGAIN. Sorry, but before you write me off forever, read this poem while strictly observing the lines breaks. Pause for a second or two at the end of each line.

More Honey Locust

 by Mary Oliver (from Evidence, Beacon Press, 2009)

Any day now 
the branches 
of the honey locust
will be filled
with white fountains;
in my hands
I will see
the holy seeds
and a sweetness
will rise up
from those petal-bundles
so heavy
I must close my eyes
to take it in,
to bear
such generosity.
I hope that you too
know the honey locust,
the fragrance
of those fountains;
and I hope that you too will pause
to admire the slender trunk,
the leaves, the holy seeds,
the ground they grow from
year after year
with striving and patience;
and I hope that you too
will say a word of thanks
for such creation
out of the wholesome earth,
which would be, and dearly is it needed,
a prayer for all of us.

This poem is so heavy. The short line breaks build and build until I feel like I'm suffocating in the language (not in a bad way). The perfumed air is thick. The words combined with the line breaks make you pause, just as Oliver says "I hope that you too will pause." We do pause because she makes us pause. There are other elements at work here, like the long sentences and exuberant use of commas, but the line breaks seal the deal. It's methodical. It's rhythmic, almost trance-like. It's a deliberate and successful prayer.

So the choice is up to you. Good poems come in all forms. As a famous poet once said to me as I watched her scribble her name on my copy of her book, "Write, Lesley, you have to write." So I say to you, "Write, INSERT YOUR NAME HERE, you have to write."

P is for Podcast

Last week, my partner (Kevyn), my five-month old son (Niko), and I weathered a ten-hour road-trip to Ann Arbor...and back. Cars are not my friends. Motion is not my friend. Ten hours of Kevyn's mixed music CDs - not my friends. On long trips, we often break up the music with comedy CDs. But once you've heard the same joke, oh, twenty-seven times, it gets pretty boring. This time, we were armed with podcasts. Kevyn's an ecologist, so we had several science podcasts ready and waiting. Being a thoughtful guy, he also downloaded a bunch of poetry podcasts, too, mostly from Poetry Magazine.

I'm always wagging my finger at people saying "Poetry is meant to be read out loud" in my firmest old-lady scolding voice (sorry old ladies, but you know you like to scold sometimes). And the victims of my finger-wagging are probably thinking "yeah, yeah, yeah, but how do I know how the poet wants it to be read?" Well, I've got an answer for you kids, sort of. Poetry podcasts! We listened to Carolyn Forche and Kim Addonizio, well known contemporary poets. We also heard one of my new favorite poets, Jill Alexander Essbaum. And, you can listen to old and new poets online anytime! They may not be called "podcasts" technically, but poetryfoundation.org and poets.org are two websites just hanging out waiting for your fingertips to press "play."

More than hearing poems read by the poets who wrote them (which is totally awesome), poetry podcasts also have people talking about poetry. One podcast included three or four men talking about an eight-line William Carlos Williams poem for twenty-eight minutes. It was divine. Another podcast included a brief telephone interview with a critic of Williams. All of a sudden, for good or bad, I am engrossed with Williams. A third podcast involved the editors of Poetry Magazine conversing over the telephone with a woman in a retirement community. She and her fellow residents have a poetry club (so cool), and they were pretty peeved with Poetry Mag! Obtuse, she said. Meaningless words. And the editors actually had a dialogue with her! They asked her what her poetry group did and didn't like about the current issue. They gently answered her critiques with their own thoughts. Kevyn said "I really like these guys; they're not pretentious." Poetry podcasts are sweet. They're down-to-earth and often novice-friendly.

As a poet and poetry editor, I'm obsessed with this new way of bringing poetry to the people. At damselfly press, we're just beginning to jump the audio wagon. As I listened to my poets' recordings for our July issue, I got chills. It's mesmerizing and enlightening when you hear a poet read her work. When you read a poem, you put emphasis where you think it ought to be, but when you hear the poet read it herself, its magnificent.

New Favorite #4

I've been slowly reading Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty by Tony Hoagland (Graywolf Press, 2010). It took a while for me to get into this book, but about half-way through, Hoagland began to blow me away with one ridiculouly good poem after another. Here is one of my new favorites, called "Nature." As a nature-lover, it's close to my heart. As an adult, it's a reminder.

Nature

I miss the friendship with the pine trees and the birds
that I had when I was ten.
And it has been forever since I pushed my head
under the wild silk skirt of the waterfall.

What I had with them was tender and private.
The lake was practically my girlfriend.
I carried her picture in my front shirt pocket.
Even in my sleep, I heard the sound of water.

The big rock on the shore was the skull of a dead king
whose name we could almost remember.
Under the rooty bank you could dimly see
the bunk beds of the turtles.

Maybe twice had I said a girl's name to myself.
I had not yet had my weird first dream of money.

Nobody I know mentions these things anymore.
It's as if their memories have been seized, erased, and relocated
among flowcharts and complex dinner-party calendars.

Now I want to turn and run back the other way,
barefoot into the underbrush,
getting raked by thorns, being slapped in the face by branches.

Down to the muddy bed of the little stream
where my cupped hands make a house, and

I tilt up the roof
to look at the face of the frog.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat

In my desire to bring poetry to the people, I rely heavily on contemporary poetry. It is often easy to understand and relate to, simply because the language and theme are generally contemporary as well. But this approach also ignores over 2,500 years of poetry. And that's a shame. A huge shame. My high school English teacher taught me to love Shakespeare. Everyone was always grumbling about how none of it made sense - I couldn't understand what they meant; if they had been assigned to memorize monologues from Romeo and Juliet, surely they would understand. To understand anything, we must linger with it; like those bottles of shampoo we all read when we're hanging out in the bathroom say - wash, rinse, repeat.

Step One: Wash

Forget what you think you're going to find when you read poetry. Don't be scared. It's not meant for snobby, rich people. It's meant for you. It's universal...at least, any GOOD poetry is. Wash your preconceived notions right out of your noggin.

Step Two: Rinse

Let the soothing waters of a poem embrace you. Read it. Read it out loud. Listen to the sound of the words. Don't worry about understanding anything; just feel.

Step Three: Repeat

This is the most important step. Read it again. Read it out loud again. It will start to make sense. A poem should feel all velvety and soft, well-worn. If you don't feel that connection, it's okay. Try another poem. Repeat steps one through three.

This is what I do with Shakespeare, Sappho, and the Buddha; heck, even the Bible has some amazing poetry in it; reading and understanding just takes some practice. But let's take it slow. Here is an excerpt from the poem "Adieu, Farewell, Earth's Bliss" by Thomas Nash (1567 - 1601).

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;

This world uncertain is;

Fond are life's lustful joys;

Death proves them all but toys;

None from his darts can fly;

I am sick, I must die.

On first read, sounds a little weird right? Well, we know that "adieu" and "farewell" just mean "goodbye." "Earth's bliss?" A fancy way of saying worldly pleasure. The next four lines are just written kind of backward compared to the way we're used to writing sentences. So "This world uncertain is" means "The world is uncertain." And then..."Fond are life's lustful joys" - We like earthly pleasures like lust and joy, things that make us feel good and happy. "Death proves them all but toys" - But when we die, we lose all of that; those things don't matter. "None from his darts can fly" - We cannot escape death. "I am sick, I must die" - Well, it means I am sick, I must die. We're all going to die. Not a happy poem, but it's a fun one to read aloud and memorize. The rhyming helps with that, giving it a musicality, like learning a song.

The full poem may be found at www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181017

In the end, my point is this. If you're just coming to poetry, welcome! You may want to start with some contemporary poets, but don't forget about the old ones. You'll find that although they take a little more work to conquer, they were, in fact, going through the same issues of life, love, pain, and death that we're going through now. Maybe there were no cell phones. Probably there weren't. But they were human, we are human, and the need to experience art is living in us all.

Remember Poetry

Have you ever heard someone say "What's the point of poetry?" Well, what's the point of music, paintings, or movies? Some may say that there is no point, only entertainment. I would, of course, heartily disagree. When I come to any art form (even the dorky, corny ones, like the cheesy puppet-using sci-fi series I'm currently watching), I am looking for a place to find myself ('cause let's face it, I am a bit dorky and corny myself). We read novels because we want to find ourselves in the characters. In visual art, we are looking for understanding, which we find through our own interpretations. In movies, we root for the good guys and gals; we see ourselves in their faces, their hurts, their romances. They are imperfect, and so are we.

Many of you are going through hard times. I don't pretend to know what it's like to lose your home, your family, or to be torn apart by war. For many Americans, our hard times are not so physical, but they are still present. During difficult times, I turn to poetry. It teaches me empathy for others and understanding for myself. One poet whom I turn to during darker times is Joy Harjo. Her work, though often about depressing issues, is a force of nature that brings me back to my spirit and purpose. Thanks, Joy, for being my rock. In your honor, I copy this poem, "Remember," to encourage you all to find that special poet that makes the good times brighter and the bad times less dark.

Remember
by Joy Harjo

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.

From the Mouths of Babes

Some years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Ted Kooser when he gave a reading at my graduate school. He seemed like a kind, quirky old man, and later I was pleased to discover his American Life in Poetry column. In fact, his column is largely responsible for inspiring me to write this blog. I love how he introduces the poets and their poems. It's down-to-earth, and the poems he chooses are often about the simple joys and pains of life. Today's column is just plain awesome. I won't introduce it. I'll let Mr. Kooser do what he does best:
www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/COL319.pdf

New Favorite #3

Despite the facts that Billy Collins is a man, forty years older than me, and has been poet laureate of the United States (I'll get there someday), I often find myself relating to his poems, especially ones that touch upon his childhood. I don't know if it's a poet thing, or a human thing, but I often wake up, like Collins does here, with a mind full of thoughts and ponderings. I love how he tries to clear his mind and enjoy the simplicity of morning only to fill it back up with the complexities of life.

August
(from Ballistics, Random House, 2008)

The first one to rise on a Sunday morning,
I enter the white bathroom
trying not to think of Christ or Wallace Stevens.

It's before dawn and the road is quiet,
even the birds are silent in the heat.
And standing on the tile floor,

I open a little nut of time
and nod to the cold water faucet,
with its chilled beaded surface

for cooling my wrists and cleansing my face,
and I offer some thanks
to the electricity swirling in the lightbulbs

for showing me the toothbrush and the bottle of aspirin.
I went to grammar school for Jesus
and to graduate school for Wallace Stevens.

But right now, I want to consider
only the water and the light,
always ready to flow and spark at my touch,

and beyond the wonders of this white room -
the reservoir high in the mountains,
the shore crowded with trees,

and the dynamo housed in a colossus of brick,
its bright interior, and up there,
a workman smoking alone on a catwalk.

New Favorite #2

This poem by Robert Hass is short and beautifully simplistic. Yet, the ending adds a complexity that invites one into perpetual wondering. The last line is haunting. How would you interpret its meaning?

After Goethe
(from Time and Materials, Harper Collins, 2007)

In all the mountains,
Stillness;
In the treetops
Not a breath of wind.
The birds are silent in the woods.
Just wait: soon enough
You will be quiet too.

Happy Poem-In-Your Pocket Day!

Today, I am carrying a simple poem by A.R. Ammons. It is a reminder that poetry just is. It does not need to fit neatly into form or fulfill some grand revelation. It's meant to be read, enjoyed, and shared.

Substantial Planes

It doesn't
matter

to me
if

poems mean
nothing:

there's no
floor

to the
universe

and yet
one

walks the
floor.

New Favorite #1

The following poem by Marie Howe is one of my new favorites. It explains, in much better words than I could ever create, something that has been on my mind lately. I'm a bit younger than Howe, but I've been grappling with my own mortality of late, especially after having my son and realizing that as fast as he grows, I am growing even faster. I'll be almost sixty when he graduates high school. Will I have a chance to meet my own grandkids? I am beginning to feel as if I have taken the last thirty years for granted, and now I must hurry to enjoy this earth before my own time comes.

The World by Marie Howe
(from The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, W.W. Norton & Company, 2008)

I couldn't tell one song from another,
which bird said what or to whom or for what reason.

The oak tree seemed to be writing something using very few words.
I couldn't decide which door to open - they looked the same or what

would happen when I did reach out and turn a knob. I thought I was safe,
standing there
but my death remembered its date:

only so many summer nights still stood before me, full moon, waning moon,
October mornings: what to make of them? which door?

I couldn't tell which stars were which or how far away any one of them was,
or which were still burning or not - their light moving through space like a
long

late train - and I've lived on this earth so long - 50 winters, 50 springs and
summers,
and all this time stars in the sky - in daylight

when I couldn't see them, and at night when, most nights, I didn't look.

* Note: indented lines have been altered because of formatting issues.

Take Back Poetry!

Well, it's that time of year again! Break out your favorite poems. Read some new ones. Share the joy of poetry with your family and friends.

You see, some people still think poetry is an acquired taste. Some old fogies back in class years ago told us that poetry is old and dusty, hard to read, and even harder to understand. A lot of people hear the word "poetry" and vaguely remember being forced to memorize one of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Nothing against Shakespeare, but poetry is alive and well and being written in 2011. It's accessible and brilliant and needs your voice to carry it to others.

This April (National Poetry Month), I say "Take Back Poetry!" Check out some of my links, Google your hearts out, or stop by your local bookstore and visit the poetry section. It's lonely and wants your attention. Then, mail, email, or Twitter your friends. Share a poem that makes you feel happy, sad, even confused. Marvel at the way the words sound as you read it to your family over dinner.

And if you're still not sold on the poetry thing, there's always next year! Happy National Poetry Month everyone. Enjoy.

P is for Poetry!

I think we can agree that the poetry being produced and published in today's reputable journals and literary magazines is top-notch. But what about children's poetry? Maybe it's not something you've given much thought to. As a kid, I loved Shel Siverstein but never read any other children's poets. In the past several years, children's story-books have seen a mega increase and, for the most part, are quite good. But what about poetry?

I recently had a baby, and I've been reading him Poetry and Tin House, but once he starts understanding language, I'll need a back-up plan. Here's where a little Googling comes in handy.

The first website I stumbled upon is Poetry4Kids at poetry4kids.com:

Kenn Nesbitt's poems are not only funny, they spark an interest in the world and subtly teach poetry's most basic lessons. "Bouncing off the Windows" is a poem that uses similes to make connections between ideas and things. He says "I'm jumping like a kangaroo / or like a jumping bean." The website also has poetry lessons, games, and a rhyming dictionary. It is an interactive dynamo designed to get, and keep, kids interested in the greatest literary genre in existence (I may be biased).

Another site is The Children's Poetry Archive at poetryarchive.org/childrensarchive:

Kids can search for poems based on theme (animals, school, nature, peace, war), form (nonsense, prose, short, rhyming), or poet (there are around fifty from classic to contemporary along with links to poets' websites). These poems are geared more to older kids, even taking "adult" poetry and encouraging kids to interpret it for themselves. Out of curiosity, I looked up the poems under the heading "War" and found a poem by Adrian Mitchell called "Playground." It's about a boy sitting on a swing thinking about some ambiguous dark remembrance. It says "the chains of the swing / they clank they creak / the boy's head fills / with explosions // a boy on a swing." It's a lonely, ominous poem that kids can relate to whether or not they've seen an actual war zone. There are always fears and worries for kids, whether in their home or school lives.

If you're a poetry-lover like me, then you'll recognize the need to introduce poetry early to children. If you have kids or know someone who has kids, this is your chance. I encourage you to check out these links and share any other links you may find.