Archive for the 'Poetry' Category
July 6, 2007 @ 9:24 pm | Filed under: Poetry
Poetry Friday was at Farm School this week, and I’m squeaking in with just a few hours of Friday left. And I’m wracking my brain, because earlier in the week I had a poem all picked out for today, and now I can’t remember it. Whitman, I think it was Whitman. Hang on, it’s coming to me. The girls and I were reading—OH THAT’S RIGHT! The grass.
The older my children get, the more children I have, the more Whitman means to me. He understands about wonder.
Leaves of Grass, Section 14, Poem 6
A child said, *What is the grass?* fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say, *Whose?*
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic;
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white;
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you, curling grass;
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men;
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps;
And here you are the mothers’ laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers;
Darker than the colorless beards of old men;
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;
And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses;
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
June 29, 2007 @ 2:31 pm | Filed under: Poetry
Although this tender ballad is a Scottish staple, it was written around 1850 by a couple of Englishmen: Charles Jeffreys (lyrics) and Sidney Nelson (music).
I have heard the mavis singing
His love song to the morn
I have seen the dew drop clinging
To the rose just newly born
But a sweeter song has cheered me
At the evening’s gentle close
And I’ve seen an eye still brighter
Than the dew drop on the rose
‘Twas thy voice my gentle Mary
And thine artless, winning smile
That made this world an Eden
Bonnie Mary of Argyle.
Tho’ thy voice may lose its sweetness
And thine eye its brightness too
Tho’ thy step may lack its fleetness
And thy hair its sunny hue
Still to me wilt thou be dearer
Than all the world shall own
I have loved thee for thy beauty
But not for that alone
I have sought thy heart, dear Mary
And its goodness was the wile
That has made thee mine forever
Bonnie Mary of Argyle.
You can hear the melody here, and this site has an image of a broadside with the words, published between 1860-1880.
This week’s Poetry Friday roundup can be found at Shaken & Stirred.
June 15, 2007 @ 6:52 pm | Filed under: Poetry
We’ve had a very briny week. Yesterday we went to the aquarium; today it was the beach. Naturally I had to reach for Whitman this afternoon; he understands so well the magic of the bluegreen underworld that so fascinates my children.
The World Below the Brine
by Walt Whitman
The world below the brine,
Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle openings,
and pink turf,
Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of
light through the water,
Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass, rushes, and the
aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close to the
bottom,
The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disporting with his
flukes,
The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the
sting-ray,
Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in those ocean-depths, breathing
that thick-breathing air, as so many do,
The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings
like us who walk this sphere,
The change onward from ours to that of beings who walk other spheres.
This week’s Poetry Friday roundup can be found at The Simple and the Ordinary.
April 27, 2007 @ 2:31 pm | Filed under: Family Adventures, Poetry, Wonderboy
The other day I pulled one of our breakfast standbys, Favorite Poems Old and New, off the shelf. As they do every single time I so much as glance in that book’s direction, the girls immediately began begging me to read “the funny poem.” They were referring to Thomas Hood’s undeniably amusing poem, “A Parental Ode to My Son, Aged Three Years and Five Months,” which has been a family favorite ever since (who else?) Alice pointed me toward it when Jane was a four-year-old.
I think I recall Liz posting this same poem on Poetry Friday last year, but we had such a funny time with it this week that I can’t resist sharing it again. Because, you see, though we have read this poem together at least a hundred times, this was our first time enjoying in the company of an actual boy aged three years and five months.
Jane’s the one who realized the coincidence. When I read the title, she gasped and shouted, “Hold on,” then did some rapid mental calculating. “YES!” she hollered. “That’s exactly how old Wonderboy will be NEXT WEEK!”
“Read it, read it!” the others chanted. Mind you, a proper recitation of this poem requires some effort. You need to intone the odd lines, which are the flowery ode the poet is writing about his son, in stentorian tones for maximum contrast to the even lines, which are the poet-father’s exasperated remarks to his wife and son as the boy interrupts Dad’s efforts to pen some fine phrases. The poem’s humor lies in the complete disconnect between the way the father describes his child and the way he actually feels.
Any mother who has ever tried to write a blog post about her beloved children while simulateously fielding interruptions from those children can certainly relate. Ahem.
I have often used this poem as a discussion-starter in writing workshops and conference talks. Its use of overblown imagery in the “ode” lines provides a good introduction to the use (and mis-use) of figurative language in poetry, not to mention authenticity. The father-poet contradicts his own metaphors line after line.
I remember Rose and Beanie guffawing along with Jane years before they were old enough to understand any of the jokes. But none of the howling renditions we’ve shared over the years compared to yesterday’s, with Wonderboy, who really does have the funniest Popeye squint sometimes, leaning against my rocking chair and grinning his new gap-toothed grin at his sisters’ uproarious laughter.
Anyway, here it is, for your enjoyment:
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON,
AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS
by Thomas Hood,
who was obviously a real dad
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin—
(Good heav’ns! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air—
(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he’ll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love’s dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub—but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!—that’s his precious nose!)
Thy father’s pride and hope!
(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint—
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)
Touch’d with the beauteous tints of dawning life—
(He’s got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—
(I’ll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write, unless he’s sent above!)
This week’s Poetry Friday roundup can be found at A Wrung Sponge.
April 13, 2007 @ 7:12 am | Filed under: Nature Study, Poetry
I meant to send Dawn a post for her next fabulous Field Day, which is today…I even went out and took a bunch of pictures for it. But I forgot to put them into a post. That’s all right; there is a spectacular assembly of nature-themed posts over there in the Early Spring Edition of the field day, more than enough to keep you busy. Another job well done, Dawn. Thanks. You really are a Super-Homeschooler!
And because it’s Friday, here’s another little celebration of nature from Christina Rossetti:
A Green Cornfield
The earth was green, the
sky was blue:
I saw and heard one sunny morn
A skylark hang betweent he two,
A singing speck above the corn;
A
stage below, in gay accord,
White butterflies danced on the wing,
And still the singing skylark soared,
And silent sank and soared to sing.
The cornfield stretched a tender green
To right and left beside my walks;
I knew he had a nest unseen
Somewhere among the million stalks.
And as I paused to hear his song
While swift the sunny moments slid,
Perhaps his mate sat listening long,
And listened longer than I did.
What we’re listening to these days is the peeping of some baby sparrows outside our patio room. They’re getting big, just like my own baby.
A natural beauty, AND poetry in motion!
April 6, 2007 @ 7:26 am | Filed under: Poetry
Good Friday, 1613: Riding Westward
by John Donne
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motions, lose their owne,
And being, by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or businesses so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is’t, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I’almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstools crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once, pierc’d with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his appare’l, rag’d, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish’d thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom’d us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They’are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look’st towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang’st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may’st know mee, and I’ll turne my face.
April 2, 2007 @ 7:05 am | Filed under: Poetry
And I’m excited about that, because I am a poetry geek in a big, big way. Ever since Anne Shirley inspired eleven-year-old me to memorize some Tennyson so I could walk through woods dreamily and dramatically reciting "The Lady of Shalott"
(never mind that woods were in short supply in the Colorado suburb in
which I grew up), I’ve been hooked. I was even poetry editor of a for a year during grad school. I’ve been reading poems to my kids pretty much since they developed ears. (Even the one whose ears turned out not to work so well.)
I had the privilege of studying with some great poets: Fred Chappell (tremendously great), Alan Shapiro, Vanessa Haley. I am immensely proud of my good pal Julianna Baggott, poet and novelist, not to mention my former classmate Claudia Emerson,
winner of the 2006 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry. I published a few poems
myself, before the luxurious expanse of the novel tempted me away.
Speaking of luxury, there was something downright indulgent about
how much time we had in grad school to dig deep into a poem,
"unpacking" it, as we liked to say, savoring every syllable, every
image, every turn of phrase. That was what we were there for: to learn
to write by learning to read. We wrote twenty-page papers on a single
poem; we spent hours discussing the nuances of a single verse. Alan
Shapiro said that if he had his way, all would-be poets would have to
study the work of the masters for seven years before ever being allowed
to pick up a pen. We only had two years to immerse ourselves in such study, and during that time we were expected to produce a thesis consisting of our own original poetry or fiction, but Alan’s intensity impressed us, and we threw ourselves into the serious study of poetry with a sort of virtuous relish.
It was a wonderful experience, but I have to say that not even the heady joy of living and breathing poetry with other poets compares to the delights of immersing myself in poetry with my own children. A good poem makes their eyes shine; that’s the simplest way I can put it. Poetry is power in simplicity, language boiled down to its purest form: a concentration, rich and potent.
In celebration of Poetry Month, I thought it would be fun to do a series of posts on sharing poetry with children over at The Lilting House. I had intended to begin today, but poor Wonderboy’s sad adventure has set my plans back a bit. Today, for us, it’ll be dentists instead of dactyls, alas.
March 30, 2007 @ 7:40 am | Filed under: Poetry
Sisters, by Rilla
They scoop me up and say I’m delicious;
They grant practically all of my wishes
(Except when I wish to gnaw on a Lego).
Mostly I wish to go where they go.
Jane is the one who totes me like mother
And won’t let me pull out the hair of my brother.
Rose guards me from anything ‘ticingly teeny.
The one who twirls me around is Beanie.
This week’s Poetry Friday roundup can be found at Chicken Spaghetti.
March 25, 2007 @ 6:48 am | Filed under: Poetry
|
HT: Mama Squirrel
March 15, 2007 @ 9:00 pm | Filed under: Poetry
I love this poem by Mona van Duyn and was so happy to find it online, in full, at the Poets.org site. Here’s a taste:
We enjoyed your visit, it was nice of you to bring
the feeder but a terrible waste of your money
for that big bag of feed since we won’t be living
more than a few weeks long. We can see
them good from where we sit, big ones and little ones
but you know when I farmed I used to like to hunt
and we had many a good meal from pigeons
and quail and pheasant but these birds won’t
be good for nothing and are dirty to have so near
the house. Mother likes the redbirds though.
Read the rest. The closing line is a jewel.
