Question & Answer

I'm about to leave for a group reading at the Writers' Center in Bethesda. Reading poems out loud to myself, stop watch ready.

One of the poems I'll be reading is my most widely published...a persona poem called, "Brother." (An odd choice for me, as I'm not a conjoined twin -- but you'll see why I loved Stephenie Meyer's The Host so much.) Most recently, it was published in the Maryland Writers' Association anthology, New Lines from the Old Line State.

Re-reading this piece, I realized that it has themes in common with May Swenson's "Question," posted for this week's Poetry Friday.

Here is "Brother":

Brother

“Ahmed and Mohamed Ibrahim – who had been joined at the top of the head – were separated… after neurosurgeons finished dividing the boys’ venous systems and brains.” CNN, October 13, 2003

When did I become aware of my brother?
I can feel him only if we

stretch our arms overhead at once,
our fingers touch.

From above my eyes, I hear
laughing, crying, words not my own.

An echo self? Are there two of me?
No. Not me exactly, but me.

We are a continuous line, a human palindrome,
my twin doing a headstand on my skull

where people imagine light bulbs or dark clouds reside
I have myself again, but not myself.

Has God melded us, or has he never unmelded?
Those dancing mitochondria swaying apart

have never stopped holding hands.
I have been given a word for the voice beyond my sight

and would like to face my brother.
I have never seen him, except at night

when I walk my feet up the crib slats
and he walks his feet up the other side.

If I raise my eyes almost to their lids
I can see – are they his toes? -- moving.

And I have no sense of moving them.

I'll be busy this week prepping our regional SCBWI conference, but look for a classroom lesson on writing the persona poem.

Poetry Friday Question

It was sitting on the table in a cozy log cabin -- rainy day in the mountains. A temptingly fat book. The cover photo was an extreme close-up of a woman's eye .

The title, The Host, and the ring of metallic sheen around the woman's iris whispered Sci Fi. Ahh, this was exactly how I wanted to spend the day. Then I noticed the author...Stephenie Meyer. Ugh.

I only read the first Twilight book. It was a page turner, but it seriously pissed off my inner feminist. (Find some posts/discussion about Twilight here.)

My fingers itched for the book. I read the jacket. Maybe Meyer's better for adults. The storyline was close enough to one of my favorite Star Trek characters, the symbiont Jadzia Dax, that I decided to give The Host a chance.

Part of what hooked me...facing the prologue of the novel was this haunting poem by May Swenson:

Question

Body my house

my horse my hound

what will I do

when you are fallen

Where will I sleep

How will I ride

What will I hunt

Where can I go

without my mount

all eager and quick

How will I know

in thicket ahead

is danger or treasure

When Body my good

bright dog is dead

Read the rest of the poem here.

By the end of the poem, I was hooked. Absolutely loved The Host's combination of sci fi, psychological thriller and survival story. Okay -- didn't love it enough to go back and read more Twilight, but enough to hope Meyer is writing more SF for adults.

How would you answer May Swenson's question? Are you as attached to your body as The Host's Melanie Stryder?

Our lovely Poetry Friday host this week is the always delicious Jama Rattigan. She's sure to have some delectable poetry & recipes.

A Poetry Friday Field Trip

My summer project: revising my middle grade book, "We Rule the School: A Fifth Grade Yearbook."

It's a combination of "self-portrait" poems & occasional poems that cover one year in the life of a central-Maryland fifth grade class.

Here is one of the occasional poems, written in the voice of two boys in the class. They're on their way to Mt. Vernon for a field trip.

Send comments! (Pls. ignore references to other characters for now. You'll have to wait for the book!)

Bus-ting Out: Field Trip Poem

It’s Thursday but we got no school.
We’re on a field trip, hey that’s cool.
Where we going? George Washington’s place.
Gonna see the fake teeth he wore in his face.

Harry’s in the back row drumming a beat.
Girls Miss Mary Macking between the seats.
Chaperones up front chatting away.
Gray Torres snuck his DS and we all wanna play.

Miss Hill wearing jeans, first time this year.
There’s Nationals Stadium – everybody gotta cheer.
Ashlie Hauk singing a song we all know.
Jason Chen beat boxes. He got the flow.

Uno cards flying when we hit a pot hole.
Waving at the White House and the National Mall.
Girls text the boys, making a fuss.
Best part of a field trip is riding the bus.

(My book, "We Rule the School," owes a lot to Edgar Lee Master's Spoon River Anthology. I'm a huge fan.)

Our host for this week's Poetry Friday is Kelly Herold at Crossover. Have a great first weekend of summer.

It's Poetry Friday, Hon!

You just missed Honfest – Baltimore’s celebration of its own wacky, lovable culture. (It's featured in the book Party Across America.)

Enjoy these Baltimore Hons, complete with beehives, animal prints, tight pedal pushers and high heels (feather boas optional, but recommended).

I’m electing hometown girl Shirley Brewer official poet of the Baltimore Hons. With her great sense of humor & unique style (animal prints -- check), Shirley would be a great ambassador.

Her first book of poetry, A Little Breast Music, was published last fall by Baltimore’s Passager Books.

Shirley’s new blog even has a Hon-appropriate flashy name: http://www.shimmergoddess.blogspot.com/

Now, about those high heels....

Shoe Blues

This shoe is quite ridiculous,
the heel four inches high.
The ankle strap is a safety belt,
a feature I can justify.

This shoe was made in Paris,
right near the river In-Seine.
It’s lined in light pink leather,
the toe in Novocain.

This shoe is not supposed to be
as comfortable as a slipper.
The fact is the designer’s name
is probably Jack the Tripper.

This shoe is perfectly gorgeous,
I’m ready to make a deposit.
In the front of my mind I know
it will live in the back of my closet.

Shirley J. Brewer

For more information on Shirley’s book.
http://raven.ubalt.edu/features/passager/ALittleBreastMusic.htm

Join some more poetry hons at this week’s Poetry Friday, hosted by Carol's Corner.

Teachers and parents, come back soon for a high-school lesson based on one of Shirley Brewer's poems.

Poetry Friday

My father-in-law passed away this week at the age of 65. He spent two weeks at St. Mary's Hospital in Passaic, NJ, where William Carlos Williams was a longtime staff doctor.

Here is his poem, "The Last Words of My English Grandmother." I love this elegy because Williams doesn't try to pretty up his grandmother or her struggle to stay in control, even as she faces death.

The Last Words of My English Grandmother

There were some dirty plates

and a glass of milk

beside her on a small table

near the rank, disheveled bed—

Wrinkled and nearly blind

she lay and snored

rousing with anger in her tones

to cry for food,

Gimme something to eat—

They're starving me—

I'm all right I won't go

to the hospital. No, no, no

Give me something to eat

Let me take you

to the hospital, I said

and after you are well

you can do as you please.

She smiled, Yes

you do what you please first

then I can do what I please—

Read the rest at Writers Almanac.

This is the plaque to Williams at St. Mary's Hospital. My husband pointed out that -- even at the hospital -- they put "poet" before "physician."

More Poetry Friday at this week's host...Read, Write, Believe.

Robert Albert Shovan December 2, 1943 - June 2, 2009.

I Need a Ti-shoe

It's my last teaching day at Northfield Elementary. I'll be back in a few weeks for the third grade's Poetry Celebration, but I'll miss working with the kids on their poems.

Maryland State Arts Council Artists-in-Education get to spend several days working with students. The children get to know and trust me. They're willing to take creative chances, have fun, and view their poems as poems -- rather than writing assignments.

Here's the last crop of shoe odes (lesson here). Kids often capture an energy in their poems that's rare in the adult poetry world. I love the rhythm of Ryan's poem.

Poet: Ryan L.

Ode to Nike Shoes

Old Nike shoes.
Your words: Dart IV.
WOW, do you smell!
You’re made in Vietnam.
Such a long travel as a bird flies migration.
Extremely fast like a jet.
Old Nike shoes.

Elementary schoolers aren't accustomed to working with similes, but they're great at it. We warm up first with the infamous baby powder exercise (see the description here). I told the students to use whatever similes popped into their minds, however wild. Peyton took me up on it!

Poet: Peyton L.

Ode to Peyton’s Shoe

My shoe looks like
A green grape ready to be eaten.
Caves waiting to be filled with
People. Rocks that go in curvy paths,
Mazes you can never get out of.
Holes the size of the moon. Words that
Mean crazy things. Smells like rotten cheese.
They protect my feet
From everything. I love my shoes.

See you tomorrow for Poetry Friday.

Shoe Odes

The model poem for this lesson in writing odes (which I usually use for middle school, but adapted for elementary with great results) is Gary Soto's wonderful "Ode to Pablo's Tennis Shoes."

Kids' lit agent Michael Stearns (Firebrand) told me it's Soto's most anthologized poem. No wonder. It's got some juicy similes, which I asked my third graders to aim for in their odes.

It's not often a teacher asks you to take off one shoe, put it on your desk, and examine it. We had a blast with this activity!

Ethan and I discovered the word "Raptor" -- a model name -- on his sneaker.

Poet: Ethan K.

Dear E-Raptor,
you taste like rubber bands.
You feel like leather seats. You smell
like fresh dirt. You sound like
fireworks crackling. You look like
neon green lasers. You’re my favorite
shoes.

Juicy similes? Check!

In the poem below, I notice Mayur responding to the quiet emotions at the end of Soto's ode.

Poet: Mayur K.

Ode to Mayur’s Shoes

They are as fast as a cheetah,
rain beaten.
They are kicking a kickball,
and they smell like the sewer.
But I don’t care because they sound like
rain drops when I walk.
They remind me of a spider
because they are
all brown and dark colors.
When I come back from school,
I put them in the
closet near the door.
Now it’s night.
I can hear my dad snoring
and my mom laughing
to the America’s Funniest Videos.

More shoe odes from the Northfield E.S. third graders tomorrow. Thanks again to Northfield's third grade team and our young poets' families for permission to post these poems.