Poetry Friday: "Natural" Disasters

We're off to Colorado on our 50 State Tour of poets laureate. But even in the mountains, I'm still ranting about the B.P. Oil Disaster. (See yesterday's post for more ranting.)


When will they stop calling it a spill? This is an oil spill...

This is NASA's satellite image of the oil disaster...

 More NASA images of the oil's spread as seen from space are here.

Colorado's poet laureate position was established in 1919. According to the Library of Congress, "The poet is appointed by the governor from a list of candidates recommended by the Colorado Center for the Book, the Colorado Endowment for the Humanities, and the Colorado Arts Council."

What does this have to do with the B.P. Disaster? Read current Colorado Poet Laureate Mary Crow's poem, "Fault Finding."


Fault Finding

by Mary Crow

Even now the ground is slowly shifting
beneath your feet. Even now
zones of weakness are building
behind your back, ready to crack
into fractures. Even now pressures
may exceed the power of rocks
to resist. Think of it:
thousands of faults lace this region.
You live inside a ring of fire
where walls can loom up overnight.
Forces in this landscape
are trying to rearrange your world.
You stand here feeling
you can control nothing,

Read the rest of the poem here.

What does the natural disaster Crow describes have to do with B.P.? It's a reminder that Earth is a delicate, unpredictable place. When something -- natural or industrial -- upsets the balance, we do feel we "can control nothing."

One way I like using poetry with older kids -- as a jumping off point for focused discussion. "Fault Finding" or Bill Cowee's poem (posted yesterday) make good jumping off points for a discussion about natural and industrial disasters --  how they affect the Earth and therefore the individual people who live here.

Stop by Stacey and Ruth of Two Writing Teachers for more Poetry Friday entries. Thanks for hosting, ladies.

Poems to Protest BP & Other Environmental Disasters

How easy it is to get caught up in our own lives. We spent yesterday evening dashing from one kid's music lessons to the other kid's band concert, squeezing pizza and homework in between.

Today, I'm stopping my mom-routine to think about the B.P Oil disaster. Bill Cowee's poem, "She Said to Be Careful of the Thistle," reminded me of the natural and human cost to big industry.

She Said To Be Careful of the Thistle

by Bill Cowee

He looked down at the weed, a strong,
stiff spear of bristled green
crowned brilliant with lavender,
growing unabated at the tailing’s base,
amid the crushed rock souped once
in chemical baths for bright blue copper.
New leachers come again to work the rock
carcasses, shovel the piles apart, crush
larger rock into smaller, heap leach the bones
with sulfuric acids to get the last profit
out of the earth before it is discarded again.
And aerial spraying, sulfuric odor
acrid as on a drive through Hell,
the residents below the last reef of ore
suddenly come with asthma, with nose bleeds,
and the sprayers...shush, shush, shush
as if fighting for breath themselves...or truth.


Read the rest of the poem here. 

Here's a fact that I found shocking: "At the time Henry Ford and the Duryea brothers were racing to put gasoline-powered cars on the road, electric cars were already in use. The first practical electric car in the United States was introduced in 1835, but it was basically a small locomotive. Advances in batteries over the next 50 years made the car more attractive, and by 1897 electric taxis roamed the streets of New York."

This is from an article, "Green Living," written by my buddy Jennifer Della Zanna.

So -- what happened? How did we go from electric car technology to oil-dependent society? And why not go back to that earlier technology for ideas?

50 State Tour: Nebraska (Poem & Prompt)

Nebraska, 37th state, is one of those places where Poet Laureate is a lifetime post. William Kloefkorn is only the second P.L. since 1921. Is it me, or does being a poet up your chances of living into your 90s?

(My friend Jennie is a die-hard Nebraska fan. Hope you like the shout-out, Miss Jennie!)

Kloefkorn was a longtime professor before his retirement, has published poetry, memoir and fiction. And he once won first-place in Nebraska's Hog-Calling Championship.

I'm sharing his poem, "August," both because yesterday was end-of-summer hot and muggy and because you MG/YA authors out there will appreciate it.

Kloefkorn writes achingly about the moment when a teen steps into the world of romance and sex, leaving a younger sib behind. Notice the layers that the speaker in the poem expresses. He's aware that something big is taking his sister away, but also aware that -- even if he found her -- he wouldn't understand what has changed her.

August

by William Kloefkorn

I am not old but old enough to believe
I know what Jimmy Stevens wants
when he invites my sister
into his Model-A. And because
I believe I know where he is going
I follow the car afoot, breathing
dust and exhaust until both
have left me
so far behind I must rely on what
I believe I know to get me
to where I believe they
are going. But I am
wrong. They aren't here,
meaning that wherever they are
I cannot find them, meaning
that whatever they might be doing
I cannot know, cannot put my small,
helpless body between them.
For a long time I sit in weeds
at the side of the road that failed
me, inhaling dryness, looking up
and into the brilliance
of uncountable stars. August,
the month of my birth. I am alone and
not alone, long beans in moonlight
hanging from the limbs
of catalpas, coyotes with their howling
saying something I believe just now
I understand. For a long time I sit
in weeds somewhere between
those most mysterious cousins,
knowing and belief,
my sister somewhere in a Model-A
saying what I cannot hear, touching
what I cannot reach.

Read the rest of the poem at  Verse Daily.

WRITING EXERCISE
Authors -- let's use this poem as an exercise. 

Prompt: If you have a MG or YA character with siblings in your novel, write a one to two page scene about the moment one sibling has had a sexual/romantic encounter. Who is the first to realize he is leaving (or has been left) behind the other? Whether or not you use the scene, you're sure to make an interesting discovery.


Stop by tomorrow. If you're grieved and angry about the BP Oil disaster, you'll appreciate the Bill Cowee poem I'll be sharing.