Author Amok

Poetry Friday: Haikubes

2012-01-27T01:50:00.003-05:00

I admit to buying myself an occasional gift. It might be for my birthday. (Mine is the last of our four family birthdays, which all happen within five weeks, and is at constant risk of being forgotten -- the victim of birthday malaise.)

Our birthdays are 1/16, 1/31, 2/13 and 2/22. Even the dog is in the mix, 2/17.

During the holidays, I might gift myself with a Hanukkah goodie, or something tucked under the Christmas tree, where no one will see it until it is too late.

Which is exactly where I put my set of Haikubes this year. Think Magnetic Poetry meets Mah Jong, and you'll get the idea.

Haikubes come with a variety of verbs, adjectives, nouns and two red "suggested theme" blocks.

I ordered these from one of my favorite book-lovers' catalogs, Bas Bleu.

My daughter and I have been having a great time with these. Some of my friends in education use them as poetry starters. For Poetry Friday, I am sharing some of our favorites. Here are the photos, and a transcription if I thought punctuation was needed.

fast wind whispers hmmm --
promises grace my window,
inside: a lame tiger

curvy heart candy
oozing over your wet lips
I shiver, villain

Strictly speaking, you end up with more of a senryu than a haiku.

My daughter felt this one required a little revision:

I point into
dripping grass eyes, trouble
licks the gentle ground

Interesting. I never would have thought of autumn leaves as "candy-esque blocks."

I hope you had as much fun with these as we did. (We've sort of abandoned the red "theme" blocks and let the dice roll how they may.)

Jim at "Hey, Jim Hill," is our host this week. Thanks, Jim!

The Ravens

2012-01-22T20:37:00.000-05:00

You may not know this, but I am a die-hard Ravens fan.

It started in quarterback Joe Flacco's rookie year, when they made it to the playoffs. I became slightly obsessed. I started listening to sports talk radio. At first it was just during the playoffs, then it was all season long.

I have a Ravens jersey and Ravens earrings (both gifts). A Ravens stocking for the holidays and a wreath on the door with snowmen dressed in Ravens tees. On game day, I make the dog wear his Ravens jersey (he hates it).

Sam mopes every time we put him in his jersey.

The Ravens have been in the playoffs for four straight years, but have not been in the Superbowl since they won in 2000. Not coincidentally, we moved to Baltimore just a few months prior to that game.

When the Ravens lost tonight, I thought, we may be the only NFL team named after a work of literature, but maybe we should have picked a different work of literature. Something uplifting. Something you can get behind. Something with a more "We're going to kick butt" line than the opening of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven":

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,"

It's not exactly the poetry of champions.

While I am not proposing a new poem and name for Baltimore's football team, I did need to work out my feelings of anger, disappointment and overall nausea after the loss. To the Patriots. On a flubbed 32-yard field goal attempt.

Ravens are purple and black -- to represent the dark circles under Poe's eyes?

Naturally, I turned to poetry. I give you my version of Poe's poem, with apologies to its original author.

The Ravens

by Laura Shovan

Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over a decision to run for a conversion on down four --

While I cried, instead of clapping, suddenly there came a snapping,

As of dying wings a-flapping, flapping on the stadium floor--

"'Tis some dream," I muttered, "a figment flapping on the stadium floor--

Not the Ravens, I implore!"

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak of winter;

And each hopeful ember dying in our hearts, now sore.

Eagerly I wished for spring; -- another team with the Superbowl Ring

And Charm City past the sting — the sting as we lost and swore--

For the rare and glorious trophy which escapes our grasp once more--

Nameless here for evermore.

And with players sad and humbler, the gleam off of each purple number

They almost thrilled me— but flubbed a tie with errors never seen before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"Not the Patriots, I’m entreating, celebrating on the stadium floor--

My eyes deceived me, the kick went through, of that I am sure;--

A bad camera angle, nothing more."

Presently my dread grew stronger; I could avoid fate no longer,

"Kids," said I, "Don’t bug your mother right now, I implore;

“The fact is I was hoping we would win and now I’m moping,

To see my Ravens choking. They were knocking on the Patriots’ door!

That I scarce can believe I heard the correct score;

It was a dream and nothing more.”

Deep into this darkness peering, long I sat there staring, fearing,

Doubting, cursing dreams a Ravens fan could have no more;

Hope is gone, our will is broken, on the team bus, no words spoken,

A deathly pall, no one dares whisper, “But we had a chance to score.”

The clock ran out. An echo murmurs through the streets of Baltimore --

Another year of Nevermore.

Read the original poem, "The Raven," at the Poetry Foundation.

Feel free to share this with anyone who is feeling my pain.

Poetry Friday: Happy Birthday William Stafford

2012-01-20T01:48:00.045-05:00

I've been away from Poetry Friday for a while, but I could not pass up William Stafford's birthday.

Stafford was born January 17, 1914. This week marked his 98th birthday. His first collection, Traveling though the Dark, won the National Book Award in 1963 (he was 48, all you late bloomers). "Ultimate Problems" -- oh, on my all-time favorite poem list!

Some time ago, I started a poetry project. I began writing response poems to each of Stafford's pieces in The Darkness around Us Is Deep: Selected Poems of William Stafford. (It's one of my favorite books of poetry.)

The project's beginnings were accidental. A line in "With Kit, Age 7, at the Beach" prompted a memory of observing my child in the snow, after the blizzard of 2003. I titled the poem with a phrase from "With Kit, Age 7": "An Absolute Vista." You can listen to Stafford's poem here.

Sometimes it was a line of Stafford's that prompted a memory or image for my own poem. Or it could be the title, the theme, even something in the feel or tone of the poem I was trying to capture. One of Stafford's poems perplexed me so much that I opted to take a short phrase, "fingers into stones," as a jumping-off point. The resulting poem is a surreal meditation on aging.

Recently, life has gotten in the way of continuing with my project, though I did write about a half dozen response poems. I hope to pick it up again some day.

Today, I'm sharing an original poem, written in response to one of Stafford's.

Here is his poem, "Passing Remark."

Passing Remark
by William Stafford

In scenery I like flat country.
In life I don't like much to happen.
In personalities I like mild colorless people.
And in colors I prefer gray and brown.
My wife, a vivid girl from the mountains,
says, "Then why did you choose me?"

Read the rest (and more poems) at Friends of William Stafford.

My response poem involves a passing remark, but has deeper resonances with Stafford's piece. It appears in my chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone.

Tomorrow Is Going to Be Normal

by Laura Shovan

Walking home from the school bus, my son says,
“Tomorrow is going to be normal.”
He speaks with the confidence of relief.
When every day is the same, he can breathe.

Each morning, I tell myself,

Today, is the day --
I wait for the remarkable to land on my shoulder
or call me on the phone.

Sometimes it is a fortune written on the tag of my tea.

Sometimes it is a bird. Other days
I miss the quiet calling to attention.
I go to bed tired.

My son knows there is comfort in monotony.

Do I really want the phone to ring? It could be the lottery
or a hospital calling. He thinks my life is enough:
the mildness of the room when I am the only thing moving in it.

No. I must begin each day

wanting the next few hours to jolt me out of sameness.
He shakes his head. That we could be so different
we both find remarkable.

This was not a "normal" day.

Poet Robert Bly interviewed Stafford for the introduction to The Darkness around Us Is Deep (which includes such well-known poems as "Traveling through the Dark," "Fifteen," and "Ask Me.") Bly asked about Stafford's practice of rising early to write each day. He said something like, "What if you're not so good that day?" And Stafford replied, "Then I lower my standards." I love that.

If you're as fascinated with Stafford as I am, here is an interview with his son Kim. It's a beautiful meditation on his father's writing space and daily practice. His book, Early Morning, is one I'm putting on my wish list.

Happy Poetry Friday. I'm going to celebrate by playing with my box of Haikubes. I'll post some of the results soon.

Elaine at Wild Rose Reader is our Poetry Friday host today. Stop by her blog for more poetry posts.

Obsessions

2012-01-11T18:21:00.000-05:00

I would probably never write a thing if I didn't pay attention to my obsessions.

I'm not talking about chocolate, much as I crave it.

He drives me wild.

This is a different type of obsession -- when something catches your eye or ear and you immediately feel, "I want to learn everything I can about that."

Normal people don't let these "catch your ear" moments develop into full obsessions, but doing so is key to how I function as a writer.

Writers have obsessions, and that's a good thing. The more involved we become with an idea, concept, or tidbit from history, the more deeply we can express these things in a poem, play, story, or essay. I know it's a true obsession when I am researching or writing and I go into hyper focus. My kids know not to interrupt me then. It's almost a physical pain to be called out of what I'm working on to help find a missing shoe.

My current obsessions are:

The Roc-A-Jets, 1950s all-girl rockabilly band based in Baltimore
This painting, by Vincent van Gogh:

All it took was one look at that ocean of a beard, and I thought, "That painting might be a good subject for a poem." It only took thirty minutes of clicking around the Internet to find out that van Gogh had an uncharacteristically close relationship with his subject, postmaster Joseph Roulin, and Roulin's family.

What happens when obsessions collide? I don't have mental space for them both.

I'm writing down as much as I can about Roulin now, when the idea has energy. As long as I capture the initial impulse, I can come back to Roulin and van Gogh later.

Then, it's back to work on my piece about the Roc-A-Jets. Roulin looks like he would have enjoyed a good rockabilly show.

Stay tuned.

One of my favorite examples of a writer clearly obsessed with a subject appears in the novel The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje (here is one blogger's review). Chapter 7 covers Kip's bomb squad training in the kind of attentive detail that can only come from deep research.

Come out to Ahh, Coffee! in Annapolis this Saturday evening and to hear the end result of one of my obsessions. I'll be featured at a reading, along with my friend Fernando Quijano III. This will be my first public reading of a long ekphrastic poem. It's based on a work of fringe art -- the title of which I can't repeat here. Seriously.

A Very Good Play

2012-01-09T09:00:00.000-05:00

My leap for Leap Year, 2012, is to write a play.

Must write play before end of world.

Several years ago, our local public radio station did a profile of the Roc-A-Jets, an all-girl rockabilly band, circa 1959 Baltimore. At the time, I said to myself, "That story would make a great musical." I didn't forget about it, but I put the idea on the magical Shelf of Great Ideas that Will Never in a Million Years Actually Happen.

A whole series of events aligned recently, prompting me to take that idea off the magical shelf, including:

A dream about my favorite college professor. (Read about it here. It will give you the shivers.)
Hearing the radio segment on the Roc-A-Jets rebroadcast.
Meeting the producer of the segment, the brilliant Aaron Henkin (who was kind enough to give me one of the band member's contact info.)
A "chance" meeting with Howard Community College's dramaturg, Lisa Wilde.
Who sent me info about the online play writing class with Liz Duffy Adams.

As with most "the stars are aligning" experiences, passivity would have meant returning my Great Idea back to the dusty shelf, along with many wondrous, time-saving objects which I have never patented.

I had to:

Tell Aaron Henkin how great I thought the Roc-A-Jets segment was and that it would make a great play.
Tell Lisa Wilde that I was thinking of writing a play, but my drama skills were rusty.
Sign up for play writing class, send the check.
Call the Roc-A-Jets to set up an interview. (Almost didn't happen. The number sat on my bulletin board for weeks, inching closer to the dreaded Shelf.)

The next exercise for Liz's class was writing "a very good play." We were supposed to do 3-5 pages, as with the bad play.

The best part, for me, was that we had to include frequent use of a specific word. That word -- the opposite of the funny word we'd used in our "bad play." (You can read my bad play here.)

My funny bad play word was "pamplemousse," French for grapefruit. Uh...

Opposite from France on the globe is New Zealand. Fine. There's no real opposite to "grapefruit" or "fruit," so I chose a vegetable native to New Zealand, puha.

Puha is a bitter green that grows wild. Supposedly, you can't find it in stores. It's a Maori staple. The way the taste is described, I imagine that it's somewhat like broccoli rabe, a little bitter.

Puha flowers look a lot like dandelions.

My "very good play" takes place in a Victorian bed and breakfast on a New Zealand beach. A couple has come to renew their wedding vows at this exotic location. The pleasantly bitter taste of puha becomes a metaphor, in my short play, for marriage.

The play's not very good, which was the point of the exercise (don't try too hard, you'll only mess with your head and write like crap). But I'm happy with that puha metaphor.

A Bad Play

2012-01-08T14:44:00.000-05:00

Friends, it has been so long, I'm not sure where to begin.

I'll come back to explain why I am taking an online playwriting class, why I have been spending time with members of a Baltimore rockabilly band (circa 1950s/60s) called the Roc-A-Jets, and why all of this is extremely scary.

The prospect of writing a play makes me feel like this, with a lot of nail-biting and crying at random people added in:

Some quick background. In a former life (right out of high school), I went to NYU's Tisch School of the Arts to study dramatic writing. It was the only school that had a real writing program for undergraduates (everywhere else, you had to study English with a creative writing minor). I wanted to be a writer and NOT in a minor way.

Naturally, as I was nearing graduation, I realized that I was a poet, not a playwright or screenwriter. I remember walking into Mark Dickerman's office, trying to convince him to let me write a book of poems, instead of a screenplay, for my senior thesis project. His reaction can be summed up in one word: "Ha!"

(Don't even ask about the thesis project. That was a big lesson in "write what you know" and I knew nothing about the world of professional wrestling.)

It's been over 20 years. I have been working successfully, all this time, as a poet and educator. And now I feel like I'm back in Mark Dickerman's office saying, "I want to write a play." And he is saying, "Ha!" in my memory.

Enter, Liz Duffy Adams. I am taking her online playwriting course. I'm hoping I can still ride that bike, but training wheels won't hurt while I'm getting started.

The first exercise was to write a bad play, just 3-5 pages, including things the writer does not like to see in theater. Take a guess -- what's on my top ten list of things I hate in a show?

BTW: The exercise required using a word we think is funny, repeated ad nauseum (like "ad nauseum," I guess the point is repeating the word until it is more grating than funny -- like, "What you talkin' bout, Willis?")

My all-time favorite funny word is "pamplemousse," French for grapefruit.

Laugh with me, laugh at me, I don't mind. Throw a few french grapefruits at your screen. As a friend pointed out, it is leap year. If you're going to take a leap, better take it now.

WALKING THE DOG

Laura Shovan

CAST OF CHARACTERS

JUNIOR: a ten-year-old boy.

DEIRDRE: his teenage sister.

FATHER: their father, a businessman.

MOTHER: his wife, a homemaker.

Note: All characters are played by white men age 18-26. All except Deirdre wear space-suit versions of 1950s PSA attire. MOTHER wears a white apron decorated with cherries over her space-dress. DEIRDRE is dressed in a TV version of 1980s punk gear. She wears a pair of giant silver headphones over her neon pink hair.

SETTING: A family room of the distant space-future. Everything is silver and metal, with white and black accents, including a chrome couch, a wall of nine flat-screen televisions (each tuned to a different channels) running throughout the play, a white floor. The walls are white with giant silver “bubbles” or circles. Near a metal pocket door (left) is a metal tree with silver leaves. At right, a roundish “door,” really just an opening.

Two bean bag chairs.

(At RISE, the beanbag chairs are occupied by JUNIOR and DEIRDRE. JUNIOR is reading his e-reader. DEIRDRE appears to be listening to music. The pocket door slides open and FATHER enters. He puts a silver case down next to the tree. JUNIOR looks up. DEIRDRE does not notice his entrance.)

FATHER

Hi, honey! I’m home.

JUNIOR

(With boredom)

Hi, Father.

(MOTHER enters from right. She goes to FATHER and kisses his cheek, kicking one leg up as she does. Her shoe flies off and lands on the couch, slides off. She moves to pick it up.)

MOTHER

Darling, my sweet pamplemousse, did you have a wonderful day?

FATHER

I’ve been crunching numbers for fifteen hours. The last thing I want to do is talk about work. I’d rather talk about pamplemousse.

(I am not a songwriter, but if I were, there would be a big, showy number here a la “Put on a Happy Face,” where the characters would toss around French grapefruits with smiley faces drawn on them.)

How was school, kids? Did they serve pamplemousse at lunch?

(While JUNIOR speaks, FATHER sits on the couch to take off his shoes and quickly slides off. Everyone ignores this. FATHER stands. He tries to put a foot on the couch to take his shoe off. His foot slides off. He falls again. He gets up. Opts to take off his shoes while standing.)

JUNIOR

It was great. My quantum physics teacher showed us how to create a black hole. We each got a pamplemousse to test our black hole’s gravity.

(FATHER walks to the bean bag chair and ruffles JUNIOR’S hair.)

FATHER

I bet your black hole had the suckiest gravity in the class. Am I right son? Did it crush the bejeezus out of that that juicy, yellow pamplemousse?

JUNIOR

You betcha, Father. Speaking of pamplemousse, are we eating soon, Mother?

(MOTHER says nothing. She is slumped against the tree, near where she picked up her shoe. DEIRDRE goes to MOTHER, lifts her shirt up in the back, winds a gadget on her back like a wind- up toy, and returns to her beanbag chair and music.)

MOTHER

What did I miss?

(Humming Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces,” MOTHER moves to the couch, sits, slides off. Everyone ignores this except the dog, which starts barking. Big musical number here, “I Fall to Pieces” as a jaunty tap routine.)

FATHER

Junior asked about dinner. That’s my growing boy. But he’ll have to walk the dog first.

MOTHER

Dinner! I knew I was forgetting something.

JUNIOR

Aw… do I have to? It’s supposed to be Deidre’s turn. She is such a pamplemousse. She always tries to get me to do her chores.

(MOTHER moves to DEIRDRE, lifts one headphone away from her ear.)

MOTHER

Earth to Deidre. Come in Deidre. This is Mission Control. Over.

(JUNIOR laughs. DEIRDRE scowls and turns her music louder. The dog barks. MOTHER sits on the couch, slides off. Everyone ignores this.)

FATHER

What that girl needs is a firm hand. And a dose of pamplemousse wouldn’t hurt her, either.

MOTHER

Oh, go ahead then, Mr. Lord and Master. Show us how it’s done.

JUNIOR

This, I have to see. Even a firm hand disappears when it gets too close to a black hole like Deidre.

(JUNIOR and MOTHER sit on the couch, slide off together in a heap. The dog jumps on them, barking aggressively.

FATHER sings, “A Black Hole like Deirdre,” in the style of “How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria.”)

MOTHER

You know Rover doesn’t like it when you fuss.

(FATHER walks purposefully toward DEIRDRE. He stands before her. She looks up, pulls her headphones down to her neck. Does not speak.)

FATHER

Deirdre, Junior says it’s your turn to walk the dog.

(DEIRDRE makes the “whatever” sign with her fingers, starts to pull her headphones back on.)

I am the Lord and Master of this house. I demand that you walk the dog.

(DEIRDRE shrugs, stands up, bows at her father, motions the dog toward her, pulls its leash out of her pocket, picks the dog up, puts it on the couch. Cue techno music. The dog walks a few steps on the couch and slides off. DEIRDRE picks it up again. It slides off. She picks it up again. It slides off. DEIRDRE repeats this process during the next exchange.)

MOTHER

She’s got you, there, Daddy-o! Ho, ho! That’s funnier than saying “pamplemousse” twelve times.

JUNIOR

Can I walk the dog, Father? Deirdre, let me have a turn.

(JUNIOR grabs for the leash.)

You’re such a pamplemousse.

(DEIRDRE shrugs, hands the leash to JUNIOR. Instead of the dog walking a few steps and sliding off the couch, the dog’s robotic feet gain traction, moving the couch, which scoots in the direction of the pocket door (left). The couch crashes into the silver tree, with one end blocking the door. The dog catapults through the round doorway (right), dragging JUNIOR behind it. MOTHER stares after JUNIOR and the dog.)

MOTHER

Was that the kitchen or the walk-in freeze dry vacuum?

(DEIRDRE returns to her bean bag chair, puts on her headphones.)

FATHER

Oh, pamplemousse! The couch is blocking the port. How am I going to get to work? I’m up for that big promotion tomorrow. What will I tell the boss?

(FATHER goes to sit down on the couch. Slides off. Crashes into the tree. Holds his head in his hands. Does not get up. FATHER sings a song in which he fantasizes about confronting his boss.)

MOTHER

You can blame the dog, Honey. It works for Junior. Rover is always eating his homework.

(The dog enters, right, with a cardboard cut-out of Junior in its mouth. The dog settles into its bed, gnawing on Junior.)

It’s a disaster! Junior will never be normal in time for dinner. Oh, I forgot dinner. Again!

(MOTHER rushes off, right. Quickly returns with a large silver pot, smoke pouring out from under its lid.)

MOTHER

My pot roast with candied pamplemousse is ruined!

(MOTHER sits on the couch. Slides off. Spills the pot roast. Does not move from the floor. Pulls a branch off the silver tree. Chews it.)

FATHER

Who cares about the pot roast? My career is over!

(FATHER sits on the couch. Slides off. Lands in the spilled pot roast. Does not get up, but puts a finger in the gravy. Tastes it.)

Not bad, Mother. Too bad about Junior. Pot roast with candied pamplemousse is his favorite.

(The dog approaches, carrying the cardboard cut-out of Junior. Drops it in the spilled pot roast. Jumps on the couch, where it continues to gnaw on Junior’s arm. Does not slide off the couch.)

MOTHER

Good boy, Rover.

(Big dance number, “Good Boy, Rover,” in which the characters take turn dancing with the cardboard cut-out of Junior.)

DEIRDRE

(To audience.)

I’ve always liked that dog. But Junior’s not so bad. I just pretend not to like him or candied pamplemousse. Gotta maintain my street cred.

(DEIRDRE stands, pulls out a large Star Trek-style phaser that’s been hidden inside her bean bag. It has the words “Anti Deep Freeze Vacuumer” written on it. DEIRDRE goes to the couch, tries to tug Junior away from the growling dog. They pull back and forth. DEIRDRE yanks Junior away. He flies across the room. The dog slides off the couch and lands in Father’s lap. DEIRDRE picks up the cut-out of Junior. She tucks Junior under her arm and goes through the door, right. A blue glow appears in the doorway.)

FATHER

Was that the kitchen or the walk-in freeze dry vacuum? Maybe if you freeze dry me before work tomorrow, I won’t get fired.

MOTHER

I believe in you, Darling. And my belief will be enough to keep your job safe. If you just remember that I believe in you, you’ll get that promotion. And if you truly believe, with all your heart, in my belief – with all my heart -- in you, the boss will throw in – with all his heart – a bonus lifetime supply of pamplemousse.

(DEIRDRE enters with a restored JUNIOR. The arm of his space suit is tattered and a little bloody.)

JUNIOR

I don’t care what Mother and Father say, you’re not a rotten pamplemousse, Deirdre.

(JUNIOR goes to hug DEIRDRE. She puts a finger in front of her mouth and shushes him, and winks hugely at the audience.)

MOTHER

But can she fix the pot roast with candied pamplemousse?

(ALL laugh, sitcom style.

The big finale is a musical ode to pot roast with candied pamplemousse and the importance of regular sit down dinners that maintain the ideal family of one man, one woman, 2.3 children and a dog – even in chrome-couched future.

CURTAIN.)

Poetry Friday: Nature Photos

2011-12-02T01:20:00.009-05:00

My daughter has been taking our point and shoot camera to the back yard. It's not a huge yard, so I'm amazed at what she finds and photographs there.

This week, I'm sharing a few of her shots. I am working on a tanka in response to one of the photos.

If you're inspired to do so, write a short poem in response to one of these pictures. Or make it an assignment for your class.

Sage Tanka

by Laura Shovan

"Go pick soup greens!"

My daughter brings me handfuls,

Foggy sage leaves.

I wash, chop, do not see

At the center, two cupped hands.

I love the tanka form. The two lines beyond a haiku allow tanka poems to make an interesting turn. Here is my tanka lesson (and a frame sheet to help with writing).

For more information on tanka, visit the Academy of American Poets .

Here are two more of Miss J's nature shots for you to enjoy, or write to:

If you're trying this exercise with younger students, check out the book Haiku Hike (Scholastic). It's exactly what it sounds like -- written by kids, a great combination of outdoor exploration and poetic response.

Thanks to Carol at Carol's Corner for hosting Poetry Friday this week.

Poetry Friday: Clarinet

2011-11-18T01:19:00.007-05:00

It's been a music-filled week at the Shovan house.

Saturday, our son's high school marching band won third place at their national competition. He is a percussionist, currently on vibes.

This is me wearing the band-mom hat I knitted in my son's school colors.

Once a band geek, always a band geek. I was a flautist. Now I'm a band mom.

This week was our daughter's first middle school band concert. She plays clarinet. We've talked a few times about adding a second instrument (sax -- not for her, the deep tone kept making her laugh) but she is devoted to her clarinet.

My daughter spotted this early clarinet at the Smithsonian Museum of American History and pronounced it "weird."

Lately, I've been writing poems about my daughter. The fact that she is in middle school has triggered memories of my days at Dwight D. Eisenhower Middle, but also has me on parental alert as she transitions from 'tween to young adult.

I was looking for a clarinet poem for her and found one by Terrance Hayes. I don't think she's ready for this poem yet. It's a very gentle love poem, but more suited for the teen side of 'tween. Teachers -- I'd recommend this poem for eighth grade and up.

All of these instruments are in the clarinet family. My daughter plays the "traditional" B flat clarinet.

Clarinet

by Terrance Hayes

I am sometimes the clarinet

your parents bought

your first year in band,

my whole body alive

in your fingers, my one ear

warmed by the music

you breathe into it.

I hear your shy laugh

among the girls at practice.

I am not your small wrist

rising & falling as you turn

the sheet music,

but I want to be.

Or pinky bone, clavicle.

When you walk home

from school, birds call

to you in a language

only clarinets decipher.

Read the rest at Poetry Foundation.

Hayes visited our area last month. He is a powerful poet (National Book Award winner) and a great speaker. I love the metaphor at work in "Clarinet." It is never spoken, but the clarinet and its music are deeply loved by the girl in the poem. It's soul love. The speaker's hint of sexual love is quiet -- the girl in the poem isn't there yet.

Fellow PF blogger Tabatha Yeatts (The Opposite of Indifference) and I had a long talk about our kids and music over lunch recently. Kids who are musicians associate strongly with their chosen instruments. It's part of who they are and can define how they see themselves.

If I tell you that my son is a percussionist, my daughter a clarinetist and Tabatha's daughter is a French horn player, you begin to form an image of each child. Interesting.

Musicians out there, what do you think about how choice of instrument can define a person? Why did Hayes choose a clarinetist for this poem -- rather than a girl who plays the trombone?

This week's Poetry Friday host is Tabatha herself. But before you check out more poetry, check out this musical "Clarinet Poem."

Poetry Friday: Love Dogs

2011-11-11T01:10:00.006-05:00

This week, I have been reading The Essential Rumi: Translations by Coleman Barks.

His poem, "The Gift of Water," is wonderful for writers -- or anyone who is feeling stuck. (See my post on the poem here, and the strange experience I had the following day.)

Today's Rumi poem works on many levels. You might find spirituality here, or you might recognize the connection with a dog you love.

This is Sam (full name: Samwise McBarkBark Shovan).

Sam is my 11-year-old daughter's favorite photographic model.

We adopted Sam from a local Schnauzer rescue nearly three years ago. He truly is my Love Dog, often calling me to sit with him when I'm feeling stressed. When the children are in school, and I have a long, lonely day of writing and editing at home, Sam is my buddy.

Sam found a fledgling robin in our yard this spring. They made friends.

Here is Coleman Barks reading Rumi's "Love Dogs."

So many children find comfort in their animal companions. A sad child might find comfort in this poem, too. Here are the last few stanzas of Rumi's "Love Dogs":

The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.

Give your life
to be one of them.

There is a book of poems for children on this subject, This Place I Know, selected by Georgia Heard.

Today's host is wonderful April Halprin Wayland at Teaching Authors, who knows much about the power of poetry to comfort.

Soon after I finished writing this post, I learned that poet Deborah Edelman passed away yesterday morning. Deborah was a member of our tight literary community here in Maryland and a contributor to Life in Me Like Grass on Fire: Love Poems. "The grief you cry out of draws you toward union."

Knocking at the Door of Reality

2011-11-07T02:32:00.027-05:00

"You knock at the door of reality,

shake your thought-wings, loosen

your shoulders,

and open."

I shared Rumi's poem, "The Gift of Water," on Saturday. It is the source for the above quote.

I was feeling stuck in my writing. The poem made me feel more trusting, as if I could push through that door and find the open place where poems come from.

So...here's a story that you may find weird, or familiar, about being open.

Last night I had a dream about my favorite NYU professor. Playwright Stuart Browne taught our "Craft" class at Tisch School of the Arts' Dramatic Writing Program. For him, the students at DWP weren't a bus stop on the way to his next screenplay or book deal. He was a real deal educator, as well as being a gifted writer.

About a year ago, I learned that Stuart died young -- just before the publication of his first novel. The novel was a success in his native Britain, where it was made into a movie. I bought and read the book. It is a fictionalized memoir about a film-maker/ long-time alcoholic who, in early middle age, falls in love, struggles to get clean, and winds up with cancer. It's hysterically funny. It's also, whether you knew the author or not, very sad.

The movie poster for Stuart's novel of the same title.

Last night, I had a dream about Stuart Browne. He insisted that he was not dead. Reports of his death -- especially on the sleeve of his book -- were obviously false. I filled him in on my literary life since 1991, when I graduated with a BFA.

As I was waking up, I felt as if this was more than a dream. My old prof was hanging around for a reason. I made a mental bargain with him. This worked for me once before, but that's another story.

I told Stuart, "If it's really you, I need proof. Send me a candy-apple red toy car. If I see that car today, I'll know you're around."

Cut to Sunday afternoon. I have dropped my son off to do volunteer work at his high school. I am heading home after running some errands. I reverse out of a parking lot and see two red cars behind me. No deal. They are not toy cars. Only one of them is the right color red.

Then, something catches my eye. Behind the shopping center, by the dumpsters. Instead of driving through the parking lot, I pull behind the building.

Propped against a dumpster is one of those shopping carts with a red and yellow truck on the front, the kind kids sit in to make grocery shopping fun and keep them contained while the adults shop. The cart is upside down, with the truck pointing to the sky, as if it had been driven into the dumpster and parked nose-up. It's not a red toy car. Not really what I had in mind.

I went back to take pictures/proof.

It wasn't until I got home and started telling my husband this story that it hit me. I started to laugh. I'd momentarily forgotten the title of Stuart's novel, Dangerous Parking.

When I told him the story, my teen asked, "Would it be like your professor to rib you?" Yes.

Strange things happen when you knock at the door of reality and open. It's nice to believe that my old mentor is cheer-leading from beyond. He'd get a kick out of that image -- spiritual pom-poms.

Rumi for Writers

2011-11-05T14:02:00.000-04:00

There are times, as writers, when we feel stuck.

That's one of the reasons why National Novel Writing Month is such a good exercise. Focusing on a daily word count, rather than dreaming of book deals and prizes, means we're willing to explore wild tangents, follow characters who appear out of nowhere -- anything to get more words on the page.

I've been feeling stuck this week. A poem for my daughter, "Pomegranate," is in the pre-thinking stage. I'm not ready to write, but can't explain why not.

An old PBS program on the Sufi poet Rumi sent me searching my shelves for my copy of The Essential Rumi (Castle Books, 1995), with poems translated by Coleman Barks.

This afternoon, I let the book open in my hands, to see what might appear. Here is a gift, indeed, for anyone who is feeling stuck.

The Gift of Water

Rumi

Translation by Coleman Barks, with John Moyne

Someone who doesn't know the Tigris River exists

brings the caliph who lives near the river
a jar of fresh water. The caliph accepts, thanks him,
and gives in return a jar filled with gold coins.

"Since this man has come through the desert,
he should return by water." Taken out by another door,
the man steps into a waiting boat

and sees the wide freshwater of the Tigris.

He bows his head, "What wonderful kindness

that he took my gift."

Every object and being in the universe is

a jar overfilled with wisdom and beauty,

a drop of the Tigris that cannot be contained

by any skin. Every jarful spills and makes the earth

more shining, as though covered in satin.
If the man had seen even a tributary

of the great river, he would not have brought

the innocence of his gift.

...

You knock at the door of reality,

shake your thought-wings, loosen

your shoulders,

and open.

This version of the poem is not available online -- at least not with Barks' permission -- so I've excerpted it here. You can find the entire poem in The Essential Rumi.

We are told so often to write what we know. What I love in "The Gift of Water" is this: what we don't know is a gift. Not knowing helps us shake those thought-wings loose.

If you'd like more guidance on getting past feeling "stuck," Pema Chodron has an audio lecture on the topic.

Poetry Friday: Talking to Kids about Money

2011-11-04T00:11:00.001-04:00

Money is in the air. Not the physical stuff, but the concept.

While statistics are notoriously easy to manipulate, grouping U.S. Society into two wealth brackets -- 1% vs. 99% -- has caught hold of our collective imaginations. (Here's an interesting article on the topic, from 2007.)

This chart is from The World's Best Ever. Full disclosure, this is not an unbiased source.

How do we talk to children about the Occupy Wall Street protests, and why people are so upset? Kids realize -- of course -- that society feels unstable to many people right now. My 11-year-old was listening to NPR with me in the car, and began asking questions about the collapse of the housing markets.

I like using poetry as a jumping off point for these types of discussions. Sharing a poem, talking about what it might mean and exploring a child's reaction, provides a shoreline -- a safe place to begin when we're about to navigate a choppy conversation together.

This week, I've been reading Gary Soto's A Fire in My Hands. The poem "How Things Work" is simple enough that even young children could begin thinking about the interplay between money and society.

Soto opens the poem with a note, "Our young daughter was always asking impossibly difficult questions. Where do the stars come from? Why is the world round? How come we sleep at night? I could answer some of the questions, and other I couldn't -- like the questions about the economy of our nation."

How Things Work
by Gary Soto

Today it’s going to cost us twenty dollars

To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book,

A handful of ones for coffee and two sweet rolls,

Bus fare, rosin for your mother’s violin.

We’re completing our task. The tip I left

For the waitress filters down

Like rain, wetting the new roots of a child

Perhaps, a belligerent cat that won’t let go

Of a balled sock until there’s chicken to eat.

As far as I can tell, daughter, it works like this:

You buy bread from a grocery, a bag of apples

From a fruit stand, and what coins

Are passed on helps others buy pencils, glue,

Tickets to a movie in which laughter

Is thrown into their faces.

Read the rest at the Poetry Foundation.

Like a poem, the economy is an elusive thing. There are many ways of looking at how capitalism affects the way we interact with others. Similar to reading a poem, the point is not necessarily finding a "right" answer. It is to begin the practice of looking.

Today's Poetry Friday host is Laura Salas at her new blog, Writing the World for Kids.

Random Writing Prompt for NaNoWriMo

2011-11-02T07:30:00.000-04:00

I'm not doing NaNoWriMo this year. I "won" a few years ago. Still haven't finished revising that novel.

One of the best parts of doing NaNo was participating in chats and message boards with other writers. I loved the local challenges. In Maryland, we had to work a crab into our book. When you're stuck, having to "think outside the box" -- or get out of your own head -- and include a random object or idea can be just the trick to get the words flowing.

For all my writing-marathoner friends, here is a random writing prompt. Try working this into your novel -- either as a plot element, or just an odd detail.

Mr. Poems spotted this bell commuting on Route 95, here in Maryland, yesterday. If you use the bell, leave a comment with some details.

I'm cheering you on from the sidelines!

Poetry Friday: Mesostic

2011-10-07T04:34:00.155-04:00

I can't believe it has been two weeks since the Baltimore Book Festival and our "Poets for Social Justice" sponsored by Little Patuxent Review.

Poets Dr. Kathleen Hellen, Melanie Henderson, Linda Joy Burke, Truth Thomas, Derrick Weston Brown, Fernando Quijano III and Dr. Tony Medina.

One of the panelists was poet Melanie Henderson. Melanie grew up in Washington, DC and still lives, works, and is raising a family there. She is editor of a local journal, Tidal Basin Review. Melanie talked about being a mom and the challenges of raising a black son in DC.

There are so many difficult issues our kids will face as they grow up -- prejudice, learning how to handle conflicts, staying safe. My children are older, but when they were young I agonized over whether I should protect their innocence, their lack of knowledge about such things as racism. At some point, I'd have to start preparing them for reality.

The panel closed with each poet reading a poem. Melanie's "A Post-Black Mesostic" was written in a form I didn't know. (You'll notice "mesostic" rhymes with "acrostic.")

Let's take a look at the poem first, and then we'll talk about the form. This one would be great to try with advanced middle schoolers on up through adults.

A Post-Black Mesostic
by Melanie Henderson

nat turNer

amadOu diallo

huey newTon

emmett Till

assata sHakur

jamEs byrd

tulsa Race riot

sEan bell

kelleY williams-bolar

jEna 6

thaT one

Melanie read the poem first, then read the line that runs down its middle.

Let's talk form. A mesostic shifts the word or phrase being highlighted from the left hand side of the poem, as in an acrostic, to the middle. This makes the theme of the poem more subtle than it is in an acrostic. In "A Post-Black Mesostic," the embedded phrase elevates the piece from a powerful list to a note of caution and hope.

There are strict mesostics, which have rules about not repeating letters from the highlighted phrase or word. Too complicated, at least to begin with. Start with a reinterpretation of an acrostic. How you place the lines of the poem is dictated by its central word or phrase, which must run in a straight line down the middle of the poem.

More important, you can achieve a haiku-like juxtaposition in a mesostic. In Melanie's poem, the list of names and events clearly relates to issues of social justice and civil rights, but the poet's point of view is absent until we find the phrase "Not there yet."

The murder of Emmett Till helped galvanize the Civil Rights movement.

In a haiku, two images are presented together. The way those two images interact in the reader's mind -- the space the poet creates for understanding -- is one of the ways the form surprises us, despite its apparent simplicity. I think the same thing is happening in "A Post-Black Mesostic." There is a space between the poem and the phrase at its center. In that space, a reader is free to interpret, react, respond.

One of my favorite e.e. cummings poems functions in a similar way, although the theme is less provocative.

l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness

I love surprising students with this one. Many of them can't figure it out at all, until we write it out lengthwise: l(a leaf falls)oneliness

It's fun to talk about how cummings breaks up the words of the poem to get effects like a single letter L, which looks like a number one on the page. But the key is that juxtaposition of image (falling leaf) and idea (loneliness). As in a mesostic, the reader is left to sit with the metaphor and ponder it for herself.

Melanie says she first learned about mesostics at the Torch: Poetry & Prose by African-American Women reading at AWP 2011. "Evie Shockley was one of the featured readers. She read a number of mesostics from her newest poetry collection, The New Black, and I was excited to try it myself."

Melanie Henderson is winner of the 2011 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award.

She explains the genesis of "A Post-Black Mesostic."

"My poem examples (purposefully presented in no specific order) several Black Americans and events directly affecting Black Americans in U.S. history beginning with the early 19th-century uprising led by Nathaniel Turner and ending with more recent events/people (Jena 6, Kelley Williams-Bolar, and That One). I use this span of time and these specific instances to illustrate that not much has changed with regard to race relations in the U.S. and that the injustices towards Black Americans have sustained. I use these examples to specifically counter the inane use of the term 'Post-Black.'"

With the turmoil of political movements like the TEA Party and Occupy Wall Street happening right now, writing mesostics could be a powerful way for older kids to explore current social justice issues that concern them.

If you try a mesostic with your class, or just for yourself, let us know how it went. Our host for Poetry Friday is Mary Ann at Great Kid Books. Enjoy all of the amazing poetry posts.

Living Poems at 2011 Baltimore Book Festival

2011-09-25T17:21:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was our big 100 Thousand Poets for Change event.

Gregg Wilhelm of CityLit Project was awesomeness itself, hosting our Living Poetry Flash Mob at the CityLit Stage.


Me, Gregg Wilhelm of CityLit Project, and my co-conspirator, poet Virginia Crawford.

Ginny and I designed this family literacy activity for the 100 Thousand Poets for Change event happening worldwide on Saturday, 9/24/11. You can visit the 100 TPC website to watch video and see photos of events in Afghanistan, Egypt, Australia, Washington, DC, etc.


I tried to convince Baltimore's Best Hon to be in a living poem. She had too many adjectives to fit in one line of verse.

Here are my favorite Living Poems from Saturday.

Courage waving toward time

Face the path beyond fear

I become fire and kiss everyone out of time

May you inspire poetry


The path beyond fear feels change become courage

And my favorite poem, because it captures the 100 TPC spirit:

Everyone human become a revolutionary innocence

We donated the "gently used" tee-shirts to a local charter school, where a fifth grade teacher wants to try Living Poetry in her classroom. I'm happy to report 100 TPC founder Michael Rothenberg got a big kick out of the Living Poem photos.

Tomorrow, I'll post about the "Poets for Social Justice Panel," sponsored by Little Patuxent Review. What a valuable discussion about Social Justice issues in the U.S! LPR will have video of the conversation available online later this week.

Reminder -- LPR is accepting submissions for our Social Justice issue through November 1.

UPDATE: One of the surprises about this project -- revision! One poet would begin a poem, but others in the crowd would switch out or add a word. Fascinating to see revision in living process, not on the page, but with people.

Poetry Friday Flash Mob Instructions

2011-09-23T00:54:00.007-04:00

It's a very happy Poetry Friday this week. The Baltimore Book Festival begins this evening!

The Children's Bookstore always has great authors in their tent. I'm excited to hear Libba Bray (will get Going Bovine signed for the teen) tonight. My 'tween is coming with me to hear Tom Angleberger, and have her copy of Origami Yoda signed tomorrow.

Of course, there are many poetry events going on throughout the weekend.

I am most excited about hosting the Living Poetry Flash Mob (tomorrow at 12.)

Think Magnetic Poetry, but with people in tee-shirts. We wanted to do something to promote family literacy for the global 100 Thousand Poets for Change event. Saturday will see 650 events, 450 cities, in 95 countries putting on poetry events. You can read my interview with organizer Michael Rothenberg here.

Poet Virginia Crawford and I are "moderating," which may turn out to be controlling the chaos. We figure, even if it's a disaster, it will be fun.

If you'd like to try a Living Poetry Flash Mob in your classroom, here's how:

Materials:

one plain tee shirt per child (white or light colors -- old tees turned inside out would work)
fabric markers
a favorite poem (for elementary schoolers, something like Shel Silverstein's "Adventures of a Frisbee" would work, we are using Lucille Clifton's "Blessing the Boats" at BBF)

Procedure:

1. Give each student 1-2 words

Beforehand, you will need to either type up your poem in a BIG font and cut each word out or hand-write the individual words on index cards.

2. Get crafty

Have each student write his or her word/s on the front (second word on back, if you're doing two words each) of the tee shirt. Bling is okay. Decorations are great, as long as others can read the word.

3. Take turns

Choose two or three students, or two sets of partners, to be the poets. These students will organize their classmates into a short poem. Take a photo of the living poem or write it on the board. Then choose another set of poets.

4. Another option

You could also have the poets create phrases, rather than a complete poem, then ask the whole class to organize the phrases into a poem.

This should be fun for your visual learners, as well as your body-kinesthetic kids. If you try it, let me know how the poetry lesson goes.

I hope you make it to a 100 TPC event near you. Meanwhile, enjoy more poetry posts with Anastasia Suen at Picture Book of the Day.

Stand up for Girls

2011-09-22T11:31:00.000-04:00

Today is the International Day of the Girl.

According to the website LitWorld, 2/3 of the world's illiterate population are women. Wherever you are at noon today, stand up for ten seconds. LitWorld -- a global literacy nonprofit -- will be posting photos of people standing up for girls at their website.

For the last two weeks, my daughter and I have been talking about girlhood and awesomeness. I've been following the blog Redefine Girly, which has been tackling some interesting issues that U.S. girls face, from back-to-school t-shirts that promote the idea that being pretty means playing dumb, to the television show Toddlers & Tiaras.

My kid is new to middle school, and she's facing some of those issues. This morning, she told me that -- despite anti-bullying training at school -- her outfit got a disapproving once-over from a girl who "thinks she's popular or whatever."

She said, "Mom, talking about 'Waking up Full of Awesome' really helped me."

The two of us posted about some of our favorite books featuring girls who hold tight to their own sense of awesomeness. Today, I'm adding YA titles to that list. Miss J is too young to read most of these books. I'm glad she'll have some great characters to show her how to stay awesome when she heads to high school.

Parents -- these books put the "adult" in young adult. Make sure you know what your kid is ready for before handing her one of these books.

An Abundance of Katherines by John Green

Colin, a genius high schooler, strikes out on an adventure and finds down-on-her luck Lindsey. The story is too full of quirky details to summarize here. Among a list of love interests named Katherine, Lindsey is like a not-Heather in the movie Heathers. She's unapologetically different. That's why I think she's awesome (and Colin comes around to sharing that POV.)

Side note -- my teenage son loved Green's Looking for Alaska. He would not touch Katherines. Maybe he could have gotten past the girl-centric title, but the cover was too much for a boy reader. I hope it comes out with a new design soon.

A Girl Named Disaster by Nancy Farmer

Nhamo runs away from her village in Mozambique. Not only does no one recognize she's an awesome kid, but she's in danger of losing her inner-fire as the child bride of an older man. Nhamo's harrowing journey tests her resources, but also leads her to a new life. Taken under the wing of a female scientist, Nhamo gains access to education and thrives.

Good Girls by Laura Ruby

The more I thought about this novel, the more important I realized it was. It's not a comfortable read for a parent. At a party, someone snaps a cell phone photo of high schooler Audrey Porter performing a sex act. The photo gets around school, is sent to her parents -- worst case scenario. The book focuses on how Audrey questions her self-view. Is she still a good kid after what happened? What does that even mean? Audrey re-invents herself, makes some new friends (kids she had previously labeled as "bad girls") and finds her way back to that inner sense of awesome.

Graceling by Kristin Cashore
In this fantasy novel, some people have a "grace" -- a special ability. Katsa's is her ability to kill, or so everyone thinks. The story follows Katsa as she handles political intrigue and assassination attempts without losing sight of who she is. She never plays along or does what she's told. Obedience isn't on her menu. Eventually, Katsa learns to redefine her grace and see herself as more than a killing machine.

This book met the boy seal-of-approval at our house. If your son liked The Hunger Games, he will love Graceling. My guy also liked Fire, a novel set in the same world.

Harry Potter Books 5-7 by J.K. Rowling

Miss J and I discussed this one at length. We are not going with the obvious choice, Hermione Granger. While Hermione never apologizes for being smart, we both think she's too judgmental of others to be on our list.

The honor goes to Ginny Weasley. In the first three books, Ginny's crush on Harry Potter makes her goofy, shy, and leads to her victimization. In the later books, though, Ginny learns to be herself around Harry. It turns out she's a fabulous Quidditch player (who wouldn't be with six older brothers) and has a mean bat-bogey hex. Ginny is tough. She doesn't let others tell her who she is or should be. We both liked that Ginny realizes the only guy worth dating is a guy who likes you for who you are.

The Hunger Games Series by Suzanne Collins

I avoided reading this fantasy novel for a long time. What parent wants to read about kids fighting to the death on TV? Finally, I gave it a chance. So did everyone else in the world.

What makes Katniss Everdeen so appealing? She's tough. She stands up for herself, feeds and protects her family. She's smarter than the politicians who want to manipulate her for their own purposes. I liked that she didn't give in to the excesses of "The Capitol" -- where everything is about appearance and consumption. In this future, people matter only for their usefulness to the government. Katniss shows that one independent spirit can change the world.

Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli

Stargirl captures the heart of Leo BorlockStargirl's uniqueness. But it doesn't last long. The pressure to conform is too great and Stargirl is anything but a conformist. If you've read the "Waking Up Full of Awesome" post -- I think Stargirl has never lost the wild and wonderful sense of self we see in five-year-old girls.

I am sorry to say that this list is short on awesome girls of diverse backgrounds. That's more about what's on my bookshelf, unfortunately, than what books are available. If you have an awesome YA heroine to recommend -- no matter what heritage -- please let us know about her in the comments.

Stand up for girls today!

Fiction Full of Awesome

2011-09-19T21:03:00.003-04:00

Last week, I confessed that I tried to "unawesome" my middle school daughter (read the horrible truth here).

We were having a bad morning. We were fighting about clothes. She was about to leave the house with her hair hanging defeatedly in front of her face.

With the help of an amazing blog post at Redefining Girly, I took a step back, changed tactics, and sent Miss J off to school laughing, with a list of all the awesome things she had done that morning.

Guest blogger and book reviewer Miss J :-)

The blog post, "Waking up Full of Awesome," struck a nerve with a lot of people. It was passed to me by an awesome lady, Miss J's fifth grade teacher and fellow girl-mom Nancy Black.

I love the idea of helping girls (even grown up girls) retain some of that "I don't care if my socks don't match, my hair rivals Pippi Longstocking's and I didn't learn my dance moves in ballet class" attitude that five-year-old girls exude.

Miss J is an avid reader, like her mom. Together, we put together a reading list -- our favorite "Full of Awesome" kids' lit heroines. These girls face obstacles, including people who want them to act like proper (or popular) girls. Nothing doing. Even when they try to put on airs, it doesn't last. The real girl, the awesome person inside, always breaks free.

Picture Books
Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes, Recommended by Laura

Chrysanthemum, a white mouse, starts the school year full of awesome. Her parents love her. She's got a fabulous, unique name. But the other girls don't think her name is so fabulous. Chrysanthemum has to learn how to get her awesome back.

Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans, Recommended by Laura

I had this book memorized by the time I was two. Madeline is not afraid of mice or hospitals. She says, "pooh-pooh" to lions. How awesome can you get?

Skippyjon Jones by Judy Schachner, Recommended by Laura

Not a girl, not even a girl cat, but totally in touch with his inner awesome. This is a great read-aloud to share with all of your amazing kids.

Early Readers
Charlotte's Web by E.B. White, Recommended by Miss J

I like Fern Arable because she stands up to her father. She says that just because Wilbur is the runt of the litter, he shouldn't get killed. She takes on a great responsibility of taking care of a baby pig and makes animal friends along the way.

Junie B. Jones Series by Barbara Park, Recommended by Laura

I used to read these books aloud to my son. We both loved Junie B. What makes her so funny is her belief in herself, and how clueless she is when others try to guide her in the "right" direction.

Middle Grade (Grade 5 - 8)
Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery, Recommended by Laura
Orphan Anne Shirley always tries to be good, but her love of adventure and her strong emotions keep her in the awesome zone. She never apologizes for being smart. She's funny. And every time I see the TV series on PBS, I love the series all over again. Come on, Miss J, you know you want to read this one!

Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine, Recommended by Miss J

Even though Ella is cursed to be obedient, she finds a way to be herself. Despite dealing with her step-sisters, she shows her inner awesome and what a tomboy she can be. She stands up for herself and fights ogres.

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Miss J and I visited Orchard House (post is here), where Little Women is set and was written, this summer. We learned a great deal about Louisa May Alcott, who modeled the character of Jo March after herself. Alcott was the best-selling author of her time, supporting her entire family. Jo is funny, strong, and won't marry her wealthy best friend because she trusts her inner voice. I re-read the book after our house tour. Loved it all over again.

The Mother Daughter Book Club Series by Heather Vogel Frederick, Recommended by Miss J
All of the girls in this series are awesome. They begin in sixth grade and each book follows the group of five friends through one year. At first the girls are reluctant about the book club, which their mothers cook up during yoga class. Through each book you learn more about the different characters, what they do and why that makes them special. In the second book, Much Ado about Anne (see Anne Shirley, above!) they work together to raise money so that one of the girls won't lose her home.

Percy Jackson Series by Rick Riordan, Recommended by Miss J
Annabeth is the daughter of Athena. I think Annabeth is awesome. She kind of stands up for herself and her friends. She doesn't let anyone boss her around. She follows her dream of becoming an architect. She has a lot of great adventures with Percy Jackson along the way. When a really close friend betrays her, Annabeth finds a way to kick butt.

Savvy by Ingrid Law, Recommended by Miss J
Mibs (Mississippi Beaumont) is awesome in her own special way. She's a unique kid from a unique family, who all have special abilities called savvies. She messes up a lot, but she finds a way to fix it and make things work. She's very determined.

I'll post YA recommendations later in the week. Miss J is not reading those books yet (with the exception of the final three Harry Potter books).

Have an awesome time reading!

UPDATE:

Miss J and I just got e-slapped by friend and fantasy author A.R. Rotruck for leaving off an important, very awesome, heroine: Eilonwy of Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain. The management apologizes for this egregious oversight. Eilonwy is smart, sassy and sure of herself without being a mean girl. She's everything we love in an awesome heroine.

Be sure to check the comments for more suggestions (thanks to my mom, writer and writer-mom friends). If you don't see your favorite awesome girl of fiction here, please put your recommendation in the comments.

Prose Poem

2011-09-16T13:25:00.003-04:00

Prose poem or flash fiction? Is there a difference? Opinions welcome in the comments.

Night Sounds

by Laura Shovan

Petula was fourteen, lanky and bony-kneed. Her husband, twelve years older, sent her to summer camp. She moved in short bursts of energy, like the crickets we caught between our palms on the grassy hill. Their legs tickled. We wanted tiny bamboo cages to hold them. I was seventeen and had a boyfriend. I wondered: what is it to be a wife at fourteen? Petula could not be like my mother, keeping the house, the kids, the meals while Father worked. When I was a younger, watching my parents kiss, I couldn’t squeeze myself between their legs. In love, at least, they were equals. Now, folded into my summer cot after lights out, I listened to the night sounds of the cabin. Girls breathed, sleeping, all around me. When I thought about my boyfriend, I envied Petula. Then I thought, "Does he make her?"

I saw him once. He was brown haired and bearded, soft. He watched his wife bounding between her friends like a worried father. Petula’s parents lived in the Virginia hills, had a house filled with children. She had been plucked, with their blessing, from her home. I thought, "His house is like a bamboo cage." But now, I say he gave her the summer. That was a burst of kindness.

"Night Sounds" first appeared in the Jewish Women's Literary Annual. It was subsequently published in Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone, CityLit Press (2010).

Poetry Friday: Remembering Samuel Menashe

2011-09-16T03:39:00.004-04:00

Economy of language.

It’s a phrase thrown about in praise of poems. What exactly does it mean?

Does it mean the poem doesn’t sound like everyday speech or dialogue? Because there are some great poems filled with dialogue and spoken phrases.

Does it mean that small words – articles, conjunctions – should be avoided whenever possible? Not unless you want all of your poems to sound like haiku.

I looked up the phrase “economy of language” and found a great article, “What is Poetry?” by Mark Flanagan.

Flanagan writes: “One of the most definable characteristics of the poetic form is economy of language. Poets are miserly and unrelentingly critical in the way they dole out words to a page. Carefully selecting words for conciseness and clarity is standard, even for writers of prose, but poets go well beyond this, considering a word's emotive qualities, its musical value, its spacing, and yes, even its spacial relationship to the page.”

Yet, Flanagan goes on to advise poets not to “shackle your poetry with definitions.”

There’s another favorite phrase in the writing-class world, “Show me, don’t tell me.”

Today, I’d like to show you a master of economic writing.

Rue

By Samuel Menashe

For what I did

And did not do

And do without

In my old age

Rue, not rage

Against that night

We go into,

Sets me straight

On what to do

Before I die—

Read the rest of the poem at the Poetry Foundation.

I love the way the poet plays with sounds, re-mixes a famous phrase from Dylan Thomas, and stays (no matter what William Carlos Williams says) in the world of ideas, rather than things, in this twelve-line poem.

The poet Samuel Menashe died at the end of August. He was 85.

From the Poetry Foundation, which gave Menashe a Neglected Masters Award.

Menashe had a gift for pulling key ideas out of language, without tipping into explication and losing the poetry. He was the first poet to be given the Neglected Masters Award from the Poetry Foundation (2004).

Menashe’s obituary in the New York Times includes a paragraph describing how he came to poetry.

After serving in WWII, including the Battle of the Bulge, “’I came back, I heard people talking about what they were going to do next summer,’ he told The New York Times in 2003. ‘I was amazed that they could talk of that future, next summer. As a result, I lived in the day. For the first few years after the war, each day was the last day. And then it changed. Each day was the only day.’”

That was when he began to write.

The obituary I liked most (for its descriptiveness) comes from The Economist, which says of Menashe’s work:

“They were very short poems. Many were only four lines long. He began with more, but then worked to make them as concise as possible. They were honed down to the essence, sculpted like stones. He left them on scraps of paper all over the apartment.”

If you happen to be teaching economy of language with your creative writing class, instead of giving them a definition, show them Menashe’s work. They will see poetry with new eyes. You can find more of his poems at Archipelago magazine.

Enjoy your Poetry Friday, everyone. Today's host is Amy at The Poem Farm.

I'll be getting ready for the Baltimore Book Festival and 100,000 Poets for Change this week -- both are next Saturday. Hope to see you there!

14 Kinds of Awesome

2011-09-13T08:41:00.001-04:00

I forced myself out of bed at 5:45 this morning, 30 minutes after our various alarms started buzzing and rocking out some kind of digital samba. It's the new reality of our lives with a high schooler. And it's undermining my longtime claim that I am a morning person.

High schooler and hubby out the door, I tried to revive myself with a few chapters of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. My middle schooler -- the more self-efficient of our two kids -- was getting herself dressed for Picture Day.

My 11-year-old having an Awesome moment.

"Why don't you wear your new jeans skirt, instead of those soccer shorts?" I started.

Which quickly evolved into, "Look at all the things in this closet that still have tags on. I bought you those blue pants six months ago!"

I admit to being a veteran of The Mother-Daughter Closet Wars. But mostly from the other side of the hamper. The memory of my mother and me battling over my favorite old sweatpants (too thin to wear to school), too-dark nail polish and lipstick, and jeans (I'd just gotten the holes perfect when Mom threw them out) are usually enough for me to shut my mouth and leave my kid and her closet alone.

My girl was about to walk out the door: tears in eyes, shoulders slumped, hair hanging over face. I thought about a blog post a friend (and HS girl-mom) shared with me this weekend.

The name of the blog is "Redefine Girly: Let's Change the Way We Think about Our Girls." The post is titled, "Waking Up Full of Awesome."

Not only did I not wake up full of awesome, I un-awesomed my daughter today. Here's an excerpt from the "Redefine Girly" blog post:

There was a time when you were five years old,

and you woke up full of awesome.

You knew you were awesome.

You loved yourself.

You thought you were beautiful,

even with missing teeth and messy hair and mismatched socks inside your grubby sneakers.

You loved your body, and the things it could do.

You thought you were strong.

You knew you were smart.

Do you still have it?

The awesome.

Did someone take it from you?

Ouch.

I had to change my thinking to fix it. On the way to the bus stop, I pointed out some of the awesome things my daughter did this morning:

#1 Awesome -- You made your bed.

#2, #3, #4 Awesome -- You brushed your teeth, washed your face and brushed your hair.

She was starting to get into it already. I wasn't getting eye-rolls. I detected a smile.

#5 Awesome -- Did you remember to pack your gym clothes? You did? Awesome.

#6 Awesome -- "I packed my lunch." No, I packed your lunch. "Mom, that's your #1 Awesome. But I packed my lunch in my backpack. That counts."

#7 Awesome -- You remembered your clarinet.

Soon, the kid was laughing at the every-day stuff that "counted," and trying to think of ways to bolster my awesome-list (since teeth, hair and face counted as three for her, she reasoned, it should count for three on my list too) so I could also be Full of Awesome. We both made it to 14 Kinds of Awesome before the bus came.


Feeling a lot more Awesome -- even in the rain.

I even got credit for wearing pants (because not wearing any pants to the middle school bus stop would be the opposite of awesome).

Have an Awesome Day.

9/11 Literacy Foundations

2011-09-12T06:54:00.003-04:00

I promised myself I wouldn't watch any 9/11 anniversary coverage on TV this weekend. I grew up in New Jersey, within view (albeit distant) of the World Trade Center. My whole life, when you approached Manhattan, the towers reminded me of a double exclamation point at the bottom of the island.

Many of us who lived and worked in/near NYC still can't get used to the new skyline.

I remember being torn on 9/11 -- unable to turn off the TV and radio, but wanting to protect my four-year-old and 18-month-old from the images of people falling from the buildings. It's still too raw for me.

My self-imposed bubble this weekend wasn't totally selfish. I received a text this Saturday that my sister-in-law was in labor. My brother said, "How cool would it be if the baby was born on 9/10/11?" He didn't have to say the rest and my nephew came into the world at 8:50 Saturday night. I had a reason to be and stay happy.

Still waiting on a name and photos!

Which is why I got caught by surprise. I was eating lunch with my kids (now 14 and 11). I was reading Parade Magazine. I was sobbing. No warning. My kids thought I had lost my mind until I explained that nothing was "wrong." They are too young to remember that day, when everything was wrong. But they're old enough to have compassion for those of us who do.

In honor of the anniversary, I'd like to share two 9/11 foundations that promote literacy. You can find both of these organizations and others in the Parade article, "Legacies of Hope."

The Brooke Jackman Foundation has a New York area focus. Jackman was a 23-year-old biobliophile who died in the Twin Towers. The organization in her name funds literary programs and gives books to at-risk kids. You'll find an article about an anniversary read-a-thon planned by the foundation at the Examiner.

Closer to our area, the Shelley A. Marshall Foundation sponsors reading hours in libraries and writing contests for students in several Virginia schools and George Mason University. Marshall died in the Pentagon.

These foundations focus on an area of passion in the lives of the people who were killed on 9/11. We can't bring people back, but we can continue to work on the things they cared about. It's another kind of "new life." That gives me hope.

Poetry for World Suicide Prevention Day

2011-09-09T01:17:00.014-04:00

Tomorrow is World Suicide Prevention Day. This year's theme is "Preventing Suicide in Multicultural Societies."

When we consider suicide among teens, most people think of high school age children. However, middle schoolers are also at risk. As teachers, I'm sure many of you have the way suicide devastates families, classmates -- the entire community of the child.

Orchards by Holly Thompson, is a YA novel in verse that looks at suicide's effects on younger teens.

A few years ago, I met poet Holly Thompson at a Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators conference. Holly teaches at Yokohama City University in Japan, where she is also the regional adviser for SCBWI.

The bonds of poetry have kept us in touch. I was thrilled when Holly shared her novel-in-verse with me before it went to final edits.

Orchards is spoken in the voice of Kana Goldberg, a bicultural middle schooler growing up near New York City with her sister, Jewish father and Japanese mother. The book opens just after the suicide of one of Kana's classmates, Ruth. Concerned that Kana's circle of friends had been bullying Ruth, Kana's parents send her to spend the summer with her Japanese family.

Kana is not the only one of her friends sent away. She imagines telling Ruth:

all twenty-nine

eighth-grade girls

scattered, as Gina said,

like beads

from a necklace

snapped

but we weren't a necklace

strung in a circle

we were more

an atom:

electrons

arranged in shells

around Lisa...

the rest of us

in orbitals farther out

less bound

less stable

and you --

in the least stable

most vulnerable

outermost shell

I've read several critiques of novels-in-verse lately, complaining that they are nothing more than fiction cut into skinny lines. Not only is there poetry in Orchards, but poetic form communicates Kana's fitfulness. She is between two cultural worlds, between youth and adulthood, between grief and anger.

Because I come from a bicultural family, I connected deeply with the pulls Kana feels between her two "sides." As the mother of two kids around middle school age, I also valued the way that Holly drew Kana's wildly mixed reactions to the suicide: anger that she and her friends had been blamed, growing compassion for Ruth.

Although she balks at first, having to work on her family's mikan (a citrus native to Japan) farm, Kana uses the time in the orchards for reflection:

my arms no longer ache

my back and shoulders

feel strong

but the day is long

and when conversation stops

among the leaves

and it's just the breathing

of wind in trees

and the mee-mee-mee-meeen

of cicadas

there is much

too much

time

for my thoughts


The author visiting a mikan farm with trees in bloom.

Eventually, after another tragedy, Kana discovers a way to help her classmates honor Ruth's memory.

Holly is running a giveaway at her blog -- sending out five copies of Orchards (anywhere in the world) to middle or high school students, parents, librarians and teachers. Please stop by before September 10 to put your name in the drawing.

I've also been following Holly's blog since the Japanese earthquake and tsunami this spring. Holly been working as a volunteer, helping to clean up shops and neighborhoods. She has posted some amazing and harrowing photos, along with narrative. I'm very proud to know this amazing poet!


Holly in her clean-up gear.

Holly is busy volunteering again this week, but sent a "thank you" to all of you who visit her at Hatbooks or share Orchards with a 'tween or teen in your life.

Today's Poetry Friday host is Katie at Secrets and Sharing Soda. Does the soda come in mikan flavor?

Mash Up: Baltimore Grand Prix + Robert Frost

2011-09-03T08:11:00.000-04:00

My husband has a dream deferred. For as long as I can remember, he's wanted to buy a beat-up antique car he can rebuild and customize. But we have kids and jobs, so --

when Baltimore announced it was hosting the Grand Prix, an IndyCar race, my guy bought four tickets as soon as they went on sale.

Today is the big day. I was looking for a poem about speed to post -- famous drivers like Marco Andretti and Danica Patrick are going to be racing around 2+ miles of Charm City's tourist district -- and I came across this lead from the Bleacher Report:

"There is a popular poem out there that talks about a fork in the road, and which path should be taken. Many everyday people find themselves in this situation a lot, and the drivers and teams in the IZOD INDYCAR Series are no different. One particular team will be faced with a new challenge this year, that can either take them on the path to destruction, or on the road to victory —literally."

I had to laugh about the mash up between IndyCar racing and Robert Frost's famous poem.

The funny (or unfunny) thing is, "The Road Not Taken" has taken on new meaning as Baltimore prepped for this race. Forewarned as B'moreans were, everyone's been screaming about the road closures. Traffic into the surrounding 'burbs was horrific on Thursday. One friend reported that her daughter's afternoon school bus ride out of Baltimore took two hours.


Light Street -- at the heart of Baltimore's Inner Harbor

Which Baltimore persona will great the race, Charm City or Mob Town? Do you think the city has taken the wrong road in hosting the event? I'll report back from the race.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

Read the rest and listen at Poetry Foundation.

Join the Living Poetry Flash Mob

2011-08-29T01:53:00.053-04:00

Credit goes to my fellow MSAC Artist-in-Education Virginia Crawford for noticing that the date of 100 Thousand Poets for Change (Saturday 9/24) coincides with this year's Baltimore Book Festival.

Since Ginny and I both lead poetry workshops for children, we wanted to plan a fun, hands-on activity for families at BBF. How would this connect with 100 TPC? Read my interview with the organizer of this global event, Michael Rothenberg. Playing with poetry gets kids excited about language, eager to share their original poems, and teaches both self-awareness and empathy.

There are three ways you can join our Living Poetry Flash.

1. Show up at the CityLit Tent on Saturday, 9/24, between 12:00 PM and 12:30 PM. You'll see a group of people wearing t-shirts with a word or short phrase on the front and/or back. Line those people up to combine words and create your living poem. Be sure to take a photo. Send it to me or upload it to the 100 TPC Facebook page.

2. So, you want to be part of a Living Poem? Ginny Crawford and I will hand out a limited number of free t-shirts on Saturday morning (CityLit Tent). The words on these shirts will be taken from a Lucille Clifton poem that's in keeping with the "Poets for Change" theme. Come back to the CityLit Tent at 12:00 sharp to get versified. Your poet awaits!

3. If your house is like mine, you have glitter, fabric markers and puffy paint on hand. Or maybe your creativity ends with a black Sharpie. Either way -- grab an old t-shirt or get a new one.

My blank t-shirt.

Pick a word (family-friendly, please) that would inspire a poet. Write that word, or a short phrase, on the back of your shirt. You can use the front, too.

It will look like this:

I wrote my phrase with fabric markers and I'm ready for the Living Poetry Flash Mob.

Remember -- all parts of speech are welcome and needed. Small words carry as much weight as big words in a poem. We love articles, conjunctions, nouns and verbs equally.

With all that craft gear on hand, my middle schooler and I had to add some bling to our tees. Here are our Living Poetry Flash Mob tees-in-progress. The bandanna -- that's for my dog. He wants to be in a poem, too.

Questions? Leave me a comment. I will answer you pronto.

For grown ups, we will follow the Living Poetry Flash with another 100 Thousand Poets for Change event. Little Patuxent Review is sponsoring a panel discussion, "Poets for Social Justice." You'll find the list of panelists at the Baltimore Book Festival website.

Poetry Friday: 100,000 Poets for Change

2011-08-26T00:36:00.086-04:00

As poets, we are in the business of change. Every time a child reads and responds to a poem we have written, he or she is changed -- even a little -- by the experience.

But what if we take that change outside of personal, private experience and into the community?

On September 24, 2011 a worldwide poetry event is happening: 100,000 Poets for Change. Visit the 100 TPC website for a list of the global cities where community poetry programs are being planned.

100 TPC is the brainchild of poet Michael Rothenberg, who is visiting with me this Poetry Friday.

Hi, Michael! Thanks for stopping by. Here are your five questions:

1. How did you get the idea for 100,000 Poets for Change?

I was talking to a friend on Facebook about how bad things looked around the world -- ecocide, war, poverty -- and that there ought to be 100 Thousand Poets for Change. I believe that poets have the power to speak across fences, to transform and heal the world, and I felt if all the poets got together we might be able to change things.

My friend said that it was a good idea. So, I created an event page on Facebook and invited my friends.

2. What are some of the most unusual events people are planning for September 24?

There are really too many great events to single out any one in particular. A peace reading in Afghanistan, the Baltimore Book Festival Flash mob [more on that later]. There are thirteen incredible events in Mexico City, which include poetry readings, film screenings, workshops about violence against women. A festival of music and poetry featuring hip hop battles in Tlahuac and more.

Along the Platte River near Omaha, Nebraska, poets will be demonstrating against TransCanada's planned Keystone XL tar sands pipeline. There will be a haiku walk in Nagoya, Japan. Vancouver, BC: poets and the community will clean up the banks of False Creek East. And other great thing is that North Carolina has over 18 events all around the state organized by teachers and poets to bring a focus to the need to support education funding in the state.

3. What were some of your favorite rhyming books or poems when you were a child?

The one book that always sticks in my mind was Suzi Starfish and Peter Porpoise (Mildred Woodall, 1955). That is the book I first remember trying to copy out by hand and add additional verses. I might have been eight years old.

4. People often think of poetry as an adult endeavor, but it's embedded in children's lives -- how they learn to speak, read and enjoy literature. How can event like 100 TPC benefit children?

First of all, there is the reality that poetry opens up the mind to seeing the world in fresh and new ways, it helps us develop our vocabulary and teaches us to think and express in imaginative and constructive ways.

An event like 100 TPC not only shows us the fun and beauty and depth of poetry, and the variety of poetry and poetic voices, but since 100 TPC explores political, social and environmental change issues, it shows how children can learn about their world from poetry, if they are given a good education, if there is funding for good education.

The whole education system issue comes into focus. If poets/teachers can talk about arts in the schools, then they have the capacity to use poetry to highlight the essentiality of education in a sustainable world. So the function is two-fold. We write poetry and share it and expand our minds and thinking capacity. We learn to articulate and process language in a way that can move us along in the world. But also, it is the subject of our poems and what poets can do as leaders in compelling our community and society to think more about children and their education, and the importance of arts in the schools. Poets have a big and important job!

5. What changes would you personally like to see in the lives of the world's children?

I would like to see children fed and clothed and protected from abuse. I would like to see them educated and reading and learning about the world, and communicating with hope. To see that their parents and guardians are protecting the world for them so they have a safe and nourishing future on planet earth.

Thank you, Michael. Congratulations on the event. I'm very excited to be an organizer in Baltimore.

Michael Rothenberg is a poet, songwriter, editor and publisher of the online magazine, Big Bridge. His poetry books include Favorite Songs, The Paris Journals, Monk Daddy, Unhurried Vision, Choose, and My Youth as a Train.

Readers -- poet Virginia Crawford and I are hosting a 100 TPC event at the Baltimore Book Festival. It's family friendly. Think magnet poems, except the words are on t-shirts instead of magnets. And people are wearing the t-shirts -- a living poetry flash mob. Stop by at noon on 9/24. Your kids can create a people poem on the spot. I'll post the make-your-own living poetry t-shirt directions later today.

At 12:30, we have a 100 TPC program for adults. Little Patuxent Review is hosting a panel discussion, Poets for Social Justice. Poet Truth Thomas will moderate. Both of these events will be in the CityLit tent.

Today's Poetry Friday host is Irene at Live! Love! Explore! I hope you have a chance to explore the 100,000 Poets for Change events going on in your area next month.

Poetry Friday: The Lion and the Unicorn

2011-08-19T01:15:00.003-04:00

"You are now subjects of King George. God save the King!"

These words started our journey into the past, Colonial Williamsburg. If you take the kids, we loved the candlelight ghost tour and RevQuest.

Included in your tickets for Colonial Williamsburg, RevQuest is part treasure hunt, part historical mystery that requires cell phone (my 14-year-old was in charge of texting answers to the clues and receiving the next clue on his phone) and a little bit of LARP. The mystery was based on a true event, fictionalized in the chapter book Phoebe the Spy.

In the print shop, I learned that we get the phrases "upper case" and "lower case" in the alphabet from the way the individual letters that newspaper printers used were stored -- in an actual storage case with an upper portion and lower portion.

I love learning about word and phrase origins. Which is why, when we came upon this crest at the Governor's Palace...

I ended up heading to my laptop to do some research. As soon as I saw the crest, this rhyme from my childhood popped into my mind:

The lion and the unicorn
were fighting for the crown
The lion beat the unicorn
all around the town.

Some gave them white bread,
and some gave them brown;
Some gave them plum cake
and drummed them out of town.

I could only remember the first two lines. My kids had never heard the poem. That makes sense. My mother is from Nottingham. One of the things I remember reading is a book of traditional British nursery rhymes. Is this poem even included in current nursery rhyme books?

I did remember that the nursery rhyme had something to do with the British crown and succession issues. But I couldn't tell my junior history buffs any more than that.

Here is what I found out.

Most online sources say the poem reflects the heraldic crest of Great Britain, which was a new country in 1603 (when the rhyme dates to) -- a joining of Scotland and England when Elizabeth I chose King James VI of Scotland to be her successor. New country, new crest. From England's double-lion crest and Scotland's double unicorn, we get the compromise -- a single lion representing England and a unicorn for Scotland.

Of course, what I remembered from my childhood picture book was the fighting part and the people getting fed up and drumming the creatures out of town.

The website Scottish at Heart says the crest, "symbolized the union of the two countries, but the actual union was less than friendly, and this conflict was immortalized in the well-known British Nursery Rhyme 'The Lion and the Unicorn.'"

This unicorn friendly site writes that the fighting and fed-up public I that we see in the rhyme were based in history.

"This was a potent bit of symbolism, for both the lion and the unicorn had long been thought to be deadly enemies: both regarded as king of the beasts, the unicorn rules through harmony while the lion rules through might, it came to symbolise a reconciliation between the Scottish unicorn and the English lion that the two should share the rule. The effectiveness of the sentiment, unfortunately, is placed in some doubt by the famous nursery rhyme."

I'm off to do more research.

You might enjoy checking out this site , which traces the two heraldic animals back to kings of the Bible.

For those of you who grew up -- like me -- with traditional British nursery rhymes, The Royal Albert Memorial Museum and Art Gallery explains many of the Tudor rhymes I remember from my early reading days.

Let's wave goodbye to the gates of the Governor of Virginia's palace and head back to the future. Much as I love my British heritage, I didn't love being a "subject" of the King.

I hope you went on some literary rambles this summer. We learned so much on our trips to Concord and North Bridge, MA and Williamsburg, VA.

Dori Reads is our host blogger today. Stop by her blog to find more poetry posts. Enjoy the end of summer and back to school prep, everyone!

Poetry Friday: Alcott's Orchard House

2011-07-29T00:12:00.005-04:00

Last week, my family was in Concord, Mass. At the top of my to-do list was taking my daughter (11) to Louisa May Alcott's home, Orchard House.

I learned more during this house tour than I can share in one post. We weren't allowed to take pictures inside the house, so here are some highlights:

The fold-down desk where Alcott wrote Little Women in just three months -- it was made by her father. No surprise. Alcott's writing supported the entire family, something education reformer and transcendentalist Bronson Alcott had never been able to do. A little door in the wall above the desk opens. Inside, you can see Bronson Alcott's pencilled note on the wooden beam of the house.

I was taken with the windows next to Alcott's writing desk. Each pane of glass was decorated with a dried, pressed Queen Anne's Lace blossom. Look closely at this photo taken from outside and you may see them.

May's room (Amy, in Little Women), is covered in "graffiti," her early artwork. Louisa became the best-selling American author of the 1800s after Little Women was published. She put May through art training. One of May's paintings won a spot in the prestigious Paris Salon, beating out Mary Cassatt.


La Negresse

Alcott lived in this house in her twenties, but set Little Women here. I loved finding small details, like a chore-list for the girls in the master bedroom.

Before Little Women made it big, Alcott wrote poetry, pieces for magazines, and pulp fiction under a pseudonym.

In researching her poetry, I found, "Thoreau's Flute." Henry David Thoreau was one of Bronson Alcott's best friends and helped home school the Alcott children. Walden Pond is nearby -- another place to visit next trip.

I also loved, "A Little Bird I Am." For me, this poem speaks to the frustrations of Alcott's life -- a father who put his ideals before his family's needs, being a female author in the 1800s (she was passionate about being a "literary spinster"), and poor health after serving as a Civil War nurse.

But the poem I am sharing is "A Song from the Suds," about Washing Day. Like Louisa, "I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls/ the stains of the week away."

A Song from the Suds

Louisa May Alcott

Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,

While the white foam raises high,

And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,

And fasten the clothes to dry;

Then out in the free fresh air they swing,

Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls

The stains of the week away,

And let water and air by their magic make

Ourselves as pure as they;

Then on the earth there would be indeed

A glorious washing day!

Along the path of a useful life

Will heart's-ease ever bloom;

The busy mind has no time to think

Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;

And anxious thoughts may be swept away

As we busily wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given

To labor at day by day;

For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,

And I cheerfully learn to say-

'Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;

But hand, you shall work always!'

When I read the last line, I take the word "hand" literally. Alcott wrote for up to seventeen hours each day when she was working on a book. Her right hand would get so cramped, I learned on the house tour, that she taught herself to write left-handed and would switch off.

I'm off to watch the American Masters biopic of Alcott with my daughter. Hope you enjoyed the tour!

Thanks to Kate at Book Aunt for hosting today's Poetry Friday round up.

The Shot Heard Round the World

2011-07-28T10:07:00.000-04:00

In two days, I'm returning to Massachusetts, where my son (14) has been doing his Sea Cadet training. We finally received a letter from him last night. The friends he's made are helping him over homesickness. A passionately picky eater, he's trying new foods. And one of the petty officers had lost his voice after just one day of training.

We stayed in the Concord area for a couple of days when we dropped my son off. It's a must-see for history/American literature lovers. We didn't have time to see everything, so I'm hoping for more Concord trips in our future.

One of the things I wish my son had seen with us was North Bridge. We went on a brutally hot day -- so humid that my camera lens fogged up.

I tried to explain the significance of the bridge to my daughter (11). Meanwhile, the Schoolhouse Rocks song was playing in my head.

The British Are Coming! The British Are Coming!

by Bob Dorough

Now, the ride of Paul Revere
Set the nation on its ear,
And the shot at Lexington heard 'round the world,
When the British fired in the early dawn
The War of Independence had begun,
The die was cast, the rebel flag unfurled.

And on to Concord marched the foe
To seize the arsenal there you know,
Waking folks searching all around
Till our militia stopped them in their tracks,
At the old North Bridge we turned them back
And chased those Redcoats back to Boston town.

Read the rest or find a link to the clip on Youtube here.

We had already visited Orchard House, home of Louisa May Alcott. There, we learned that Alcott's sister May (Amy in the books), mentored Daniel Chester French, who sculpted this statue, The Minute Man. He stands to one side of the bridge.

French went on to design the Lincoln Memorial. We also saw this memorial (on the other side of the bridge).

According to the National Center for Public Policy Research, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote a poem "which was sung as a hymn at a July 4, 1837 ceremony to mark the completion of the Concord Monument, to immortalize the resistance of American Minutemen to British forces on April 19, 1775." The hymn is the genesis for the phrase, "The Shot Heard Round the World."

Concord Hymn

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

If you visit North Bridge, be sure to stop at the Visitor's Center. They have a great video-story from the show "History Detectives" about a cannon the colonists stole from the British and how it may have prompted the first battle of the revolution.

Also on site is Nathaniel Hawthorne's home, The Old Manse. We toured the home many years ago -- highly recommended.

Tomorrow, I'll bring you with me to Orchard House, setting of Little Women.

Parenting Teens: The Place Where We Are Right

2011-07-27T13:34:00.000-04:00

My son is headed to high school in the fall. My daughter starts middle school. Working from home -- with them home -- this summer has put my focus on the fine art of parenting teens.

My brother's soon-to-be-four year old is increasingly independent, and stubborn about it. He wanted to know if the challenges of parenting get any better. They don't. They just change.

My family is in a place where the rules, boundaries, and lines the kids aren't allowed to cross are changing fast. As parents, my husband and I are constantly reassessing what's negotiable and where we have to stand firm. Letting go gradually is an art, and it needs constant revision.

Sometimes a poem surfaces at just the right time. Today, I found "The Place Where We Are Right," by Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai. It appears in a book for teens, Faith & Doubt: An Anthology of Poems, by Patrice Vecchione.

The Place Where We Are Right

by Yehuda Amichai, trans. Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell

From the place where we are right
flowers will never grow
in the spring.

The place where we are right
is hard and trampled
like a yard.

But doubts and loves
dig up the world
like a mole, a plow.

Read the rest at Tricycle Magazine. You'll have to scroll down for the poem, but if this post speaks to you, you'll want to read the article.

My son has been away at camp for the last week. Missing him has felt like love digging up our world, the rawness of his absence working in the dark. How do we teach a teen with a new-found sense of independence that flowers will never grow in the place where we are right?

Poetry Friday: Role Models

2011-06-17T07:24:00.000-04:00

The first time I saw Sade, I was watching MTV with my best friend. I was in high school. The girls in music videos were usually singers sporting Flock-of-Seagulls-inspired hair or car-hood ornaments for metal bands. None of them looked like the girl I wanted to be.

Then, I saw Sade, in "Smooth Operator."

She was so different. Her clothes were modest. Her music was cool and confident. Instant hero.

Last night, I saw Sade (now 52) kick off her USA tour here in Baltimore. The concert was incredible. Great staging. Great music. And, as my friend astutely pointed out, Sade doesn't have to throw herself around the stage in a boustierre to be an attractive woman.

The Baltimore Sun reviews the concert today.

The concert made me realize that what I loved about Sade when I was a teen -- although I couldn't put words to it then -- was that she is a positive role model for young women. Still is.

Enough preaching! Earlier this year, I shared a portrait poem by one of the middle school students I was visiting. For her poem's inspiration, this student chose a newspaper clipping of a Sade album cover.

I doubt this 'tween knows Sade's music. (One of my friends, 32, had never heard of her. Ouch.) But she captures the positive vibe perfectly.

Jazz

by Sydney E.

My hair is long

like my history.

My eyes are dark

like my past.

My voice is strong

like my faith.
My ears have heard many sounds,

from the birds’ twitter in the morning

to that midnight train.

I’m going off on my own,

to perform the way I want.

I empower people to dream big,

but act bigger.

To me,

Jazz is not just a type of music.

It’s a way of life.

Jazz is soft and smooth,

warm and deep,

soulful and strong.

If I have one amazing song,

I would give it up for a few minutes with my friend.

My friends and family are always in my music.

like angels,

always with me.

They’re there,

you just might not notice them.

A friend will be there to help me when I fall,

but a best friend will never let me touch the ground.

Jazz is one of my best friends.

He brought me back,

when I wanted to jump the ledge.

Jazz is my love.

I will never let him go.

Today's Poetry Friday host is Jone at Check It Out. Stop by for more poetry. And if Sade's tour is coming to your area, check her out.

Poetry Friday Picnic

2011-06-10T06:36:00.000-04:00

We're counting days (9) until school is over. I even made a waiting chain for my kids.

It's a momentous season for us. My son is heading to Calvert Hall College High School, and my daughter is moving up to our local middle school.

That means the next two weeks are packed with final band concerts, celebrations, ceremonies and class picnics.

Miss J on clarinet.

Today, I'll join the fifth graders at Centennial Lake for their picnic. There will be kickball, a walk around the lake, watermelons, and snowballs (the Maryland version). To share the celebratory mood, here is Gregory Djanikian's poem, "Immigrant Picnic."

Immigrant Picnic

Gregory Djanikian

It's the Fourth of July, the flags

are painting the town,

the plastic forks and knives

are laid out like a parade.

And I'm grilling, I've got my apron,

I've got potato salad, macaroni, relish,

I've got a hat shaped

like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what's his pleasure

and he says, "Hot dog, medium rare,"

and then, "Hamburger, sure,

what's the big difference,"

as if he's really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs,

slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,

uncap the condiments. The paper napkins

are fluttering away like lost messages.

"You're running around," my mother says,

"like a chicken with its head loose."

"Ma," I say, "you mean cut off,

loose and cut off being as far apart

as, say, son and daughter."

She gives me a quizzical look as though

I've been caught in some impropriety.

"I love you and your sister just the same,"

Read the rest at the Poetry Foundation.

The diversity in our local schools has been a gift. At the elementary school's International Night, we learned that dozens -- plural -- of languages are spoken by the school's families.

Tonight, I will be working the photo booth at the 8th grade celebration. My son will be sporting a black suit, bow-tie, black high-tops with neon green laces and shades. Some of the girls bought their dresses in February. We put my cool customer's ensemble together yesterday.

Join the poetry part at Picture Book of the Day. Anastasia is hosting Poetry Friday!

Poetry Celebration

2011-06-09T00:35:00.053-04:00

Get your tea and biscuits ready. Today, my intern Alissa and I get to visit with our Northfield poets for the last time. It's the third grade Poets Tea.

The children will read their poems for an audience of parents and other visitors. But they also have a chance to travel to other homerooms. There, they will read poems by classmates with whom they don't typically share writing time.

It's often an eye-opening experience for kids. Through poetry, they see a different side of their peers. This is one of my favorite aspects of being a poet-in-residence -- helping the children expand their view of one another as whole people.

Last week, I posted several of the children's persona poems. I saved two more for our celebration. Both of these poems are portraits, but they also have that elusive element... tone.

Hanna's poem reminded me of a poem from A Child's Garden of Verses, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Swing of Trips
By Hanna, Grade 3

Up through the air,

she flies in the sky.

She comes over the

grass and comes

back down. She pretends

it’s an airplane

flying and landing

and again fly and

land. Now it’s Florida,

then Wyoming to see

the buffalo. Now

it’s bed till tomorrow.

Where is

she going to

tomorrow?

Hanna captures the flight of the swing, but also how a swing's meditative motion can be a jumping off point for imagination.

Chloe's poem captures a moment. I like how this little poem expresses the happiness we can find in slowing down and appreciating simple things.

Good Thoughts

by Chloe Y., Grade 3

The Happy lady looks out the window.

She thinks what a beautiful day.

Sitting on the bench outside,

Looking up and listening to the birds.

She stands up and picks some flowers,

Then goes inside and gets a vase.

She sniffs the flowers

and thinks good thoughts.

Congratulations, Northfielders. You outdid yourselves with these poems! Thank you for inviting me back again this year. I hope your summers are filled with fun, poet and good thoughts.

Thanks to Kerry at Picture Books and Pirouettes for my Irresistibly Sweet Blog award!

Interning with a Poet: Guest Post

2011-06-07T12:09:00.000-04:00

"I wish I could go back in time and store some of my third grade creativity in a jar." After spending time with the third graders at Northfield Elementary, this thought engraved itself in my head for days.

My name is Alissa Bennett and I am a student at St. Paul’s School for Girls in Brooklandville, Maryland. At my school, the senior class participates in Senior Projects. The Senior Project program gives seniors the opportunity to intern with someone whose field of work they find interesting. For my Senior Project I chose to work with Mrs. Shovan because I enjoy creative writing and one of my favorite ways to express myself is through poetry.

The time spent at Northfield Elementary this past week has been a wonderful experience for me. It was nice to see the students’ excitement when it came to writing poems and learning new information about poetry they did not know before. [Note from L.S. -- this poetry residency was sponsored by the Maryland State Arts Council and Northfield's PTA.]

My favorite lesson was when the students looked at a photo and painting. [Full lesson description is here.] Mrs. Shovan would display the image and ask the students to first state only the facts about the portrait. Then they would imagine what might be happening in the portrait. I loved hearing all of the students’ creative ideas, ranging from alien abduction to dangerous escape stories.

I taught one of these lessons also. Though it was my first time teaching, and I was really nervous, I absolutely loved it! Being able to communicate with students as a teacher is a memory that I will value forever.

The poems that the students wrote were a delight to read, too. One poem that sticks out in my mind was written by Daniel Y. The poem that he wrote was during a lesson on opposites, which I was not there for. Luckily, I got the chance to read a lot of the students’ opposite poems.

Daniel’s poem sticks out in my mind because quite a few of the opposite poems I read were about what they students liked opposed to what they didn’t like. Daniel chose to write about big beautiful things opposed to small beautiful things.

I loved all of the examples and imagery that Daniel used in his poem. The diction that he used also was nothing less than beautiful itself. His poem reads as follows:

Big Things are Beautiful
by Daniel Y.
Grade 3

Big things are beautiful,
like the dark, deep universe.
The ocean that waves,
and the Earth that spins.
The beautiful redwood tree that
stands with me.

Small things are beautiful,
like a bright green leaf.
A seed that grows,
and a pencil that writes,
A grain of sand that I play with at
the beach.

Read the lesson description and link to model poem here.

Thank you, Alissa, for the post. And thanks again to Northfield E.S. for including Alissa in this residency, and for giving us permission to share the students' work.

Teaching Voice, Part Two

2011-06-04T14:40:00.000-04:00

Open a children's novel and you'll know by the end of the first page whether the narrator hooks you or not. (For a great example, read the opening of Shiloh.)

Creating a narrative voice is a difficult skill to teach kids. There are elements to consider such as diction, tone, word choice. You could make yourself crazy with character-building worksheets.

When I'm working with school-age kids, jumping right in works better. I do some modeling (my full workshop description is here), the kids choose a photo or art-print featuring a person, and we get writing.

Yesterday, I posted two third grade poems. One was in the voice of Lady Gaga. The other described a girl caught in a fantasy phenomenon.

In honor of Saturday, when a lot of my students play sports, I'm sharing two poems in the voice of professional athletes.

There is a detail about the setting that Joey does not reveal until the end of his poem. Read "The Shot" and see how he times this information to add impact to the storyline.

The Shot

by Joey S.

Grade 3

I am watching if I make the shot or not.

I have a perfect release. I know it will spin a lot.

This shot is for the win for the NBA championship.

If I make it, my team wins, or if I don't

I will let my team down.

I am terrified. I am not a great three

Point shooter. The crowd is roaring.

They hope I miss the shot in the end.

I make the shot and I silence the crowd.

Chase's poem vividly captures an athlete obsessed with winning. Listen for the rhythm and repeated phrases in this poem. Those elements build the voice of "The Boxer."

The Boxer

by Chase T.

Grade 3

I am warming up for my fight.

I put on my boxing gloves. 10 minutes until the fight.

I will practice and practice. I will not stop.

Two minutes left. I will win this thing. I will

Not back out. I will not stop.

I will jump rope. I will punch a punching bag.

The fight is now. I will be fighting

The world’s best boxer. He won twenty

Medals in a row.

It is now. I will fight and fight until I

Win. I will not stop until I win.

Maybe I win or I will lose. It is your

Choice. Do you think I will win or I will lose?

“He wins!”

More portrait poems coming soon, followed by a guest post with my high school intern, Alissa Bennett of St. Paul's School.