Groundhog's Day

Edgar Allan Poe wishes you a happy February 2. The Raven and his crew are storming New Orleans tomorrow. 

If we do have six more weeks of winter, let's hope our ebony birds will beguile our sad fancies into smiling on Sunday night.

Do I have a postcard for the occasion? But of course.

The Ravens

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.

National Poetry Month Issue 16

It happens to me all the time.

I'm in the shower, thinking about how I'm almost out of shampoo, when the poem I've been thinking about will wander into my brain. The hot water must do something to my synapses -- before I can wash the suds out of my hair, I've got lines and ideas and I must go write.

Yes, I have horrified my children by dashing for the laptop sporting nothing more than a towel and an insane look in my eye.

Today's Maryland poet is Bryce Ellicott.  The hot water does something to Bryce's synapses, too. (I'm guessing this poet is a fellow Pisces.)

Shower Sprite
by Bryce Ellicott


Why is it
I must find you
my muse, so often
in the shower?

I step in and
the water fills
my brain with words,
the calling of the thrumming
thermal rush, my hair
absorbing sentences from the flood.
I race through cleaning motions,
dash to my desk
and stand dripping, pen in hand
water running on
the page to find the
words evaporated
from my
drying
skin.


Posted with permission of the author.

High School Writing Prompt:
Write a poem addressing your Muse. Go ahead and ask her about the strange places where she turns up.

Since Bryce brought up the Muses -- three of the nine classical Muses are devoted to poetry: Calliope (epic poetry), Erato (love poetry), and Euterpe (lyric poetry).

I'll be finding inspiration today at Baltimore's CityLit Festival.

The Poe Room -- watched over by a remarkable portrait of Edgar Allan himself -- is where to go for poetry. There are readings and poetry panels throughout the day. I'll be on with a group at 10:45 AM. Hope to see you there!

Poetry Friday: Ringing in the New Year

Happy New Year's Eve from Chapel Hill! We're visiting my brother and his family -- enjoying all the comforts of a college town: great restaurants, great vintage shops (I scored a knee length leather jacket for $14), and a fun science center.

We are heading home in time to ring in the New Year tonight. Speaking of ringing, I just had a debate with another  poet over Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells."

Fernando Quijano III (AKA Baltimore's The Word Pimp) performed the poem for Poetry Out Loud when he was in high school. The "tinkle tinkle tinkles" didn't take him to the next round of competition.

Which made me realize, "The Bells" is one of those love it or hate it kind of poems. I admit to being a hater. Until I read Sharon Creech's middle grade NIV, Love That Dog. In Creech's book, elementary schooler Jack digs the pure sounds of Poe's bell ringing.

Does "The Bells" ring your bell or give you a headache?

The Bells
by Edgar Allan Poe
I. Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.   II. Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!   III. Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now--now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet, the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!   IV. Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy meaning of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls:-- And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells-- Of the bells : Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-- Bells, bells, bells--     Reading this poem just after my middle schooler studied Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, I can't help but see a connection. The speaker in the poem -- the character of Victor Frankenstein -- they both have that obsessive, gloom and doom or bright as the heavens personality. Interesting. However you celebrate New Year's, may your heavens twinkle with a crystalline delight this evening. Thanks for hosting the Poetry Friday party this week, Carol! Stop by Carol's Corner for some poetry fireworks.

Poetry Friday: 5 Questions for Mary Amato

Happy Poetry Friday!

Please welcome my friend, poet, children's author and super fun person Mary Amato.

Mary's new MG novel -- Edgar Allan's Official Crime Investigation Notebook -- published last week. She is also the author of Please Write in this Book, the Riot Brothers series, The Word Eater and Invisible Lines.

I loved this book, but first I had to fight my 10-year-old daughter for it. She read Edgar Allan twice before she'd hand it over. As soon as I was done, it went to her 5th grade teacher.

As with Please Write in This Book (a Shovan family favorite), poetry is deeply embedded in the story. It’s part of the way the children interact, joke with one another, and apologize when their jokes have gone too far.

As you've probably guessed from the title, the crime that main character Edgar Allan solves is woven with poetry (just like his name). Here's a description of our Poe-like hero, "“His big brown eyes looked full of daring and his feathery eyebrows could do wonderful things on command.”

Because he is paying attention to possible suspects after the class goldfish is stolen, Edgar begins to notice things about his classmates. Destiny is sad that her best friend has a new buddy. Taz may be the class clown, but he’s also an animal lover. Noticing how others are feeling, introverted Edgar becomes a compassionate friend. I think that makes Edgar Allan a must for Grade 3-5 classrooms.

I wanted to know more about Mary's use of poetry in the novel. Here are five questions for Mary Amato

1.  Edgar Allan’s Official Crime Investigation Notebook is a mystery enmeshed with poetry. The thief leaves tantalizing clues in the form of poems. How did you come up with the idea to combine the two genres?

Poems are often like little mysteries, so they are a perfect way for a mysterious thief to communicate. The more carefully you read a poem, the more you understand what the poem is saying. But if you must know, I didn't begin the novel with the poems in mind. When I first started writing, I didn't know who the thief would be! Choosing which character would be the thief was the key to helping me realize that poetry would be the perfect way for the thief to communicate. If I say any more I'll give away the ending...

2.  Edgar Allan’s namesake is poet Edgar Allan Poe, but Poe and his poetry aren’t part of the novel. Why did you make that choice?

Poe’s work isn’t that accessible for elementary school students, so I didn’t include any of it in this book. Poe had this intense way of looking at the world as well as a tendency toward such dramatic language; and as soon as my character began to speak, he reminded me of a little Edgar Allan Poe. I knew that adult readers would enjoy the literary allusion to Edgar Allan Poe, even if children didn't make the connection.

 

3.  My daughter loved the fact that there was a poetic cipher in the book that could help young detectives figure out whodunit. Edgar Allan Poe wrote cipher poems, often with the name of a lady-love hidden in the lines. Was that your inspiration?

I have always been intrigued by codes and thought it would be satisfying for the reader to discover that the first letter of each item stolen would spell a significant clue. I didn’t know that Edgar Allan Poe hid the names of lady loves in his poems! How cool is that? [Here is a link to one of Poe's cryptological poems, "An Enigma."]

4.  After reading your book, my fifth grader wanted to know more about Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning, who have namesakes in the novel. She’s fascinated with their love story. How do you think a book like yours can inspire kids to learn about, read and write their own poetry?

Often, poetry is taught in school by focusing on the poem’s type or form. I wanted to emphasize that poetry isn’t just about form, it’s about meaning. It can express emotion. Edgar expresses profound emotions in his poetry and learns important things about his classmates by reading their poems.

I am hoping that this will help kids to understand the power of the poetry. Poetry also lends itself to humor--rhyme and rhythm are playful and pleasing--so I had fun with a number of poems in the book, which I hope will reel in kids and inspire kids to write their own funny poems. Everybody loves to laugh.     

5.  Speaking of humor, one of my favorite scenes in the book is when Edgar Allan and his new friends stage a Hamlet-like play, acting out one of the thefts (in verse) to see if the guilty party will react. It’s a hysterical scene, with one of the kids playing the stolen goldfish. How do you make poetry fun for young readers?

I love theater and thought it would be fun to spoof Hamlet (and make the point that plays were once written in verse). I do a fun workshop on dialogue poetry (poems in which at least two characters talk to each other), which is always successful. Kids love to perform, when given the chance, and poetry is perfect for the stage.

Bonus Question: Mary, I know you are a singer and musician. In your Riot Brothers series, Orville and Wilbur are always making up silly songs. They are a kind of poetry. Would you talk how poetry and music are connected for you?

Fantastic bonus question! Songs are poems set to music. I love writing songs, and I can thank my eighth grade English teacher -- Mr. McCauley“I Am a Rock” on his record player so that we could experience the lyrics. I’ll never forget sitting in my desk, listening to that song and feeling a chill ascend the scale of my spine. This is poetry, I thought. I love it!

Congrats on a wonderful novel, Mary. I know teachers will love all the poetry-lessons they'll be able to build from this book. Thanks again for sharing Poetry Friday with us.

Find links to more Poetry Friday poetry, reviews, lessons and recipes at Jennie's Biblio File site.

NPM 50 State Tour -- A Pit Stop

Great road trips aren't just about cool destinations. They're also about unexpected pit stops.

No state poet laureate visits today. I'm pulling into this rest stop to savor the moment -- it's Baltimore's CityLit Festival tomorrow (here's the schedule -- I'm on with Stanley Plumly at 1:30). My new poetry chapbook gets its debut.

Totally jazzed to be reading in legendary Enoch Free Pratt Library's Poe Room, where this portrait hangs. Poe is one of my literary heroes.

I decided to try a voice coach. Thinking I'd show up at the reading sounding like Lauren Bacall. Not so fast, Shovan.

Talk about taking the scenic route. Mary Naden had me lying on the floor, dancing around the room and singing like an opera star. Somewhere along the way, I slowed down, stopped worrying about sounding throaty and alluring, and reconnected with the images in my poems. Wow.

Here is a poem from the chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone. It's about unexpected pit stops.

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.

 Thank you for helping me celebrate one of those remarkable days. Stop by CityLit Festival tomorrow and say "hi!"

Today's Poetry Friday is brought to you by the letter "J"! Remarkable Jules at 7 Impossible Things is hosting the poetry blog roll.

Poetry Friday: 5 Questions for Hemingway

Not *that* Hemingway. Author Edie Hemingway! (Family connection to Ernest? Inconclusively fuzzy.)

Edie is a middle grade novelist and new regional adviser for SCBWI of Maryland, Delaware and West Virginia. She is busy launching her debut solo novel, “Road to Tater Hill.” It's out this month from Delacorte.

I invited Edie to join us for Poetry Friday because Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “Annabel Lee,” plays an important role in her novel.

But first, here’s what Booklist has to say about “Road to Tater Hill”:

“Drawing on the author’s childhood roots, the heart of this first novel is the sense of place, described in lyrical words: the soaring mountains and the valley rippling outward in waves and waves of fading blue, like one of Grandma’s patchwork quilts. True to Annie’s viewpoint, the particulars tell a universal drama of childhood grief, complete in all its sadness, anger, loneliness, and healing.”

Welcome, Edie! Thanks for visiting. Here are your 5 Questions:

1. Students find it hard to believe that writers plan things like literary allusions in their work. At what point in the process did you decide to refer to Poe’s poem? How did you get the idea?

It actually came as a surprise to me. In fact, up to that point, I didn’t even know that my main character Annie’s full name was Annabel. I was trying to picture what Annie’s and Miss Eliza’s first face-to-face meeting would be like, and I was searching for a way to continue the mystery about Miss Eliza and also make her unique. It suddenly occurred to me that she would be uneducated, but very well read. My own name is Edith, and I’ve always thought of it as old fashioned and rather stiff, so I started thinking of more formal names that “Annie” could be a nickname for. When I thought of Annabel, the poem “Annabel Lee” fit perfectly, especially with its theme of grieving, as well as its rhythmical repetition—just like Miss Eliza’s weaving. 2. Annie suffers a loss at the opening of your novel. What parallels do you see between Annie grieving for her infant sister and the speaker in “Annabel Lee” grieving for his young love? Even though the love experienced by Poe’s narrator is of a more romantic nature than Annie’s love for her baby sister, I think their deep and abiding sense of loss is very similar. This is Annie’s first experience with grief, and she’s ready to identify with someone else (even a character in a poem) going through such a loss. Also, the name is an instant parallel, and for the first time Annie thinks of “Annabel” as being beautiful. Another parallel is in the sense of loneliness expressed in the poem. Annie is a lonely child, and the increased isolation she experiences with her mother’s depression seems to fit with that “sepulchre there by the sea.” The words of the poem resonate with Annie throughout the book, and it’s because of the poem that Annie visits Mary Kate’s grave for the first time and suggests that Mary Kate needs a gravestone with her name on it.

3. “Annabel Lee” was written in 1849, but kids love the sound and the story in Poe’s poem. What do you think makes “Annabel Lee” relevant for the ‘tweens who read, “Road to Tater Hill?” I don’t think kids (or readers of any age) will ever grow tired of the marvelous rhythm, repetition, and unforced rhyming of Annabel Lee or other poems by Edgar Allan Poe. It’s simply fun to read it aloud.

4. Your book is set in the mountains of North Carolina. “Annabel Lee” is anchored in sea imagery. Explain how nature is a comfort for Annie as she’s grieving. (I think a similar thing happens in Poe’s poem.)

There is comfort in the natural beauty and familiarity of nature, and I think that comes through in both the poem “Annabel Lee” and Road to Tater Hill. The Appalachian Mountain setting, particularly the view from atop Tater Hill with “mountains rippling outward in waves and waves of fading blue,” makes Annie feel as if she’s on top of the world. The distant gurgling of the creek that Annie hears through her window every night is another source of comfort.

But most of all Annie draws comfort from holding the “rock baby” with its solid weight and smooth texture that fills the hole inside her. It’s a tangible means of dealing with her grief and something that Annie can return to time and again.

5. Music is an important element in your novel. When Annie hears the mountain dulcimer, there’s a sense of mystery. It reminds me of the tone of “Annabel Lee.” Can you talk about the importance of music in your book – both the dulcimer music and music in the language?

The first sounds that Annie hears of the mountain dulcimer are in a minor key, which I think lend more of a mystery to the music and to Miss Eliza’s life. That same minor tone is one that I hear in the rhythm of “Annabel Lee.” It has a certain amount of sadness to it, but also a level of comfort.

"Road to Tater Hill" is not written in verse, but I like to think there is some poetic language that brings music to the page. Poetic language…must grow from specific concrete and sensory details of the setting and the emotional core of a story. Poetic language is something I look for in everything I read.

If you haven’t read it in a while, here is the opening of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabel Lee.”

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

Read the rest at the Poetry Foundation.

Speaking of mysterious characters, it’s true that a mysterious stranger visits Edgar Allan Poe’s Baltimore grave on his birthday.

“The Poe Toaster” leaves a bottle of cognac and three roses every January 19. Just sharing some Charm City weirdness with ya, hon. Want to see for yourself? Scroll down at this B'more tourism site.

For more Poetry Friday, visit this week’s host Becky's Book Reviews.

Poe-etry Writing Exercise

"From childhood's hour" what has been the demon in your view?

Okay, maybe you're a convert to "The Secret," or you were always a glass-half-full type of person. But I agree with Edgar Allan Poe. In childhood, we establish a point of view that's basically positive, negative or neutral, generally happy or sad.

In response to Poe's poem, "Alone," tell about the person or event that shaped your childhood point of view. Or, like Poe, create a metaphor that describes what haunted or encouraged you as a child.

Here is a triolet I wrote several years ago. In my mind, it touches on this subject -- even though the poem doesn't reveal the "demon."

Triolet: A Visit to the Doctor of Herbal Medicine She says, “You have the sadness in you.” She can see it in my dry, cracked hands. My skin is raw with sorrow, it is true what she says. “You have the sadness in you.” How can I hide it? Absence dries me through -- heart to knuckle-bones, I’m marked by its brands. She says, “You have the sadness in you.” She can see it in my dry, cracked hands. Published at Poets Online, Winter 2000

Want to know more about the triolet form? There's a good article here: http://www.webexhibits.org/poetry/explore_obscure_triolet_make.html

It's Poe-etry Friday

My friend Lisa’s elementary schooler is flying through R.L. Stine’s "Goosebumps" series. She took her son to the National Book Festival last month, where he happily waited in line (and waited, and waited) to meet Stine.

Goosebumps didn’t exist when I grew up. Many of us fortyish and older cut our horror teeth on Edgar Allan Poe.

Poe’s been in the local news lately here in Baltimore. Apparently, Philadelphia isn’t satisfied with being World Series Champs, inventing cheese steaks and having a brand of cream cheese. They’re also claiming they have Poe's body. A scholarly battle is brewing. Look out Philadelpha. They don't call Baltimore Mob Town for nothing.

Read about Baltimore vs. those Philly body snatchers in a Poe smack down. Article at the Baltimore Examiner.

One of my favorite poems by Edgar Allan Poe is one I discovered as an adult. Spooky and sad.

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were — I have not seen

As others saw — I could not bring

My passions from a common spring —

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow — I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone —

And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —

Then — in my childhood — in the dawn

Of a most stormy life — was drawn

From ev'ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still —

From the torrent, or the fountain —

From the red cliff of the mountain —

From the sun that 'round me roll'd

In its autumn tint of gold —

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass'd me flying by —

From the thunder, and the storm —

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view —

E. A. Poe There’s a great version of “Alone” on the CD “The Days Gone By: Songs of the American Poets.” The CD is produced by Music for Little People.

Visit the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore for history on this poem. http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/alonea.htm

Poe is getting his own stamp this year. Look for your gloomy postage $.42 on January 16 – Edgar Allan Poe’s 200th (and my daughter's 9th) birthday.

(Like Mr. Poe? I got him at the Unemployed Philosopher's Guild.)

Find more poems to scare yourself silly at Poetry For Children -- Sylvia is hosting the Poetry Friday Round Up. Happy Halloween!