A (Found) Ode to Signed Books

This week, I went to a reading by the esteemed poet Rita Dove.

1. It was free. Thanks, HoCoPoLitSo!
2. There was music by young composer and violinist Joshua Coyne.
3. RITA DOVE

Poetry Friday

Today's Poetry Friday round-up

is at Cathy's blog,

Merely Day by Day.

I'd been meaning to buy and read Dove's historical novel-in-verse Sonata Mulattica for several years. (Read the NY Times review here.) She spoke about the book and its subject, child prodigy George Polgreen Bridgetower (1780-1860), on the Diane Rehm Show when Sonata Mulattica was first released.

The selections she read at the event were beautiful. Some of the poems include multiple voices. They are funny, piercing in their portrayal of the society that celebrated Bridgetower, then erased him from history.

But what I really want to talk about is signed books. I did buy a copy of Sonata Mulattica last night and Rita Dove signed it.

Sonata Mulattica by Rita Dove

That got me wondering. Why do we love signed books? I have dozens of them. Some were already favorites when I sought out the author to have the book signed. Others I had never heard of, but fell in love with at a reading or writers' conference. They were bought and signed on the spot.

Are these books a little more special than their unsigned shelf-mates?

I think so. A signed book is similar to a photograph. Every time I open the book and read the personalized dedication, I remember meeting the author and sharing a word or two. I remember asking poet Mark Doty to sign a book and wanting to hide in a giant hole when he pointed out that I'd handed him someone else's book by accident. I remember meeting children's poet Heidi Mordhorst, now a dear friend, for the first time.

Today, I'm presenting a gallery of dedications for you to enjoy. Following the photographs is a little found ode that I wrote. It combines titles of these signed books with words and phrases borrowed from the dedications.

The Song Shoots Out of My Mouth: A Celebration of Music
by Jaime Adoff

Pumpkin Butterfly: Poems
from the Other Side of Nature
by Heidi Mordhorst

The East-West House: Noguchi's Childhood in Japan
by Christy Hale

I Am the Running Girl
by Arnold Adoff

She Had Some Horses
by Joy Harjo

And here is my found poem. Words I added are in bold. Everything else is strung together from the dedications and the book titles.

When You Sign My Book

by Laura Shovan

The song shoots out of my mouth

with great appreciation for everything:

Gr8 to meet you!!

Enjoy!! God bless!!

Looking forward to your next book!

(and thanks for the new horizons).

I am a pumpkin butterfly,

flying East-West in a celebration

of word music.

I am the running girl,

watching with joy,

listening for your sonata.

Poems journey like childhood ghosts

or horses

from the other side of nature.

And, following poet Brenda Hillman's example, here are some drippings -- phrases from the titles and dedications that I wasn't able to weave into the poem.

The House: Noguchi’s in Japan

at SCBWI 3/6/10 Poems

Keep for

She Had Some

Some horses for your

Enjoy

Mulattica

I'd love to hear your thoughts on signed books and book signings. If you have a treasured signed book, or a memory about a book signing, please share in the comments.

Poetry Friday: Autumn Leaves Project

Last week, I felt so much gratitude for our wonderful Poetry Friday community. 

Jama Rattigan is making room at the table
for all of this week's Poetry Friday posts.
You'll find them at Jama's Alphabet Soup.

I shared a poem and a story about my challenging high school years, and all of you rose up to support me with your comments and high school stories of your own. (Read the post here.) Telling some of my story turned into a healing experience because of the caring messages I received in return.

I've been thinking about the power of sharing stories, even difficult ones.

A few months ago, I was invited to participate in a community arts project called Autumn Leaves. Painter and arts organizer Peter Bruun, who was about to turn 50, dreamed up this inter-generational project. I'll do my best to describe it, but you may want to read a full explanation at the Autumn Leaves website.

Peter contacted 49 Baltimore area "elders" -- later called the project Leaves. They were split into seven groups of seven Leaves each. Each of these groups was assigned a tree name, a visual artist and a writer under the age of fifty. The task of the artist and writer was to create portraits of each Leaf in the group.

Peter assigned me to the Poplar Group, along with photographer Tiffany Jones. Part of this project was going to be a big celebration for each group, including story sharing from the leaves and performances by youth arts organizations.

Peter Bruun and Tiffany Jones at the Poplar Event.

I had a concept for my seven written portraits, which had to be 49 words each. Since Autumn Leaves focuses on elders sharing their wisdom and stories, I wanted to highlight these folks in their own words. I interviewed each of the Leaves on the phone, typing as we spoke about their lives. 

Instead of writing new poems, I wanted to "curate" seven found poems taken directly from my interview transcripts. This way, the poems would be in the the Leaves' own words.

Through this project, I had the opportunity to get to know people I probably wouldn't have crossed paths with otherwise: a man who was wrongfully incarcerated for 20 years and who is now a prison reform advocate, an woman who was recently reunited with the daughter she was forced to give up for adoption when she was just 15.

In late September, Peter invited us all to the Poplar Group event at Area 405, a gallery and event space in Baltimore. It was such a thrill to see the portraits from each of the seven groups, but I was blown away by Tiffany's beautiful photographs of our seven Leaves.

Tiffany's display incorporated her photographs, my found poems,
tree branches, and lines from a Thich Nhat Hahn poem.

I'd like to thank photographer Tiffany Jones, arts organizer Peter Bruun, and two of our Leaves -- Jeffrey Johnson and Anna Davis -- for giving me permission to share their photographs and poems.

Jeff Johnson is a recent widower and a practicing Buddhist who has studied with Thich Nhat Hahn.

Jeffrey Johnson
Photograph by Tiffany Jones

JEFFREY JOHNSON
Found Poem by Laura Shovan

You’re here.

Being in the present moment,

you have come home.

Fifteen years ago

I didn’t have a physical home.

It was a painful time.

The earth was my home.

This great ground

accepts all of our suffering, all our joy.

In connecting with the earth, I feel free.

After years of battling addiction, Anna Davis entered Baltimore's Marian House community for women.

Anna Davis
Photograph by Tiffany Jones

ANNA DAVIS

Found Poem by Laura Shovan

Change is possible.

When I entered Marian House

I expected a miracle.

I found that the miracle was me.

For me, home is stability,

a feeling of family,

my spirituality.

It is not one place.

I have to carry it with me—

that self-worth, that integrity—

at all times.

Once again, I find myself feeling grateful for a supportive community where people's stories are valued and honored. The Autumn Leaves project has been a life changer. If you are interested in donating to Autumn Leaves, the link is here. If you're interested in supporting Marian House, please visit their website.

I think a project like Autumn Leaves would be great to try with your school, library, or community group. Pairs of student artists and writers could interview adults in the school, family members, or elders in their community. The paired portraits -- visual and written -- are a powerful way to share stories between the generations.

Poetry Postcard #41: Greetings from Fort McClellan

Of all the poetry postcards, #41 had the greatest emotional effect on me. The postcard led  me to uncover a secret, one that I found profoundly disturbing.

"Beautiful Residences along Kingston Pike, Knoxville, Tenn."

But before I explain, poet Dan Kagan has been recommending the website Post Secret for all you postcard fans. Maybe you'll find inspiration in one of the secrets written on the back of a postcard and shared on the site.

This used postcard came to me from children’s author and poet Irene Latham, who blogs at Live Your Poem.

Cancelled January 17, 1944, in Anniston, Alabama.

It reads: "Greetings from Fort McClellan. This is a really beautiful camp. I found George in excellent health. Tell you more when I get home. Love, Louise."

After reading the message, I thought my best source of inspiration would be research on Fort McClellan. I would never learn who George was, but I could invent a soldier, maybe just graduated from boot camp in 1944. That invented story might make a good poem.

There wasn’t much information on Wikipedia, so I went to the next recommended site. The blog title was "If You Went Through Ft. McClellan, Alabama... I want to hear from you."

I read the post and over 100 comments, most of them from McClellan vets. What I learned on this site  stunned me.

Fort McClellan photo http://www.mcclellan.army.mil/Info.asp

Rather than write about Fort McClellan’s history, I wove together a found poem. It is constructed from the postcard greeting and portions of a few comments from Susan Katz Keating's blog post.

The poem was published last month by the current events poetry journal New Verse News. I’ll post the opening stanzas, then the link to the full poem.

Greetings from Fort McClellan, 1944-1995

This is a really beautiful camp.
I found George in excellent health.

Love,_____

                                    Please help.

I was stationed at Fort McClellan.

I have developed a symptom of passing out.

Doctors called it "Syncope."

None of them could figure out

what caused it.

Hi my name is: _____

I went through Basic training

in Echo 1 company. We had to go through

that building they called the Gas Chamber.

Does anybody know what type of gas

or chemical was in there?

I want to hear from you.

We were exposed to toxic substances,

big time. The McClellan Cocktail:

depleted Uranium, Sarin gas, mustard gas

Read the rest at New Verse News. Thanks to NVN editor James Penha for finding the perfect postcard to accompany my poem.

The McClellan vets have been trying for years to have their health issues recognized. The neighboring town of Anniston, Alabama was a Monsanto factory site. Monsanto manufactured PCBs in Anniston. It is documented that the company dumped chemicals, affecting the water and ground in Anniston. Because of their health problems related to the spills, the citizens of Anniston sued Monsanto and won a settlement.

60 Minutes called Anniston "America's Most Toxic Town."

However, the settlement does not cover veterans who lived at Fort McClellan, drinking and bathing in that same water, training on that ground, to say nothing of the chemical exposure that reportedly took place there.

McClellan closed in 1999.

A new bill to create a McClellan registry was introduced to the House of Representatives in January. It is titled "H.R. 411: Fort McClellan Health Registry Act." Passing the bill is a first step in helping the McClellan vets.

I encourage you to sign a petition, supporting the bill, at Change.Org.

The bill has been given only a 3% chance of passing. Opponents claim that these are "welfare vets" whose claims are unrelated to Monsanto, Anniston and Fort McClellan.

For more information:

"Poisoned Patriots of Ft. McClellan" at Law Enforcement Today

"Fort McClellan, Monsanto, PCBs & Me" at Daily Kos.

An article about an earlier version of H.R. 411, at UPI.

Poetry Postcard 37: Through a glass, darkly

Old Manse window etching at An Historical Lady.

The cryptic messages scratched into this window pane date to 1842 or ’43. That is the year Dark Romantic author Nathaniel Hawthorne married Sophia Peabody.

Sophia Peabody at Concord Magazine. 

They spent the first year of their marriage living at the Old Manse in Concord, Massachusetts.

I was introduced to Hawthorne’s work, and the creepily romantic window messages, in a graduate school American Lit class. They were “written” with the diamond in Sophia’s wedding ring.

One of the lines is said to be related to a miscarriage. "Man's accidents are God's purposes" appears at the top of the window, above.

When Rob and I visited the Old Manse we were newly married, ourselves. I went looking for the window.

It's twenty-years later and here is my old friend Hawthorne on Postcard 37. 

A bad photo of my postcard.

A similar portrait from the Library of Congress's collection.

I knew right away, I’d be writing about that window. What I ended up with is a sort of found poem.

Each of the italicized lines comes from the Hawthornes’ window etchings. I used Nathaniel and Sophia’s writing as a jumping off point for each stanza.

Photograph: Nathaniel Hawthorne

Man’s accidents are
his top hat, upside down --
a bowl of thoughts
for anyone to pluck,

pithy fruit.

God’s purposes

the globe of Hawthorne’s

forehead and all the worlds
therein. His down turned
mustache.

This is his study

each word measured,

a gram of salt weighed,

a chunk of coal (this was

his early employment),

weighty, dark.

The smallest twig       
is wet from rain.
His felted coat and velvet
collar. It must be winter.

Clear against the sky

one expects to be greeted
at his door with a swarm

of mechanical butterflies,
themselves escaped
from his overturned hat.

Composed by my wife,
inscribed by my husband,
they wrote with the edge
of her diamond. To etch this

must have cost them something
window glass falling,

fine as grains of salt

in the Gold light.

Laura Shovan

The mechanical butterflies are an allusion to Hawthorne’s short story, “The Artist of the Beautiful.” 

If your only experience with this great American author is The Scarlet Letter, run – do not walk! – to the library and get a collection of his short stories. Hawthorne was an early master of short science fiction and fantasy writing, a precursor to such greats as Ray Bradbury.

Author Ilse Munro thought I’d enjoy these postcards written by famous authors. She was right! Check out photos of Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf’s pithy postcard greetings.

Kurt Vonnegut's postcard from Flavorwire.

Postcard #37 Information:

Great Authors

Nathaniel Hawthorne (American, 1804-1864). While crafting tales that established the American short story as an art form and creating such classic novels as The Scarlet Letter and The House of Seven Gables, Hawthorne also worked as a salt and coal measurer in Boston, as port surveyor in Salem and for four years as U.S. consul in Liverpool, England.

Brady-Handy Collection, Prints and Photographs Division

©Library of Congress

Pomegranate, Box 6099, Rohnert Park, CA 94927

P.S. I believe this poem concludes my hat obsession. See postcard poems 33 and 36. It helps to have a fine new chapeau.

Poetry Postcard 43: Happy Birthday, Robbie!

I am skipping ahead to Poetry Postcard 43. Why? To wish a happy 16^th birthday to our son and eldest child, Robbie.

Robbie and cousin Caspian (age 1). All you parents
of teen boys know, photos of the kid are not
easy to come by. Most of them look like this:

because teenage boys are
masters at the art of avoiding photographs.
Remember "How not to be seen?"

I wish my scanner were working this morning so I could show you what a cute baby he was, and how the nurses put Valentines in his hospital bassinet.

I was planning to write an occasional poem for Valentine’s Day today. I had a vintage Valentine’s postcard all set. (Thanks for the donation, Linda Baie!)

But my poetry gut got all tingly when I read what was printed on the back of the card: THIS SIDE FOR CORRESPONDENCE.

A few weeks after I started the Poetry Postcard Project, I took an old mini-album off the bookshelf. Instead of photographs, we’ve kept years of postcards in the album’s sleeves.

Some of the postcards date to before Rob and I married, 1991. The most recent cards date from the late 2000s. They come from all over the U.S. and several countries. They were sent to us by friends and family.

Postcards sent from (clockwise) Aruba, Hawaii, Tennessee, and Australia.

Reading through the messages on the cards, I was surprised that many go beyond the standard “Wish you were here,” sentiment. Some are funny. Some are lyrical. Others refer to specific events in our lives.

Guided by the phrase, “This Side for Correspondence,” I began pulling sentences and greetings from various postcards into a found poem. It wasn’t until I read a mention of Robbie’s impending birth that the theme of my poem came together. That focus allowed me to figure out which pieces of the poem would stay and what could go.

This Side for Correspondence:

Postcards “Found” on My Son’s 16^th Birthday

Dear Ones,

Greetings from Aruba.

We are alive & well.

The food is good. So glad

we are here, but miss you.

It’s really as beautiful here

as the picture depicts.

Balmy breezes, the smell

of jasmine in the evening.

The way people

get still and quiet

watching the sun setting.

There are a lot

of cranky babies here.

You sure you want

to go through with this?

Laura Shovan

And here are the cards I borrowed from, sent from my brother Jason Dickson, friends Jenna and Ron Olson, and two from my mother, Pauline Dickson. Thanks for helping me out on this one, gang!

"So glad we are here. But miss you."

"Dear Ones... Balmy breezes, the smell of jasmine in the evening,
the way people get still & quiet watching the sun setting."

"It's really as beautiful here as the picture depicts...
There are a lot of cranky babies here --
you sure you want to go through with this?"

"We are alive & well.... The food is good."

I like the way the stillness my mother wrote about from Hawaii balances with my friend Jenna's half-joking concerns about the potentially cranky baby on his way to us. (You can read the postcard poem written for my daughter's birthday here.)

Robbie is already thinking ahead to college, so I'm going to enjoy these birthdays while he is still at home. I am looking forward to Robbie's favorite things tonight: pizza and a rich chocolate cake. If I'm lucky, I'll get a hug. And maybe a photograph.

Postcard Information:

THIS SIDE FOR CORRESPONDENCE.

Series No. 2425 PRINTED IN GERMANY

THE ADDRESS TO BE WRITTEN ON THIS SIDE.

Poetry Friday: Wish You Were Here

Now that my poetry postcard project is well underway -- 9 cards sent, 13 poems written -- people are asking me, "How did you get the idea?"

You can read some of the genesis of my poetry postcard project in my first post in the series. My e-friend, artist Sherry Richert Belul, was sending gifts out to others for her birthday. She was kind enough to send a pick me up gift to my daughter, who'd had a rough day.

Sherry sent my daughter this lovely book
to cheer her up after a less than great audition.

I thought Sherry's birthday project was lovely take on pay it forward. What made me think of the postcards, I can't say for sure.

There are many groups that distribute poems in your pocket during National Poetry Month. (I keep one of these cards, the Lucille Clifton poem "Blessing the Boats," in my wallet.)

Here is a video about the Poetry Foundation's annual Poem in Your Pocket Day.



And I was familiar with a wonderful imagined-postcard poem by one of my mentors, Clarinda Harriss.

Clarinda Harriss retired from Towson University in 2011 to devote more time to her writing and to BrickHouse Books, Inc., which she has directed for 40 years.  Her most recent books are Air Travel, Dirty Blue Voice and Mortmain, and, with Moira Egan, she co-edited Hot Sonnets: An Anthology.  Her collection of short stories, Lady in the Other Bed, is forthcoming in 2013.  

"Postcards From the Beach" was first published in Little Patuxent Review's  Summer 2011 issue.

Postcards From the Beach

by Clarinda Harriss 

_____________________________________________

You wouldn’t recognize me,

I’m so changed by salt, soak                          

& sand. So thin. You’d love me

this way. I’ve let my hair grow.

Lolling among the bright-striped                    This side

fish I can see it swimming like                        for address

a sea creature, near, not part of

me. Did you get the gift I mailed?

Those are pearls that were my eyes.            

                             --Love, Bill S.

_____________________________________________

You agreed I should have been

a pair of ragged claws. Who knew

how soon I’d be scuttling sideways

on an Atlantic floor? The sea change              This side

bothered me at first—a cliché, really—          for address

till I heard a salty love song and I

knew it was for me. Later I slept,

spent, in hard blue arms. Thanks for

everything.                –J. A. P.

_____________________________________________

Beside this muddy cluttered sea,

the moon illuminates my straits as if

it were a hole cut in the sky. It lets

an acid rain of light eat into me. The

waves roar like distant guns among                This side

the look-out towers beached by two              for address

world wars. Oh, Love, if only you

were here beside me, at this unopen-

able motel window, looking home.

                          --Matt  A.

_____________________________________________

Posted with the author's permission.

Think of my project as a poem for your mailbox.

The postcard messages look like this.

I had already begun collecting antique postcards to use as prompts by early December. By the time I had a few of the response poems done, a package filled with goodies arrived from Linda Baie of the blog Teacher Dance. 

One of the delights was an original postcard poem. It is, in part, a found poem -- using messages written on the backs of read vacation postcards. What a cool idea for a found poem!

Small Words
by Linda Baie

Postcards tuck the past,
into happy moments:
reflection, vacation, imagination.
This was traveling,
visiting
and reveling
in new places.

My Dear,
           In by 8pm to our cabin,
           crossed the divide,
               blinding rainstorm, but
               it was lovely, lovely.

Dear Aunt Jo,
We are out here visiting family
having fine weather, off to Long Beach this am--
tell the kids hello.

My Dear,
The memory of my day
follows me through
the beautiful Mediterranean.

Dear Mary,
I'm sure a sore beat-up woman--
  no cast yet . . .

Howdy,
Enjoying end of our vacation,
  picked a bucket full of beans.
The black dog in our neighborhood
was over for her handout. Reminded
of yours.
    So many jobs to be done. Don't know
where to start.
    It was a nice vacation.
                        Cheers,
                                   Emma and Edgar
          Tell  Mildred Hello!

Posted with permission of the author.

I wonder where Emma and Edgar went for their vacation. 

Special thanks to poets Clarinda Harriss and Linda Baie for allowing me to post their takes on the postcard poem form.

If you'd like to read my most recent postcard poem, it is "You Can't Get My Goat." I will post poem #8 tomorrow -- just 36 more to go!

Renee LaTulippe is our Poetry Friday host. Check out her blog, No Water River, for the Poetry Friday blog roll. And then go back and take a look at the wonderful resources and classroom activities Renee is developing for classroom teachers and librarians.