I have five minutes. Five minutes is not enough time to finish that chapter of my book (SKIN HUNGER, by Kathleen Duey) or go back to sleep. It is the perfect amount of time for checking Facebook.
|Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect |
is too busy rounding up
Poetry Friday links to check Facebook.
When you have five minutes, stop by her blog.
Facebook is where how I found out about the lunar eclipse. Friends across the country were waking their children up early and heading outside to view the Earth's shadow pass across the moon. At our house, it was just another early school day.
But I put the kettle on, got out my star-gazing binoculars, and slipped outside while everyone else went about their morning. This is what I saw...
|This week's eclipse was a Blood Moon,|
named for its coppery color.
Later that day, I was reading the "Poetic Asides" column in Writer's Digest. Poet Terrance Hayes -- a recent MacArthur genius award winner -- has invented a new poetic from. Using a line or lines from a favorite poem, use each word (in the correct order) as an end word in your poem. It's called a golden shovel, named for Gwendolyn Brooks' poem "We Real Cool" -- the basis for a golden shovel poem written by Hayes.
Writing Prompt: Write a golden shovel of your own.
Post your poem in the comments (making note of the poet/title of the original) and I will round up all of our golden shovels next week.
I like what Writer's Digest columnist Robert Lee Brewer says about this form. He calls it "a fun mix of found poetry and pure invention."
To capture the slow eclipse in the midst of my family's busy morning, I used Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Moon," from A Child's Garden of Verses.
Here is my golden shovel, followed by Stevenson's poem. (The words of Stevenson's poem are in gray.)
Eclipse, 5 am
by Laura Shovan
After Robert Louis Stevenson
Dark October morning, the
Earth’s shadow sweeps the Moon,
dissolves its round cheeks until the Moon has
only an icy smile. Next, it is the sliver of a
snowy owl, mostly hidden, its white face
shrunk to one silver eyebrow. Cuplike,
it holds the Sun’s reflection in its feathers. The
owl swoops down when my kitchen clock
strikes six, finds its roost below the horizon. In
moments, sleepers will tumble down the
stairs, their school shoes clicking in the still-dark hall.
by Robert Louis Stevenson