30 Habits of Highly Effective Poets: Drinking Tea

Many poets write about their obsession with coffee. I, however, am a tea drinker. Not any tea. It has to be good, strong British tea with milk and a little sugar, first thing in the AM.

Where did I acquire this habit? From my mother, who grew up in Nottingham England. Her childhood home was Forest House -- so-named for Sherwood Forest.

Forest House was torn down years ago. My mother's room was next to the train tracks.

I have lovely memories of tea time at my English grandparents' home, The Old Rectory. Visits there were rare (every 18 months or so) and always amazing. Which is why I didn't realize until I was older that my wonderful grandmother wasn't wonderful to all of her grandchildren. We had special status.

To make up for my April Fool's trick this morning, here is a poem of mine with some strong British tea.

Baba Yaga 

by Laura Shovan

What I loved about you, really, was your house.

We traveled the dirt road,

waiting for a glimpse of roof,
the familiar glint of sun on window.
The door, enormous and heavy,
belonged on a church.
Even I, the eldest, could not open it myself.
 
We explored the tiny room on the third floor
where I thought a crazy lady slept,
poked at the old gray parrot
who said your name in Grandpa’s voice
and liked the taste of children’s fingers,
warmed ourselves by the wide iron stove
that glowed charcoal all day long,
waiting, like the fairy tale,
for a plump and curious child.

Mornings, all three of us had tea in your bed.

The covers were filled with feathers.
Without your whalebone corset
you were powdery soft.
There were biscuits to eat.
Even Grandpa was friendly.

How easily we were trapped.

You pinched and prodded the other children,
who wisely kept their distance.
Your crooked pinkie finger
scolds them in their memories:
our grandmother the witch.

We recognize you now,

we who you favored and fooled.
Your back is turned to us
and the old iron stove is burning.


This poem was first published in Paterson Literary Review. It also appears in my chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone.

Those of you who know the story of Baba Yaga can guess the other half of my heritage. My father is from a family of European Jews, all of whom had come to U.S. by the early 1930s. Baba Yaga is a folk tale witch. She shares many qualities with the nasty old woman in the story of Hansel and Gretel.

Katya Arnold's book on Baba Yaga

I write out of my heritage, my family story, quite a bit. In a way, that is a writing ritual -- returning to family history as a source for ideas.

Prose Poem

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).

Contest Winner and a New Summer Read

Congratulations to Tabatha Yeatts-Lonske!

Tabatha's name was unscientifically but randomly chosen from among everyone who commented on my upcoming blog-lift. She gets a signed copy of my poetry chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone.

I kicked off the summer with a visit to ALA, where I picked up more ARCs than I could carry.

One of my favorites was the middle grade novel The Kneebone Boy By Ellen Potter. It comes out next month from Feiwel & Friends (Macmillan).

Here is my review of The Kneebone Boy, recommended for ages 9-12.

What was your overall impression of the book?
The Kneebone Boy has Gothic elements (“orphaned” English children on the run, a family mystery), but the adventures of the Hardscrabble children never veer into fantasy or horror and the children are never really in danger. While the book’s cover art looks foreboding, the narrator’s voice is full of light ‘tween sarcasm that gives the novel humor and heart.

The story in one sentence?
When their father takes off unexpectedly, the three Hardscrabble children fend for themselves in London, track down a long-last aunt, and try to solve the mystery of the mysterious Kneebone Boy.

Who were your favorite characters and why?
My favorite characters were Lucia Hardscrabble and Great Aunt Haddie. One of the originalities of this book is that one siblings is acting as author/narrator on behalf of all three. The reader is invited to guess which one. My guess was Lucia (she’s the only girl in the family -- I could relate). Since I found her voice to be funny, sweet and a little cynical, I liked Lucia.

Great Aunt Haddie is a fun supporting character. You can feel this wild, careless and caring young woman growing on the Hardscrabble kids. Her American oddities – like eating PB&J sandwiches for dinner – are endearing to the kids. She is a complex, interesting character you’d want to know in real life. And hooray! she doesn’t step in and rescue the children, but lets them work things out for themselves.

What were your favorite parts of the story?
One of my favorite parts of the book is the setting of its second half. Great Aunt Haddie lives in a castle folly. I’d never heard of castle follies before. The castle folly takes a Gothic element that is normally sinister – a dark and dreary castle with a dungeon for the children to sleep in – and turns it on its head, making it fun. I could say that of most of the novel.

Here is a castle folly in England that you can rent for your next vacation:

What did you like about the graphics/cover?
Here’s the problem: the cover is gorgeous.

It made me want to pick up the book. There are three ominous, steely eyed children standing in front of a threatening forest. One (the eldest Hardscrabble) is holding a black cat. It reads Gothic, maybe fantasy. That's the problem.

The Kneebone Boy is closer in tone to Jeanne Birdsall's Penderwick novels. Even the dark school uniforms the children wear on the cover disappear before Chapter 3. Is this cover a fair representation of what you’re about to read? I’m not so sure.

Would you recommend to a friend? What would you say?
I've already handed the book to my 10-year-old. The Kneebone Boy is a fun book, with a family story both sad and heart-warming at its center. It straddles several genres and styles, most of the time successfully. Middle grade readers who haven’t yet encountered Gothic novels probably won’t be expecting to see Gothic tropes here, but I was. That's why it gets...

Three Scoops

Summer Reading  Score
Empty Cone – Didn’t like it.
One Scoop – It was okay.
Two Scoops – Pretty good.
Three Scoops – Great book.
Sundae – I want to read the whole series. Now.

Poetry Friday -- Writing Habits

In his introduction to my poetry chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone, poet Michael Salcman writes:

"She knows all too well how strange and abnormal the everyday world can be. In this she follows in the path of one of her artistic lodestars, the American poet William Stafford."

Swoon. Stafford is one of my heroes. I am writing a series of poetic responses to the poems in his collection, The Darkness Around Us Is Deep. Several of these poems are in the chapbook.

As I was researching new names for my blog, I happened on the Friends of William Stafford website and his poem, "How These Words Happened."

In the interview with poet Robert Bly that introduces The Darkness Around Us, Stafford talks about his habit of rising early to write. Every day. And if the work wasn't so good that day...he said he lowers his standards! Don't you love that?

When I read "How These Words Happened," I imagine Stafford at his early morning work. There is magic in those hours, so close to sleep.

How These Words Happened

by William Stafford

In winter, in the dark hours, when others

were asleep, I found these words and put them

together by their appetites and respect for

each other. In stillness, they jostled. They traded

meanings while pretending to have only one.

Monstrous alliances never dreamed of before

began. Sometimes they lost. Never again

do they separate in this world.

Read the rest of the poem here -- that's at Friends of Stafford. Oddly, there's a slightly different version posted at a couple of websites. Here is one. It's amazing how a couple of changed words affect the poem. My guess is the second version is "correct." I'll check on that and will let you know.

What are your writing habits? Do you rise early to write like Stafford, see the kids off to school first (that's my M.O.), or do those monstrous alliances of words come to you at night?

Poetry Friday is here at Author Amok next week. Exciting! For today's round up, visit Irene at Live. Love. Explore!

News You Can Use

It's been a big week at Author Amok. Let's do some announcements, events and a Poetry Friday sneak peek that you won't want to miss.

Announcements

1) Have you read Laura Miller's review of The Hunger Games in the New Yorker? It's a thoughtful review, not just of Suzanne Collins' series, but of the dystopian genre and why it works for YA readers. Miller's comparison of the Capitol city and the games themselves to the hungers and cruelties of high school is spot on.

One disappointment with the article -- Miller didn't mention The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart. My middle schooler ate up the book and its sequel. It's dystopian, but very funny and scathingly satirical (adults run around worrying about "The Emergency" but no one can say what the emergency is or how long it's been in existence). I think Stewart's balance of humor and disaffection is perfect for middle grade.

2) Speaking of Middle Grade, there's a new blog championing MGs. From the Mixed-Up Files of Middle Grade Authors promises can't-find-it-anywhere-else interviews with MG authors, giveaways, fun book lists, and an insight into real kids' opinions about MG books.

3) Not exactly an announcement, but I'm reading Scott Westerfeld's Leviathan. All it took was the flap copy for me to proclaim this is the perfect book for my world history/modern technology/fantasy novel loving almost-eighth grade son. He took one look at the maps and agreed. Now he's bugging me every night, "Are you done? Can I have it?" No -- get your  paws off my book!


Events
1) The Columbia Festival of the Arts kick off this weekend with Bookfest at Lakefest. Stop by the Maryland Writers Association tent on Saturday and say hello. If you get there around 1 PM, I'll be doing a family poetry craft -- Poetry Pops...concrete poems shaped like whirly pops.

2) Steampunk was the talk of last month's Balticon SF/F convention. If you're free June 18, I'm hosting a "Craft & Crit" -- we'll discuss Leviathan while catching up on our craftworks-in-progress. (I'm finishing up my son's socks.) Leave me a comment if you'd like info.

3) June 22 is a big fundraiser for CityLit Project, publisher of my chapbook. I'll be reading from Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone. A $40 ticket buys you dinner, the reading and you're supporting the arts in Baltimore!

Sneak Peek
Tomorrow is Poetry Friday.

I was dismayed and disappointed that the next state on my 50 state tour does not have a poet laureate. You'd think Nevada would join the poetry party. I thought Las Vegas never met a good time it didn't like.

I have soothed my mood by asking a truly fabulous Nevada poet to visit tomorrow...bestselling YA novelist Ellen  Hopkins. She's going to share a poem.

Are you jumping up and down with excitement? Me too!

See you tomorrow.

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.

NPM 50 State Tour -- Maryland, My Maryland

Please come in and welcome to my neighborhood, Maryland!

We've lived in the Baltimore 'burbs for ten years and I admit, I still feel land-locked. (New Jerseyans get anxious if we're more than 45 minutes from the ocean). Remind me to tell you that funny story about crossing the Mason-Dixon line some other time.

Maryland welcomed me with open arms. I've been a poet-in-the-schools for the Maryland State Arts Council for eight years. And Baltimore's CityLit Project is publishing my new chapbook for National Poetry Month. More exciting news on that in a second.

Some Maryland facts: 7th state, joined the union 4/28/1788, home of the very awesome Berger Cookie (it's a black and white cookie without the white) and the Baltimore Honfest.

Another reason I've proudly adopted Maryland? Unlike my home state of NJ, *we* have a poet laureate -- Stanley Plumly, a professor at the University of Maryland. Go Terps!

To help you celebrate spring, I'm sharing Plumly's poem, "Wildflower."

Wildflower
by Stanley Plumly
Some--the ones with fish names--grow so north they last a month, six weeks at most. Some others, named for the fields they look like, last longer, smaller. And these, in particular, whether trout or corn lily, onion or bellwort, just cut this morning and standing open in tapwater in the kitchen, will close with the sun. It is June, wildflowers on the table. They are fresh an hour ago, like sliced lemons, with the whole day ahead of them. They could be common mayflower lilies of the valley, day lilies, or the clustering Canada, large, gold, long-stemmed as pasture roses, belled out over the vase-- or maybe Solomon's seal, the petals ranged in small toy pairs or starry, tipped at the head like weeds. They could be anonymous as weeds. They are, in fact, the several names of the same thing, lilies of the field, butter-and-eggs, toadflax almost, the way the whites and yellows juxtapose, and have "the look of flowers that are looked at," rooted as they are in water, glass, and air. I remember the summer I picked everything, flower and wildflower, singled them out in jars with a name attached.

Read the rest of the poem here.

The exciting news? SAVE THE DATE! April 17 is CityLit Festival at the Enoch Free Pratt Library in Baltimore. I'll be reading with Stanley Plumly, 1:30 PM, and signing the new book. Hope you can make it!

Tomorrow morning, we'll continue our National Poetry Month tour of the 50 states. We're leaving bright and early for South Carolina. No Wall of Shame for them.

Poetry Friday: A Chapbook!

Poetry Friday friends, I'm so excited to share my news with you!

My chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone, has won the Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize, sponsored by Baltimore's CityLit Project.

The book comes out for National Poetry Month. Here is the press release, which includes the ISBN.

The final judge was poet, physician and all-around Renaissance man Michael Salcman. After the contest was over, Michael generously helped me to fine tune my manuscript. I feel blessed to call him a mentor. What a gift!

Michael is a master of ekphrastic poetry. Today, I'm sharing one of his "Eight Eakins Portraits" -- "Portrait of Walt Whitman." It appears in Michael's book, The Clock Made of Confetti (which has a lovely series of ekphrastic poems).

PORTRAIT OF WALT WHITMAN (1887-1888)

You see me now as the fierce friend of my final years
saw me; though he painted me resting, I'm  not at rest
my brain whirls with continents. My eyes are open,
thought death is limned in me like sweet drunkenness
and my cheeks remain ruddy. Around my head
and lips the gray hairs billow like wisps of smoke
or a final breath. On my shoulder, a flat collar flares
a white epaulet -- none owned by Falstaff nor painted
by Hals was ever finer though I'm hardly a gay toper
like them. Sorely vexed when first we met, he wrote
"My honors are misunderstanding, persecution and neglect,
enhanced because unsought." I think he caught me dreaming
of his resignation and bitterness; I never liked this likeness
much (not that I told him).

Posted with permission of the poet.

Don't you love how Whitman's "brain whirls with continents"?

If you're in the Baltimore area, mark April 17 on your calendar. It's the CityLit Festival  -- a day long, free event -- at the Enoch Free Pratt Library.

There are readings by poets, novelists, children's author Patrick O'Brien, and spoken word performers. The full line-up is here. In the afternoon, Michael Salcman is hosting a reading with me and Maryland Poet Laureate Stanley Plumly.

I hope you can make it! I'll need a big cheering section to calm my nerves.

Have a wonderful Poetry Friday, everyone. Our host is Becky at Becky's Book Reviews. Enjoy!

Get SPARKed!

I wish I could remember who sent me an email about "SPARK: art from writing, writing from art" so I could thank that person profusely.

SPARK is an online art and literary gallery. Every few months, Amy Souza pairs up artists with writers. Your partner sends you an "inspiration piece," and you send one to him/her. Those of you who read the blog know I'm a huge fan of ekphrastic poetry. Did I mention that you have 7-10 days to produce your new piece?! Yowza. Forget perfection. Just write (or paint).

I sent my partner, Virginia artist Judy Zatsick, a poem that's included in my chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone. (My chapbook recently won the Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize and is coming out for National Poetry Month, but more on that another time.)

Here is the inspiration piece I sent to Judy. Alongside is the companion painting she created for it, "Celadon Spring." Just wow.

The Listening of Plants

Laura Shovan

On the buffet where she kept her celadon dishes,

Mother placed a vase of pussy willows

hurried out of their branches.

The buds were cat toes walking up a mottled branch,

miniature koalas hanging on their eucalyptus

in a scattered line.

I snapped one off the twig and rolled the bud

on the flats of my thumb and finger,

its smoky gray coat how I imagined koala fur might feel.

I rubbed the willow bud along the bone of my jaw

wanting to know how a plant can wear animal skin.

It was too small, like touching nothing.

I splayed my hand along its curves,

felt the hairs rise in the divot of my palm.

I would have needed a sweater of willow to be satisfied.

Instead I slipped it into my ear. How did I know

a pussy willow was the right shape for the foyer of my ear,

long hall leading to the eardrum and the bones behind?

The bud rested there and I listened,

wanting to hear what it had to say

which was quiet, which was the muted listening of plants.

When I asked Mother to extract a pussy willow

from my ear, I couldn’t explain its presence

how I listened and heard its secret.

And here is the art that Judy sent me to SPARK my inspiration. It's called "Window to Her Soul." Since I crazy, I set myself a poetic challenge, a sestina inspired by the painting. The six repeating words are Oil (Judy's medium), Window, To, Her, Soul, and Words (my medium). You can find sestina rules here.

Window to Her Soul

after Judy Zatsick

Shadow of a blue dress moves like oil

on water.  Beyond the window,

I watch the cloud-curve of her spine press into

autumn woods, unaware of me. Her

shoulders rise up and curve, soul

stirring like a river. Her bones are made of words.

Her memories can’t be held by words.

They are slick as oil,

bent out of shape by the wind, rooting her soul

beneath the window-

less ground. Instead, her

mind sees colors. They are memory too.

The ground is on its side, to

blow its colors into the sky. Words

spin in the air. Orange, brown and beech call her,

leaves crisp with cold before they spoil

on the ground, blown against the window.

When she rakes them, it quiets her soul.

She is barefoot and the soles

of her feet press leaves flat, two

eyes underneath her -- two windows

that need no words --

tell her leaf, crunch, smooth. Colors like oils

pressed from tubes she carries with her.

Why do I sit and watch her?

She’s nothing special – just another soul

kept upright by muscle, oxygen -- the blood’s oil.

Should I invite her inside to

share a few words?

Should I open my window?

The leaves kick up again – it’s the wind. Oh,

I know I won’t call her.

If I spoke, the words

would break something, stop her soul’s

press into nature. Maybe I should go too,

walk in the woods, feel my feet on the soil.

Is this the window to my soul,

watching her blue dress fade into

an autumn palette of words, paper and oil?

Laura Shovan

Happy Poetry Friday, everyone! Our  host this week is Danika at Teaching Net. Next week, I'll post more poems by my Northfield Elementary third graders. We're getting ready for their Poets Tea on Friday.