#Poetry Friday April 3, 2020

Today's edition of Poetry Friday is hosted by Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe. Heidi is sharing poems inspired by poets.org #ShelterInPoems project. Enjoy her poetry and don't forget to check out all the other bloggers posting today.

Hello Poetry Friday friends. I have missed you. 

Like a lot of you, I'm overwhelmed with other things in life. For the last few years I have participated in the April Poem a Day Challenge. This year, what with moving, house renovations, shelter in place orders, and social distancing, I don't need any more challenges. I've also got three quilting projects on the go.

I'm going to try to write at least one poem a week but...

My poem this week is not inspired by other poetry, although poetry and other art forms have brought me solace in these interesting times. Instead I am inspired by the art of our friend, Ron Peace, a gifted photographer and artist. He shares his work with friends and followers on facebook. Ron's photographs are a regular highlight of my day. Please take a moment to check out his website. Prepare to be dazzled.

Wednesday's image almost broke me.

While we are not yet stir crazy here in our isolation, I had no idea how much I wanted to break free until I saw this. Ron has graciously granted me permission to share his image with the poem it inspired.

imagine

someday

we too might fly

might take off

into sky

might rise high

into glorious light

imagine

flight

lift off

a gift of

respite

Poetry Friday February 14th, 2020

Today's Valentine's edition of Poetry Friday is hosted  by Linda Bai at Teacher Dance. She is sharing some images of delightful vintage valentines. Don't forget to check out all the other bloggers posting today. 

I haven't been posting much lately. I wish I could claim that it was because I have been writing, but other than the odd fits and starts of poems, I have been otherwise occupied. I managed to read some poetry off and on - but even that has been sketchy.

Here is what I've been up to in the last little while.

I finally got around to reading SoccerVerse by Elizbeth Steinglass. This book received many accolades. Every review I read praised it to the moon. After that kind of a set up I figured it just couldn't live up to that kind of adulation.

I was wrong.

There are so many reasons to love this book.
It's about soccer, but it's also about living and playing together in harmony with different kinds of people.
It acknowledges that soccer is a universal sport played by boys and girls.
It brilliantly showcases a variety of different poetic forms.
It provides ideal mentor texts for teaching poetry.
Edson Ike's illustrations are the perfect companion to these words.
Ultimately it's just a wonderful collection of poems that happen to be soccer related!

Here are a few of my favourite bits:

From Uniform Day,

Anything would have been better than green--
green like a wobbly, soggy old bean.
I don't want to look cooked. I want to look mean.

And those reverse poems - Instructions to Field Players & The Goalkeeper. Just Wow!

Another poem that wowed me was that last bit from The Handshake

I don't want to shake her hand,
but I do
because I don't want to be her.

I've finished reading and rereading 16 Words: William Carlos Williams & "The Red Wheelbarrow" by Lisa Rogers and Chuck Groenink.
It's the author's interpretation of what might have motivated Williams to write his famous poem. Along the way we readers learn a lot about the poet's life as a doctor and author. It's beautifully written and illustrated. I especially appreciate that they highlight Williams' ability to notice and write about ordinary things and ordinary people. His gift, through choosing words so carefully, is to make them seem extraordinary. I love the way the art brings it all together. 

I'm also reading - bit by bit, When You Ask Me Where I'm Going by Jasmin Kaur, a local poet. This is intense adult verse. I read a bit, then leave it to sit for a while before returning to read another. I will do a full review when I am done.

Mrs Clause put a copy of The Best of Today's Little Ditty: 2017-2018 by Michelle Heidenrich Barnes in my stocking, and other than just browsing it, I haven't seriously gotten into it. I will soon!

My partner and I have been married 40+ years. Since It's Valentines Day, I'm sharing my all time favourite love poem by Amy Lowell. It is just right for us.

Decade

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.

Poetry Friday November 8, 2019 - Bravo! Poems About Amazing Hispanics

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem. She shares Words of Peace and Wisdom by Native Americans and a poem of her own inspired by them.

Don't forget to check out the links to other participants sharing poetry today.

Last week I found this book of poetry in a library I was working in. I had to bring it home because of the author and the illustrator. Seriously, who could resist this cover?

I've read it at least three times and pored over the illustrations. The book contains poems about eighteen important hispanic individuals who lived in what is now known as the United States of America. The earliest character, Juan De Miralles, was born in the early 1700's and one of the most recent, Baruj Benacerraf, died in 2011. Women and men are highlighted. Many of them are mixes of African and indigenous peoples. Their contributions are diverse. Some, but not all of them are famous. I knew of a few of these people, but most were new to me. The back matter contains short biographies of each of them.

The poetry is exquisite. I was already a Margarita Engle fan, but her work here is profound. If you don't know her wordsmithing, you are in for a treat. She manages to reveal much about each person with her straight forward deceptively simple free verse. The first person narrative has lines that will blow your mind.

Here are a few snippets from the poems:

Julia de Burgos 1914 - 1953

MY RIVER OF DREAMS

Six of my twelve brothers and sisters
died of hunger, but my gentle mother
took me for long walks
beside a river
of beautiful dreams.

I learned to love nature and the island,
even though we were so poor that I
had to climb into classrooms
through a window, because we
could not afford school tuition.
...

Juana Briones 1802 - 1889

ON MY OWN

This is a land of good herbs
and great sorrows -- the conquest
of los indios, my soldier-husband's
cruel job.
....
I survive as a rancher and healer,
curing the sick with medicinal plants,
and healing myself
with independence.

Rafael López' art is as gorgeous as the poetry. Each portrait reveals information about the individual's character. Other details hint as to their time and place.

Ever since I finished this collection, I've been thinking about my grandmother. Margarita Engle has inspired me to work on a poem about her and her life. Here is a rough draft of a beginning stanza.

When I was a young girl
I saw Buffalo Bill’s
Wild West Show.
That’s why
I learned to shoot
and how Annie Oakley
came to be my hero.

Poetry Friday October 25 2019

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Karen Edmisten. She is sharing an ode to autumn, October by Helen Hunt Jackson. Don't forget to check out the links to other participants sharing poetry today.

Halloween is my favourite holiday. There's no feast to prepare and no gifts to purchase. You just buy candy, get dressed up, and enjoy all the delightful scariness. Plus, it's a fun way to get to know your neighbours and their children.

For many years I taught family groupings of grades 3/4/5 students. Each October I would dig out my copy of Jack Prelutsky's Nightmares: Poems to trouble your sleep. (I wanted to take a photograph to show you how beat up it is, but it's tucked away in a box somewhere.) The collection was originally published in 1976. Throughout my career I never found anything so delightfully macabre that's appropriate for elementary students. In that last week before All Hallows Eve, I would read one or two poems aloud every day. These are not playful verses with happy endings. They terrify. I am not a fan of the horror genre, but can manage  to get through one or two at a time. Prelutsky's rhyming poetry is rich and explicit. Even when students don't really grasp the vocabulary, they understand the ominous tone. Arnold Lobel's sinister illustrations just make it all the more scarier.

The collection is chock full of creepiness, but my favourite is The Ghoul. It is guaranteed to intimidate even the most bold and brash students.

THE GHOUL

The gruesome ghoul, the grisly ghoul,
without the slightest noise
waits patiently beside the school
to feast on girls and boys.

He lunges fiercely through the air
as they come out to play,
then grabs a couple by the hair
and drags them far away.

He cracks their bones and snaps their backs
and squeezes out their lungs,
he chews their thumbs like candy snacks
and pulls apart their tongues.

He slices their stomachs and bites their hearts
and tears their flesh to shreds,
he swallows their toes like toasted tarts
and gobbles down their heads.

Fingers, elbows, hands and knees
and arms and legs and feet -
he eats them with delight and ease,
for every part's a treat.

And when the gruesome, grisly ghoul
has nothing left to chew,
he hurries to another school
and waits...perhaps for you.

© Jack Prelutsky 1976

I've never found a book quite so perfect for the season. Have you?

I was most likely under Prelutsky's influence when I penned Anthrophobia. I wrote it in response to this month's padlet challenge at Today's Little Ditty, "write a poem about something a monster is afraid of." Michelle Heidenrich Barnes shared it here. Spiders give me nightmares - especially if I see one before I go to sleep. I try hard to get along with them and mostly succeed if they follow the rules and stay outside!  


ANTHROPHOBIA

In my web I hide in silence
Fearful of your awful science

What harm I’ve done I do not know
I wish you did not hate me so

I munch the bugs that harm your plants
I decimate both flies and ants

I venture out at times it’s true
But I don’t mean to startle you

I do my best to help you out
Still you see me and scream and shout

You grab a shoe prepared to swing
I bolt hole from that ghastly thing

Cowering now inside this crack
I wait in fear your next attack

Please not the long and roaring pipe
That suctions web and devours life

Viler still is the noxious spray
From which no beast can get away

Poetry Friday August 23, 2019

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm. She is hosting a celebration of the late Lee Bennet Hopkins.  Amy has invited everyone to write and share a poem inspired by or including a line from a LBH poem. When you are done admiring her poetry, make sure to check out the links to other participants sharing poetry today.

I had forgotten all about this till late Thursday but scrabbled together a rough draft to honour him. I have been researching trees, forests, and loggers so while reading about Lee Bennet Hopkins' devotion to poets and poetry I began to see him as a mother tree. For those of you who don't know about mother trees, according to Suzanne Simard, science communication professor at UBC, "Mother trees are the largest trees in forests that act as central hubs for vast below ground mycorrhizal networks. They support young trees or seedlings by infecting them with fungi and ferrying them the nutrients they need to grow."

Honouring Lee Bennet Hopkins (draft)

Lee was a mother tree
succoring poets and poetry
sugaring the diets of scribblers who
he debuted with much ado

Lee was a mother tree
promoting poets and poetry
collating books chock full of verse
on topics many and diverse

Lee was a mother tree
seeding poets and poetry
children in lands from far and wide
discovered verses deep inside

Lee was a mother tree
serving poets and poetry
the community he helped grow strong
grieves his passing now that he’s gone

Meanwhile, I am still slogging away on my memoir in verse. I think the end is in sight.



I was five in 1958, when my family joined other relatives on a logging and homesteading adventure into the Pine River region of Northern British Columbia.
I'm committed to sharing a bit every week so that I don't give up. I appreciate feedback on the construction of the poetry and ideas and questions about what information might be missing.

First Snow

winter came early to that land
a brief tint of autumn
announcing the end of summer

a skiff of bright white crystals
ornamented, glorified the forest

a promise:
more to come

a warning:
get ready

trussed up in
heavy coats,
mitts,
scarves,
toques and boots,
Mommy sent
Rae, Zoe and me
out to play

we three snow nymphs
cavorted 'round
our wild white world
chasing snowflakes
with our tongues
inhaling
air giddy with the
fragrance of fresh cut pine
exhaling plumes of steam

Daddy,
our tall, blond,
plaid jacketed God,
laboured in a sacred halo
of golden sawdust
quartering up
chunks of tree trunks:
fuel for the winter ahead

our squeals of glee
sang counterpoint
to the buzz of his chainsaw
and whack of an ax

clambering
to the top
of the growing
mountain of wood

we chanted

Look Daddy! Look Daddy!
We are taller than you!

glancing up at us
he hollered

Be careful up there!

when you are five
you abide
serene in the ordinary
miracles of life

oblivious to how
precious a moment is

how swiftly it can all change


Here are links to previous Pine Valley poems.
Leaving
Characters
Journey
Arrival
Preparedness 
Ready and Willing 
Larder
Laundry
Diaper Duty
Skunk Trouble
Working
Pawns
Crossing
Bath Time
invincible 
Explorer
Time For Fun

Poetry Friday, July 12. 2019

This week's Poetry Friday roundup is hosted by poet, Jone Rush MacCulloch at Deowriter. Go and have a look at the fabulous poetry fortune generator she received and make sure to check out the links to other participants sharing poetry today.



I am still working on poems from 1958, when my family joined other relatives on an adventure into the Pine Valley region in Northern British Columbia. I'm committed to sharing a bit every week to keep me going. They might not be in any kind of order. I just hope to get some kind of drafts out there. I appreciate feedback on the construction of the poetry and ideas and questions about what information might be missing.

I've got four or five more sections left I think. Then I expect I'll go back and rewrite all of it.

BATH TIME

In summer
formal baths
were unheard of.
Getting cleaned up was
as simple as
sudsing and
splashing in the river.

A basin of soapy water
was always on hand
for quick cleanups,
washing hands before meals,
and removing the worst of the dirt
before bed.

With the onset of fall,
the weather turned cold,
the river colder.

We got bathed
formally,
'bout once a week.

Water was hauled up,
heated on the stove
and poured into
a galvanized square washtub.

Everyone in the family
bathed in the same water.
The baby went first,
then us kids got our turn.

One evening
I was lucky enough to
be second in line.

Mommy washed my hair
and made sure
the rest of me was
scrubbed up good
before wrapping me in a towel
to dry off.

Even with the wood stove blazing,
It was still frigid in the kitchen.

The towel covered my
shoulders and torso,
but that’s all.

Hugging it around me,
I backed up towards
the heat,
wanting to
warm my backside.

Be careful,
My mother warned.

Ignoring her,
I edged my rear
nearer to the warmth,
until
I backed my bottom
right up against
fiery hot cast iron.

hssss

Seared the skin right off.

Hurt like the devil.

But I don’t actually
remember that part,
only mortification.

I suppose I am left with a scar,
but luckily,
it's all behind me.

Poem A Day Challenge & Poetry Friday April 19, 2019

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm. Make sure you read her ongoing story poems about John and his dog, Betsy, and check out her page for links to more poets sharing work today.

In 1958, when I was five years old, my parents and other relatives set out on a great adventure north. I have been writing bits and pieces about that time for a while. Over the last couple of years, and as I write more, I interview remaining family members for more details and stories about their experience. To motivate myself to write, I plan to post bits and pieces of their saga here every Friday. They might not be in any kind of order. I'm just hoping to get some kind of reasonable drafts out there. I hope for feedback both on the construction of the poetry, and more details from family.

This is the third instalment. You can read the first one here and the second one here.

journey

they set off north
abandoning
the grey green shades
of cactus,
grease wood,
sage and
darker hues of
lonesome

ponderosa pine

left behind
irrigated 

lowlands and
orchards ripe with fruit

hoodoos and
silt cliffs
saluted them
in the early morning
light of their leaving

took the ferry across
Okanagan lake
where Ogopogo
is rumoured to swim

saw terrain transform
from orchards
into ranch land

drove
through town
after town
when main street
meant something

reached the interior plateau
and headed west
through Kamloops
to Cache Creek
traversing
a desolate landscape

hills so barren,
the dried grasses
on their exposed bones
wearily waved them on

continued north again
up Highway 97
to Clinton where
they stopped,
rested,
spent the night
with family

Peggy and Maurice
welcomed them
fed them,
and sent them
on their way
the next day

onward they pressed
deep into the heart
of the Cariboo
passing through
country lush with lakes,
following the old gold rush trail
in search of a different kind
of riches

through
100 Mile House
William’s Lake
and Quesnel

mile by mile
groves of white and green
aspen attended them,
bearing witness 

open grasslands
merged into
northern pine forests

that second evening,
arriving in
Prince George
they halted
overnighted with
family again
Alma and Red,
mom’s eldest sister

had fresh baked

huckleberry pies

waiting for them

next morning they set out
northeast across the rockies
on the last
leg of their journey
into what would become
their new homes
their new lives


Links to my previous April poems can be found here.


Here is a link to blogs of other participants in the poem a day challenge.

Poem A Day Challenge & Poetry Friday April 12, 2019

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem. Check out her page for links to more poets sharing work today.

In 1958, when I was five years old, my parents and other relatives set out on a great adventure north. I have been writing bits and pieces about that time for a while. Over the last couple of years I interviewed remaining family members for more details and stories about their adventure. To motivate myself to write, I plan to post bits and pieces of their saga here every Friday. They might not be in any kind of order. I'm just hoping to get some kind of reasonable drafts out there. I hope for feedback both on the construction of the poetry, and more details from family.

This is the second instalment. You can read the first one here. 


Characters

my father
wanted to be more
than a tree faller
hard work didn’t frighten him
he intended to
build a nest egg,
fancied being a farmer
an horizon of sheep
filled his dreams

my mother
busy with four
children under six
and her belly full
of my baby brother,
followed him,
eyes primed
on possibility
trusting in him 
and a chunk of land
to call their own.

my parents were young
Daddy not yet 26
Mommy barely 25

the eldest of the lot,
my mother’s brother, Walter,
and his wife, Margaret,
were old enough to be her parents
they knew what was what
had been through the ringer
and survived
some of their
dozen children were
still in the nest
Peter, their youngest,
was only a couple of years older
than my five years

three of their older boys
(my mother’s age and younger)
brought wives and
passels of children:
Billy and Joyce,
Howard and Lynn,
Lee and Sharon

these were wild
untamed men,
a society of survivors,
hardworking,
undaunted,
taunting disaster and
fearless in the face
of adversity

they spoke the language of laughter
were appeased by a strong cup of coffee
and a shot of rye whisky.

I feared and revered them,
then, and for many years to follow.

the women were
get on with it
goddesses
did what they had to do
cooked, cleaned,
nursed babies,
carried
grit and determination
in their genes
had no truck with
giving up
their capacity for love
for joy
for forgiveness
was only outdone
by their generosity

a girl couldn’t get better role models than them

still can’t

Poem A Day Challenge & Poetry Friday April 5, 2019

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Karen Edmisten. Check out her page for links to more poets sharing work today. 

In 1958, when I was five years old, my parents and other relatives set out on a great adventure north. I have been writing bits and pieces about that time for a while. Over the last couple of years I interviewed remaining family members for more details and stories about their adventure. I need motivation to write, and so I am hoping to post bits and pieces of their saga here every Friday. I doubt they will be in any kind of order. I'm just hoping to get some kind of reasonable drafts out there. I am hoping for feedback both on the construction of the poetry, and perhaps more story from family.

leaving

they who didn't own much
to start, sold everything
kept the essentials
dishes, cutlery,
frying pan, cooking pot,
a change of clothes,
diapers and bedding

loaded up car trunks,
tied larger items to roofs,
piled the rest
into the one truck
someone owned.

nigh onto penniless
this motley crew
a convoy of
my maternal relations
parents, teens, children and newborns
packed into bench seats
bade their farewells
to those left behind 

high on hope
like generations before them,
they abandoned their hometown
and set out on the long trek
into the hinterland
north of Prince George
deep into the Pine Valley

they were
loggers, pioneers, dreamers
heads and hearts filled
with plans and schemes
for a better life

Poetry Friday June 29, 2018

Last weekend, my little sister, Zoe, became one of those numbers in the fentanyl overdose tally. From the very beginning her life was hard. She never really fit into what we might call normal. Eventually she was diagnosed with bipolar disease, but by then she was also a drug addict. She went through long periods of time when she didn't use hard drugs, but when her disease became unmanageable, she always slipped back into addiction. 

Taking Flight

I’m so angry
I’m so sad

your illness led you to
take stupid risks
make stupid decisions
as a mom
you did the best you could
loving your babies with everything you had
but it wasn't enough
you left scars, invisible,
but nonetheless real
i saw the best of you
working side by side in the garden
and the day you charmed
my granddaughter to bits
i wish you could have seen yourself
through her eyes
i wish you could have loved yourself
with as much love as she and we all loved you

I’m so angry
I’m so sad

you wanted to soar
but couldn't fly
you had wings,
that didn't work
at least not in the way that the other birds
who teased, taunted, and bullied you did
you led a secret life
where demons held sway
so you bargained with the devils
to silence their chorus
and find a few moments of solace
in imaginary flight

Fly free now little sister,
Fly free

I’m so angry
I’m so sad

we always knew you would be first
only we thought you were getting better
more aware,
more in control
you tried hard to be the kind of person
you wanted to be
we wanted you to be
but pretending is hard
and honesty even harder
with lies and secret relief
appeasing, easing your
broken wings
broken heart
broken mind

Fly free now little sister,
Fly free

Poetry Fridays: Love Poem

May 4, 2018

These days I’m connecting up with Kidlitosphere Central for Poetry Friday. Today’s host is Brenda Davis Harsham at Friendly Fairy Tales.

My partner and I have been married for over 42 years. My favourite love poem that fits for us now is Decade by Amy Lowell. Here is my attempt to capture a moment in the ease and contentment of our relationship these days.

love poem

together
decades now
our bodies slip
perfectly
comfortably
into place
back and front
fitting
into each other
softly padded
where bones
once poked
conjoined
our world
aligns itself
mind and muscle
surrender
descend
into
stillness
and sleep

27/30 Poem A Day Challenge & Poetry Friday

April 27, 2018

These days I’m connecting up with Kidlitosphere Central for Poetry Friday. Today’s host is Irene Latham at Live Your Poem.

I have been reading poetry for as long as I can remember. Before I could read it, my mother used to recite Wordsworth to us. I started this poem earlier this month after finishing up a couple of powerful books of poetry back to back. I realize as I post this, that I should have included Dr Seuss in here as one of my first poetry mentors, but for today, here is my homage to at least some of my unwitting mentors.

under the influence

if only
i were a real poet
i would write you a love poem,
but the those poems
have already been written
decade by Amy Lowell
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
by e.e. cummings


if only
i were a real poet
i could sing
dragons into existence
like Ogden Nash
and make you laugh
and happy to be me
with Dennis Lee


if only
i were a real poet
I could write words that bite
with sharp wit
my resumé
like Dorothy Parker's,
would give you reasons for living

if only
i were a real poet
like Sylvia Plath
scrivening sentences 
into strands of black diamonds 
glimmering and glittering
as they slit into bare skin

if only
i were a real poet
punching out poems and
staccatoed sentences
like those of 
Lawrence Ferlinghetti 
and his cronies 
who first made me 
fall in love 
with words

if only
i were a real poet
i could show you what it's like
to be inside and outside
at the same time
and how poetry is discovered
but Marilyn Nelson
has already been there

if only
i were a real poet
perhaps I could
wrangle words
like Bao Phi
who writes weather poems
about raindrops with more humanity
and promise
than many people I know


if only
i were a real poet
i might write
about being invisible
and under attack 
at the same time
but Leanne Betasamosake Simpson
has already wordsmithed them


if only
i were a real poet
like El Jones and Shane Koyczan
I would pen passionate
spoken word sonnets
of truth and activism
and wake you up


if only
i were a real poet
i could whisper words
like the best of them
and you would see the world
how i see it

if only
i were a real poet



Previous Posts for 2018 Poem A Day Challenge

1. Easter Sunday Rumination on Eggs
2. Tulips
3. Untitled
4. Waiting
5. Truce
6. Thaumaturgy
7. Untitled dodoitsu
8. To Do List
9. Anniversary
10. Tribulation
11. Story Is Who We Are
12. Fears
13. Another Poem
14. Morning Headache
15. Love
16. Greg
17. Gift
18. Ceremony
19. Waiting
20. Storm
21. Ada
22. Haiku
23. Haiku
24. things
25. Funeral
26. Light