short & sweet

Well, I'm back, thanks to the week I've spent planning my first middle school teaching unit on poetry! I don't much like haikus, but I absolutely love poems that could almost be haikus. Here are some awesome ones:

First, a classic by Ezra Pound.

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

It's just the perfect juxtaposition of images... the blurred image of pink faces through a rain-spattered window, the pink petals quivering in the wind.

I don't really know who Charles Reznikoff is, but I came across these clever poems in one of my anthologies.

The Bridge

In a cloud bones of steel.

Epitaph

Not the five feet of water to your chin

but the inch above the tip of your nose.

The Old Man

The fish has too many bones

and the watermelon too many seeds.

Finally, the double meaning of this one by Robert Bly just makes me giggle.

Their Sex Life

One failure on

Top of another

winter poem #2

Since it is FREEZING right now and Christmas is coming, I'm going to focus on winter poems for awhile. To start out, here's one of my favorites:

Oranges

The first time I walked

With a girl, I was twelve,

Cold, and weighted down

With two oranges in my jacket.

December. Frost cracking

Beneath my steps, my breath

Before me, then gone,

As I walked toward

Her house, the one whose

Porch light burned yellow

Night and day, in any weather.

A dog barked at me, until

She came out pulling

At her gloves, face bright

With rouge. I smiled,

Touched her shoulder, and led

Her down the street, across

A used car lot and a line

Of newly planted trees,

Until we were breathing

Before a drugstore. We

Entered, the tiny bell

Bringing a saleslady

Down a narrow aisle of goods.

I turned to the candies

Tiered like bleachers,

And asked what she wanted -

Light in her eyes, a smile

Starting at the corners

Of her mouth. I fingered

A nickel in my pocket,

And when she lifted a chocolate

That cost a dime,

I didn't say anything.

I took the nickel from

My pocket, then an orange,

And set them quietly on

The counter. When I looked up,

The lady's eyes met mine,

And held them, knowing

Very well what it was all

About.

Outside,

A few cars hissing past,

Fog hanging like old

Coats between the trees.

I took my girl's hand

In mine for two blocks,

Then released it to let

Her unwrap the chocolate.

I peeled my orange

That was so bright against

The gray of December

That, from a distance,

Someone might have thought

I was making a fire in my hands.

-- Gary Soto

One thing I love about this poem is the vivid imagery: the porch light glowing on the frost, the candies, the fog "hanging like old coats," and especially the last few lines. There are certain poems that make me want to paint them - like the balloon-man poem, which always makes me think of watercolors - and this is definitely one of them. Just imagine how extraordinary that orange looks in the boy's hands as he looks down at them, right after holding hands with his girl for two blocks.

Apparently, I have a thing for poems involving oranges.

what's he talking about?

I realized I haven't posted a poem for quite awhile! Here's a quirky one by another of my favorite poets, Frank O'Hara. There are a lot of references to random people, many of whom I'd never heard of before, so I've created links to information about some of them to better inform the poem. Most of them are pretty straightforward but hey, it's nice to know! Hover over the name for a brief overview of why the person is being referenced, or click for a link to more information.

Lines for the Fortune Cookies

I think you're wonderful and so does everyone else.

Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you -- even bigger.

You will meet a tall beautiful blonde stranger, and you will not say hello.

You will take a long trip and you will be very happy, though alone.

You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.

In the beginning there was YOU -- there will always be YOU, I guess.

You will write a great play and it will run for three performances.

Please phone The Village Voice immediately: they want to interview you.

Roger L. Stevens and Kermit Bloomgarden have their eyes on you.

Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.

Your first volume of poetry will be published as soon as you finish it.

You may be a hit uptown, but downtown you're legendary!

Your walk as a musical quality which will bring you fame and fortune.

You will eat cake.

Who do you think you are, anyway? Jo Van Fleet?

You think your life is like Pirandello, but it's really like O'Neill.

A few dance lessons with James Waring and who knows? Maybe something will happen.

That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.

I realize you've lived in France, but that doesn't mean you know EVERYTHING!

You should wear white more often -- it becomes you.

The next person to speak to you will have a very intriguing proposal to make.

A lot of people in this room wish they were you.

Have you been to Mike Goldberg's* show? Al Leslie's? Lee Krasner's?

At times, your disinterestedness may seem insincere, to strangers.

Now that the election's over, what are you going to do with yourself?

You are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it.

You eat meat. Why do you eat meat?

Beyond the horizon there is a vale of gloom.

You too could be Premier of France, if only ... if only ...

*Frank O'Hara has another excellent poem about his process as a poet compared to Mike Goldberg's process as an artist. I love this one too:

Why I Am Not A Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.

Why? I think I would rather be

a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg

is starting a painting. I drop in.

"Sit down and have a drink" he

says. I drink; we drink. I look

up. "You have SARDINES in it."

"Yes, it needed something there."

"Oh." I go and the days go by

and I drop in again. The painting

is going on, and I go, and the days

go by. I drop in. The painting is

finished. "Where's SARDINES?"

All that's left is just

letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of

a color: orange. I write a line

about orange. Pretty soon it is a

whole page of words, not lines.

Then another page. There should be

so much more, not of orange, of

words, of how terrible orange is

and life. Days go by. It is even in

prose, I am a real poet. My poem

is finished and I haven't mentioned

orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call

it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery

I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

the apartment is really cold haha

I think I first discovered this one during some kind of exam... SAT or AP English or maybe the Language Arts Praxis. Regardless, I thought it was just beautiful and it's really stuck with me since then.

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early

And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

-- Robert Hayden

One thing that really resonates for me in this poem is how the father's love is expressed in such a powerful way, but the son doesn't even notice until years later. The reason I though of this one today is that I've been thinking a lot about different ways of expressing caring as I begin to teach. All semester we've all been talking about how important it is to care for our students, but at the same time I feel very aware that I can't just care them into good grades, or healthy choices, or even make them aware of my caring. I had a student test me on my very first day in her classroom and I felt like I didn't handle it as well as I could, yet I tried to make it right and even as she refused to make eye contact I could see (wishful thinking maybe?) that she was listening, but in such a short time it may not be possible to get that relationship to where I would like it to be. A week or two ago one of our professors said teaching is a lonely profession, which I thought was ridiculous because I think it's a profession where colleagues spend a substantial amount of time supporting each other and working together, but these first few days in the classroom have made me see that it can be lonely when you're trying so hard to connect with students and a misstep makes the connection more difficult. I guess all I can do when that situation arises is not take it personally, keep caring and hope that we find some common ground.

Langston Hughes double feature

Theme for English B

The instructor said:

Go home and write

a page tonight.

And let that page come out of you --

Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?

I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.

I went to school there, then Durham, then here

to this college on the hill above Harlem.

I am the only colored student in my class.

The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem

through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,

Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,

the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator

up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:

hear you, hear me -- we too -- you, me, talk on this page.

(I hear New York too.) Me -- who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,

or records -- Bessie, bop, or Bach.

I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like

the same things other folks like who are other races.

So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be

a part of you, instructor.

You are white --

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That's American.

Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.

Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that's true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me --

although you're older -- and white --

and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Langston Hughes is just a master of rhythm when it comes to poetry. Many of his poems are inspired by the Harlem Renaissance and have a jazzy feel to them, but I love how this one in particular features an unusual beat ("hear you, hear me -- we too -- you, me...") combined with a sort of academic stream-of-consciousness. I also think it's fascinating how he incorporates rhyme seamlessly with free verse, and includes the cheeky asides like "That's American" while at the same time presenting some deep musings about race.

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore --

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over --

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

in the beginning

E. E. Cummings is one of my favorite poets so he'll be showing up here quite a bit. I'm starting with this one, though, because I think of it as the first poem that made me love poetry. I discovered it in 5th grade during our poetry project - I don't remember if I found it myself or if the teacher showed it to us, but it really stuck with me. In fact, my only other memory of the entire project was staying up super late typing my anthology the night before it was due. This one is far from my favorite Cummings poem, but I think the reason it made such an impact was that before, my only real exposure to poetry had been Shel Silverstein, and this honestly might be the first time I realized poems don't have to rhyme!

in Just-

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

Reading over it, I really don't think much of this poem at all. I just remember being intrigued by the fact that the balloonman is "goat-footed" and the repetition in different formats of "far and wee." The one thing I do just love about this one is Cummings' delightful word choice. Some of my absolute favorite adjectives (what, you don't have a favorite adjective?) are "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful."

a lonely poem

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

-- Stevie Smith

I love the imagery of this poem, the idea of the drowning man frantically gesturing for help as his friends happily wave from the shore, oblivious to his struggles. And I love the emotion and the implication of the pair of lines "I was further out than you thought" and "I was much too far out all my life" - many of his pleas went unanswered because they weren't recognized for what they were. When I feel isolated or lonely I always think of the phrase not waving but drowning because it perfectly encompasses that conflict between wanting to force myself out of isolation by being extra-friendly, and feeling too overwhelmed to make the effort unless someone else meets me halfway.

all about perspective

For some reason this poem is extremely difficult to find online... every time I want to re-read it I have to spend about 15 minutes refining my Google search. Here it is, in honor of my mom finishing (and enjoying!) Life of Pi, which I've been telling her is a great book for years. She finally believes me!

Ultimate Problems

In the Aztec design God crowds

into the little pea that is rolling

out of the picture.

All the rest extends bleaker

because God has gone away.

In the White Man design, though,

no pea is there.

God is everywhere,

but hard to see.

The Aztecs frown at this.

How do you know he is everywhere?

And how did he get out of the pea?

-- William Stafford

welcome to Love That Poem

The title of this blog comes from the book Love That Dog by Sharon Creech, which is in turn inspired by the poem "Love That Boy" by Walter Dean Myers. Sharon Creech is one of my favorite children's authors and her novel is a lovely exploration of the power of poetry, written as the class journal of a boy named Jack. The first time I discovered Love That Dog I read the whole thing at the bookstore. It's easy to read in one sitting and it gets me a little teary-eyed every time.

I love to talk about poetry but sometimes I'm going to refrain from putting too much of my own opinions and interpretations into the posts, because I don't want to influence how you read them before you have a chance to give it some thought yourself. My hope is that you'll respond with your own thoughts! :)

My favorite from Love That Dog:

October 10

What do you mean--

Why does so much depend

upon

a blue car?

You didn't say before

that I had to tell why.

The wheelbarrow guy

didn't tell why.

I also just get a kick out of the last stanza of Jack's poem about Frost:

I think Mr. Robert Frost

has a little

too

much

time

on his

hands.