Reaching for Exoplanets

Exoplanet photo from the Enersec website

Bede's current fascination is with exoplanets, also known as extrasolar planets. I've always been excited by the possibility of planets outside our solar system and life on those planets. Now that the scientists of planet Earth have actually discovered over 300 exoplanets with an estimated hundred billion just in the Milky Way galaxy, I don't feel elated. I'm actually a little depressed about them. Expense and duration of space-travel aside, the radiation from solar-flares make human space-travel so far out of reach.

Speaking of the duration of space-travel, is there anyway we could hurry up the wormhole technology or whatever it's going to take in order to travel great distances? We won't see proper photos of Pluto for another 5 1/2 years, but at least there's a good chance I'll see them in my lifetime.

I'm not much of a traveler here on Earth. I'd always dreamed of visiting different places, but I don't even like to drive the car over the bridge to Puget Sound's East Side. Still, there is something within that is akin to an ache for humans to travel through space. The premise of Sylvia Louise Engdahl's early books was that every civilization reached a critical point where they would choose either to focus their energies on space travel or on destroying each other. On some level, I still believe that as well.

I remember the first time I heard Carl Sagan utter the words, "The Cosmos is all that is, or ever was, or ever will be." I was eight or nine years old. At the time, I had no idea that Sagan was an atheist, and I would have been incredulous had you told me. It gave me shivers that were part expectation, part longing. When I looked at the night sky, and rather than feeling insignificant, I had a glimpse of Albert Einstein's "sensation of the mystical":

The most beautiful and most profound experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the sower of all true science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms - this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.

Since this is Poetry Friday, it is fitting to end with the two most vivid lines from the poem about the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe, The Old Astronomer to His Pupil, by Sarah Williams:

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

Wandering Aengus and Moth Boy

From "The Song of Wandering Aengus" by William Butler Yeats:

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

You may read the rest of the poem here.

I was 12 or 13 when I first read this poem, and I loved it so much I memorized it. I discovered the poem through Ray Bradbury's book of short stories called The Golden Apples of the Sun, the title of which is the last line of the Yeats poem.

While I was stitching up Moth Boy (obtained from a kit with a few modifications), I kept thinking of the poem. It didn't occur to me until now that associating Moth Boy with the poem was a bit humorous regarding the line "... fire was in my head." I decided that to earn his title, Moth Boy needed more than a lantern to attract the moths, and so I gave him orange-red hair. Here is the front of Moth Boy:



Moth Boy is so irresistable that he even has one of these crepuscular creatures hitchhiking on his back:



This week's Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted at Picture Book of the Day. I'm sure that this is not the first time "The Song of Wandering Aengus" has been featured on Poetry Friday. As a reminder, anyone in the blogosphere is eligible to participate in Poetry Friday.

Sunbeams and lanterns in late winter

Photo from the BBC South Yorkshire Winter Photos site

The golden crocus reaches up
To catch a sunbeam in her cup. -Walter Crane

Last May, when I had just received my new camera with the video feature, I recorded my daughter singing the Crocus song she learned at school. Despite the rough quality and the click at the end (I hadn't yet figured out how to edit, so everything was a one-take feature), you at least hear the tune for the song:

Crocus, crocus, waking up
Catch a sunbeam in your cup
Hold it tight, let it go,
Li-la, Li-la, li-lay-lo.


In the stories my family tells, crocuses and snowdrops are best friends because they're usually the first bulb flowers to poke their noses out of the ground. Recently, I composed a verse for the snowdrop:

Snowdrop, snowdrop, hanging down
Lantern shining in the town
Cold winds blow, you still grow,
Li-la, Li-la, li-lay-lo.



Photo from Irish Gardeners

You may wonder just where that snowdrop lantern shining in the town may be. Check a copy of Voices in the Park, by Anthony Browne. You'll find it. Speaking of Voices in the Park, I've had that book for years, and for awhile, each time I read it aloud to my daughter, I discovered something in the pictures I hadn't noticed before.

Nature Table Figures: The Spring Collection

Ever since 1987, I've wanted to write for the J. Peterman Company. Whenever I write a description for an auction catalog item, J. Peterman's influence is present. I keep meaning to dig out the letter J. Peterman wrote to me in response to an impassioned plea to bring back the "Jane Austen dress," a simple but elegant gown I wanted to wear for my theoretical wedding.

Here my Spring Shade Garden Collection nature table dolls for the school auction:


Johnny Jump-Up, Wake-Robin Trillium, and Bleeding Heart

1. Johnny Jump-Up is a 5 ½ nature table figure inspired by the part-shade perennial also known as heartsease and referred to as “Love-in-idleness” by Oberon, King of the Fairies, in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.* This garden jester is dressed in yellow, purple and green with a removable lined vest. He is created out of wool and cotton plus metal pipe-cleaners for the arms, legs and flower staff. He can stand without support as long as his legs are bowed. Johnny-Jump Up will bring color and joy to your early summer nature table for years provided he is kept out of reach from animals and children who still put toys in their mouths.

2.Wake-Robin Trillium is a 5 ¼ inch nature table figure inspired by the three-petal woodland perennial. Most trillium flowers are white, but Wake-Robin wears a skirt of three deep red petals complemented by three dark green leaves. A simple garland of green merino wool adorns her auburn French twist. She is created out of wool and cotton plus metal pipe-cleaners for the arms and flower staff as well as metallic embroidery threads that border the sleeves and underskirt. While you should never pick trillium from the wild without a permit, Lady Wake-Robin will gladly come indoors to grace your spring nature table. However, she should be kept out of reach from animals and children who still put toys in their mouths.

3.Bleeding Heart is a 5 ¼ inch nature table figure inspired by the heart-shaped garden perennial and created for the person who can’t get enough of the color pink. Her ball-gown is decorated with tête de boeuf, wheat-ear, chain, petal and point russe embroidery stitches. Gold metallic thread winds through her hair of many braids. She is created out of wool and cotton plus metal pipe-cleaners for the arms and flower staff. While her natural counterpart is a shade-plant, Lady Bleeding Heart does not shrink from the spotlight. However, in order to assure that she blooms for months and returns the following year, she should be kept out of reach from animals and children who still put toys in their mouths.

*That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west,
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
--A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II, Scene 1

Poetry Friday: Dandelion, the golden summer queen

I've created three summer-themed nature table figures for my daughter's school auction. Here is the description I've submitted:

Chances are that as a child, you enjoyed blowing dandelion “clocks” and couldn’t understand why grownups looked askance as the multitudes of seeds parachuted over their lawns and gardens. Now, you can enjoy the beauty of dandelions without the drawbacks by way of your summer nature table. Lady Dandelion is created out of wool and cotton plus metal pipe-cleaners for the arms and staff. She is dressed in gold, green and white with embroidered details and stands 5 inches tall. Her flower staff is guaranteed not to go to seed.

This dandelion doll was inspired by a poem in the out-of-print poetry book The Winds that Come From Far Away, by Else Holmelund Minarik (the author of the Little Bear books). Not too long ago, I found the poem in my collection of clippings and scribblings from my New York Public Library days. Here is the poem:

I am the sun in sky of green
I am the golden summer queen.
I’m the friend to every child
Because I’m strong and bright and wild!

Grown-ups cut me when they mow—
forget they loved me long ago.
But when I’m gone, then don’t you sorrow.
I’ll be back again tomorrow!


Here is Lady Dandelion with her summer nature table companions, Lady Forget-Me-Not and Lady Fuchsia:



And now, I'm off to dig some spiky-leafed weeds out of my flower-beds.

P.S. I cannot recommend highly enough Mary Thomas's Dictionary of Embroidery Stitches. I've given you the Amazon link because it has the most information out of all the online bookstore links I've seen. I work with the book in my lap, as most of the techniques are new to me. As I mentioned in the comments, the basic stitches I used for these dolls were:

Blanket stitch-- for sewing felt pieces together with the raw sides out-- no seam allowance needed.

Chain stitch-- a simple loop stitch that allows one to make lines and curves easily.

French knot-- for dots. Sometimes my French knots don't get tucked in all the way, and I just anchor the knot with a few tiny regular "in and out" stitches

Daisy stitch-- these are the loops for flower petals. Once you learn the chain stitch, you'll have the "aha!" moment with the daisy stitch.

I used a wheatear stitch for the dandelion hem, and added green French knots to it. Wheatear is quite accessible, but I recommend that you be familiar with the chain stitch first.


This week's Poetry Friday Roundup is at Laura Salas: Writing the World For Kids.

Poetry Friday: Jack-'o-lantern

Many thanks to Sam Riddleburger and Cece Bell for their pumpkin carving tutorial. Bede used a dry-wall saw to carve this jack-'o-lantern, whom he has named "Isabelle":



Last year, my daughter learned this song at her school, which she sang after we lit the jack-o'-lantern and turned out all the lights:

Jack-'o-lantern, Jack-'o-lantern
You are such a pretty sight
As you sit there in the window
Looking out at the night.
You were once a yellow pumpkin
Growing on a sturdy vine
Now you are my Jack-'o-lantern
Let your candle light shine.

(Author unknown)


Here is the tune:


The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Poetry for Children.

Poetry Friday: Someone, by Walter de la Mare

In 1997, for my first library Halloween storytime ever, I used the poem "Someone," by Walter de la Mare and had the audience tap on the floor with their knuckles while I said the words. I tried to use poetry in later storytimes, but I never felt as if I had the knack for sharing it properly. When I started to learn guitar, I realized that I wanted to set poems to music so that sharing them would come more naturally to me. I've already done that with Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Swing," and Lewis Carroll's "The Lobster Quadrille." I enjoy singing Eugene Field's "Wynken, Blynken and Nod," too.

I've wanted to set "Someone" to music for some time now, and finally have a simple melody to play. Now, the question is, "Will this song be appealing to children?" I like to bring new stories and songs to Third Place Books, as I've been performing there almost every month, and sometimes get the same crowds of people. One of the things I miss about having a library job is working with groups who come in on a regular basis.

Here is my video for Walter de la Mare's "Someone":



And here is the poem itself, published in Peacock Pie in 1913:

“Someone” by Walter de La Mare

Someone came knocking
At my wee, small door;
Someone came knocking;
I'm sure-sure-sure;
I listened, I opened,
I looked to left and right,
But nought there was a stirring
In the still dark night;
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall,
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.

Since I have the chutzpah to make this poem a Song of the Week, here are the chords I used:


Click on the image in order to enlarge it

The Poetry Friday roundup is at Becky's Book Reviews today.

Jack Be Nimble: Theme and Variation in American Lit

In my junior year at Goshen College, a small, liberal arts Mennonite school, I took an American Literature Survey course. Our big project for the end of the semester was a term paper (I wrote mine on E.E. Cummings), a timeline, a few other things I can't remember but which seemed important at the time, and a creative piece. In the class, there was a quiet guy who had transfered to my college as a senior, although I didn't know it at the time. When it was time to share our creative projects, he pulled out a series of poems based on the nursery rhyme, "Jack Be Nimble" as if it had been written by different American authors and poets.

I thought it was funny. I thought it was brilliant. I wish I had written it myself. So did my classmates! When the English department newsletter printed it, I stuck it to my bulletin board. The following year, I found out that the American Literature professor had everyone in his class write parodies in a similar vein.

Years later, I looked for the Jack Be Nimble project among my papers, but couldn't find it. I wanted to share it with other people, but I couldn't remember more than the gist of the Walt Whitman section followed by Emily Dickinson and Gwendolyn Brooks. I couldn't even remember the name of the guy who wrote it-- all that I knew was that he had shown up one year, and was gone the next.

Then, K.Jay of Amish Guitar wrote to me after finding the chords to a Mennonite hymn I had posted, and pointed out that we were English majors together for a brief time. I didn't really remember him, but we had enough in common that we struck up an online friendship. Earlier this week, after discussing poetry, K.Jay wrote, "As a treat I pulled out a old assignment from American Lit. I hope you find amusement in it."

It was the Jack project! Suddenly, I remembered K.Jay perfectly, and told him how much we all enjoyed his poems. K.Jay gave me permission to publish them here for Poetry Friday:

The Mother Goose rhyme:

Jack be nimble.
Jack be quick.
Jack jump over the candlestick.

* * *

Walt Whitman

Jack and Jane, Bill and Sarah
Mike, Lisa, Fred and Barney.
All of us
and me
and you.
We are nimble, quick, and agile.
Lively, spry, deft and dexterous.
For the impulsion to lift ourselves over the candlestick.
We can. We can do it.
The challenge is ours.

Emily Dickinson

Jack.
Stick.
Jump.

Gwendolyn Brooks

That Jack. He
Be nimble. He
Be quick. He
Jump stick. He
Fall down. He
Hit ground.

e. e. cummings

@jack is jump
nimble, bimble, up, down.
all over town%(>>
candlestick over jump he
nimble, bimble, up, *down.

J. D. Salinger

Well, you know, Jack. I mean, Jack, He is quick and all. I mean quick and nimble and all. God. I mean he jumps over candlesticks and everything. That is, a candlestick. I mean Jack could, if he wanted to, jump over the candlestick and all. God.

Edward Albee

THE STORY OF JACK AND THE CANDLESTICK
I looked at the candlestick and I think it looked back at me if you know what I mean. At first I tried to be nimble. But soon I found that I also had to be quick. But then I took another look at the candlestick as it dared me to jump over it. I jumped over it. And then the candlestick and I became friends.

* * *

©K.Jay 1993, 2008

By the way, there is an unofficial saying among the Mennonites, based on a potato-chip commerical: "Mennonites. You can't meet just one." Although there may be only one and a half million Mennonites in the whole world, chances are that if you (1) are Mennonite (2) meet another Mennonite, you will find out that (a) you are cousins (b) someone in his or her family dated and/or is married to someone in your family. As far as we know, K.Jay and I are not cousins, but one of his wife's ancestors broke his engagement to one of my ancestors! (We don't harbor any hard feelings about the matter.)

This week's Poetry Friday Round-up is at The Well-Read Child.

Poetry Friday: You and Me, May Be

In college, I was good friends with Erika of the vibrant red hair and chocolate brown eyes. When Erika started to date Mark, my fellow English major, we all were pleased. They were great together, and they didn't make their single friends feel awkward with all of their smoochiness. We knew they were bound to get married, but they wanted the engagement to be an event of sorts. Mark took his time. Sometimes, Erika would yell to Mark across campus, "Slow!" Mark told Erika that when he proposed, the whole campus would know.

Mark and I were both on the board of a poetry publication called Broadside. Normally, the submissions we'd get would be anonymous (unless they were by Seamus Heany, Denise Levertov, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, or Gwendolyn Brooks, and yes, I'm showing off now). However, Mark submitted the following poem signed with his name:



Mark was open to some suggestions for tweaking the poem, but not to others. "Rhyme and rhythm stays," he said. I noted privately that it was intriguing as to why Mark had chosen to justify the margins of the poem, but foolish mortal that I was, didn't pursue the matter.

We published the poem as we did all the Broadside poems: on a single piece of heavy paper, with the poet signing each one for a byline. Everyone on campus who subscribed to Broadside received the poem. Soon after, I got an excited phone call from Erika. "Mark proposed! Mark proposed!" she said. She told me that he read the poem aloud to her and then told her to read the first and last letters down each side of the poem: They spelled, "WILL YOU marry me."

Some of the grownup subscribers in the community complained that they thought the poem was misogynistic, but when one of the English professors pointed out the double acrostic, they said, "Oh, okay then." It was usually fun when a Broadside poem raised any sort of fuss, because it was evidence that the poetry did matter.

Mark and Erika got married at the college church. It was a lovely service, the maids of honor wore green velvet dresses, and Erika played violin at the reception. Many professors were invited, too, and the same English professor who came to Mark's defense of the poem originally said to me, "Just so you know, we professors love going to our students' weddings. That is a hint!" (Unfortunately, none of them were able to make it out to my Seattle wedding, but so it goes.)

Epilogue: Mark is an associate History professor at Eastern Mennonite University. Erika teaches nursing at James Madison University and is completing her Ph.D in Nursing at the University of Virginia. They are raising two children. Mark just got a Fulbright scholarship and is heading to Croatia, and his family will join him later in the year. As far as I know, they are all living happily ever after.

Sarah Reinhard of Just Another Day of Catholic Pondering is doing the Poetry Friday Roundup in the Kidlitosphere. Speaking of the Kidlitosphere, have you thought anymore about going to the Second Annual Kidlitosphere Conference in Portland, Oregon? If it is at all feasible for you to go, I'd love to see you there.

Poetry Friday: Night Walks with a Heavy Step

Here is the post I wrote last year about Santa Lucia Day. Today, Bede is dropping our own Lucia off at school, and I hope he gets to stay for the singing. The second graders visit each classroom while singing "Santa Lucia" songs, and leave sweet bread (not sweetbread!) for everyone. Last year, I cried during the singing. Lucia's teacher reassured me that this was a normal reaction to the Santa Lucia Day celebration.

Here is the translation (courtesy of Mama Lisa's World Blog) of the Santa Lucia song:

Night Walks with a Heavy Step

Night walks with a heavy step
Round yard and hearth,
As the sun departs from earth,
Shadows are brooding.
There in our dark house,
Walking with lit candles,
Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

You will find the last two verses here, plus a MIDI, sheet music, and a video of the song in Swedish.

Poetry Friday: Lobster Quadrille

[I found the photo of the snail here.]

Lucy and Carly Simon set Lewis Carroll's "The Lobster Quadrille" (from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland) to music. So did I (soundfile forthcoming someday). There's a good chapter on the poem in Jacqueline Jackson's out-of-print homage to writing and reading children's books, Turn Not Pale Beloved Snail, a book that heavily inspired my childhood stories and poems.


THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE

"Will you walk a little faster?"
Said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us,
And he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters
And the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle -
Will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you,
Won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you,
Won't you, won't you join the dance?

"You can really have notion
How delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us,
With the lobsters, out to sea!"
But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!"
And gave a look askance -
Said he thanked the whiting kindly,
But he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not,
Could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not,
Could not, could not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?"
His scaly friend replied,
"There is another shore, you know,
Upon the other side.
The further off from England
The nearer is to France -
Then turn not pale, beloved snail,
But come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you,
Won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you,
Won't you, won't you join the dance?
--Lewis Carroll


Today's Poetry Friday Roundup is at Big A little a.

Poetry Friday: Swampland Lullaby

Here's another song for the Mitzi Drives the Bus EP:

Swampland Lullaby
Lyrics: Farida Dowler
Music: James Royce Shannon "Toora Loora Looral (That's an Irish Lullaby")

Over in the marshes
Many nights ago
The spring frog croaked his songs of love
With sweet tones from below.*
He couldn’t call with gusto
For the owls were on the wing--
With fine-tuned ears they’d hunt him,
So he softly had to sing:

Pi-po-pi-po-pi-po, Pi-po-pi-po-pie
Pi-po-pi-po-pi-po, the bugs and gnats do fly
The world is always hungry, someday we all shall die,
Pi-po-pi-po-pi-po, that’s a swampland lullaby.

Today's Poetry Friday Roundup (and you can join in too) is at AmoxCalli

*Recently changed from "tones so sweet and low" because spring peepers' calls are actually high pitched. You can listen to the "pi-po" of the spring peeper here.

Poetry Friday: Bric-A-Brac

My Poetry Friday contribution today is a piece by Dorothy Parker. For anyone interested in seeing Robert Altman's Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, I recommend first reading the biography What Fresh Hell is This? by Marion Meade so that you can actually understand some of the fleeting scenes and vignettes that have more meaning in a bigger context.

Bric-A-Brac

Little things that no one needs --
Little things to joke about --
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
Little wreaths of gilded grass,
Little brigs of whittled oak
Bottled painfully in glass;
These are made by lonely folk.
Lonely folk have lines of days
Long and faltering and thin;
Therefore -- little wax bouquets,
Prayers cut upon a pin,
Little maps of pinkish lands,
Little charts of curly seas,
Little plats of linen strands,
Little verses, such as these.

--Dorothy Parker

Read the rest of the Poetry Friday Roundup over at HipWriterMama.

Poetry Friday: Hope is the Thing With Feathers

The first lines of the "Hope is a thing without feathers" poem by Emily Dickinson have been running through my head lately. I'm going through a bit of a rough patch these days as the House of Glee figures out its finances and sometimes I feel shaky with anxiety. Even the good news of having two contracts to sign for upcoming storytelling festivals has me a bit off-balance with worrying in advance. (What if the sound equipment doesn't work properly? What if my voice fails? What if my fingers are so sweaty that they slip on the guitar strings?) Every time I think that perhaps I should just give up this idea of freelance storytelling, I remind myself that I earn as much in one birthday party gig as I do working four hours at the library information desk. Birthday parties don't cover health insurance, but then, I can't play my guitar to the information desk. It's a tradeoff.

Anyway, I'm returning to Emily Dickinson to clear my mind. I suspect that other Dickinson fans have already posted this poem for Poetry Friday. Well, here it comes around again!

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
--Emily Dickinson

The Poetry Friday Roundup this week is at Semicolon. It is open to everyone, every week.

Poetry Friday: Tarantella

"Tarantella," by Hilaire Belloc, was one of the poems used in a speech workshop I took last month with speech, drama and movement coach Geoff Norris. Prior to the workshop, I'd only known of Belloc's lighter verse.

Tarantella
by Hilaire Belloc (1870 - 1953)

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.

Today's Poetry Friday Roundup is at Big A little a.

Poetry Friday: This Century of Sleep

This Century of Sleep
Or, Briar Rose Beneath the Waves

Her bones do not betray the years she’s slept
beneath the ocean of her wan exile.
Her skull, pale as a mushroom’s root, round as
an oyster’s house, defies the tides that stroked
her cheeks into thin, ragged strips against
the sharp-toothed shells. Although her sallow
fingertips tap dirges on her knees, and
shoulders sag against the seaweed tangled
in her toes, her eye-wells cradle coral
fires within their excavated caves.

She waits to wake until the ocean thaws.

The wind peels back the waves like linen sheets
and sucks upon the juices of the sea
as if it were a grape. The raw arousal
rising from this century of sleep
denies the hero’s swordfish mouth. She knows
no kiss can lift the spindle’s fall, the gall
within the witch’s curse, the sleep that was
not sleep. Her breath hangs stale. The yellowed jaw
gapes loose from famine but her coral eyes
smoke cinders as she burns her satin bed.

Copyright 1995 by Farida S. T. Shapiro
Poem reprinted with the author’s permission (!)

***

“You do know that you won’t be able to make a living writing poetry,” my advisor said to me during my sophomore year of college.

“Yes,” I replied. “I know.” However, secretly I thought I was going to make my living writing chapter-books. I'd carried this assumption with me from early childhood on up.

I wrote “This Century of Sleep” during my senior year of college. I had taken a Folklore class my sophomore year, which had rejuvinated an interest in fairy tales. I'd also read Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. The Inuit story “Skeleton Woman” inspired me in particular. (This period of time was long before I decided to leave alone Native American stories in order to focus on folktales people were actually willing for me to retell.) A year later, I sent my poem to Jane Yolen after reading her picture book version of Sleeping Beauty and her novel Briar Rose. To my surprise, Yolen sent it onto her editor. Her editor contacted me for permission to include it in the fairy tale collection Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears.

I had another poem published a year earlier in a now-defunct women's humor magazine. After publishing “This Century of Sleep, ”I thought I was on my way with my career as a writer. However, the chapters I wrote for a book project were deeply unsatisfying. I abandoned that project to work on another. During the second project, I started to suspect that my desire to write was greater than the story I actually had to tell. When my third project fizzled despite lots of notes for background story plus a few good paragraphs, I finally understood that chapter-books were beyond my scope. I could write a good 2000 word short story every few years, plus lots of 5-6 paragraph vignettes, but I was better at telling other people’s stories than creating my own.

As I reread the poem I wrote over 10 years ago, I can’t say I understand it all. “This Century of Sleep” was one of my serious poems meant for publication, though all the while I wrote light, silly rhymes and songs for my friends’ amusement. What I appreciate most about the poem is that its publication was in the manner of a fairy tale: an aspiring writer sends her poem to a much-admired established writer, and that established writer says, “I like it! This poem should be published!” Thank you, Jane Yolen (and Ellen Datlow, too!), for that pinch of pixie dust.

Miss Rumphius is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup today.

Poetry Friday: Carl Sandburg's "Be Ready"

Dedication at the beginning of Carl Sandburg's Wind Song:

Dear young folks:
Some poems may please you for half a minute & you don't care whether you keep them or not. Other poems you may feel to be priceless & you hug them to your heart to keep for sure. Here in this book poems of each kind may be found: you do the finding.

I sign this book for you saying love & blessings: may luck stars ever be over you.

Carl Sandburg



BE READY

Be land ready
for you shall go back to land.

Be sea ready
for you have been nine-tenths water
and the salt taste shall cling to your mouth.

Be sky ready
for air, air, has been so needful to you -
you shall go back, back to the sky.

(--Carl Sandburg (from Wind Song, 1960)

MsMac is rounding up the Poetry Friday posts at Check it Out.

Poetry Friday: "Anthem"

Guernica, by Pablo Picasso

Whenever I hear Leonard Cohen's song "Anthem," I think of Picasso's Guernica... and vice versa:

The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
Has passed away
Or what is yet to be

The wars they will
Be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
Bought and sold
And bought again
The dove is never free

Chorus
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in

Read the rest of Leonard Cohen's lyrics here.



This week's Poetry Friday Roundup is at Mentor Texts.

Poetry Friday: Putting the Good Things Away

Putting the Good Things Away, by Marge Piercy

In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.

Daily she put on schmatehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty

even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,

to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.

Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups

for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment....

Read the rest of the poem here

.

My grandmother on my father's side bought a blue silk kimono in case she ever had to go to the hospital. She didn't want to wear the hospital gowns, after all. My grandma tucked away the blue silk kimono, but when one of her daughters admired it so, my grandmother gave it to her. Some time after, my grandmother found a green silk kimono to wear for that day in the future when she might have to go to the hospital. Her other daughter admired it so, and thus my grandmother gave away the green kimono. My grandmother then bought a bright red kimono. She showed it to me, and told me about how she had already given away the other two kimonos. "It is indeed a lovely kimono," I said.

"You should take it then," she said.

"But what about when you go to the hospital?" I asked.

"Eh!" she said with scorn, and made me take the red kimono.

Some time after that, my grandmother did have to go to the hospital. She wore the hospital gowns. A year later, when I was in college, I ruefully sent her "Putting the Good Things Away" and my own response poem about my grandmother, written in my Women's Poetry and Performance class.

Today's Poetry Friday Roundup is at Farm School.

Poetry Friday: the barking, barking dog

My neighborhood is noisy. We hear cars that speed down our street emitting music from super-enhanced speakers. We hear popping noises that could be cars backfiring (we hope). Sometimes, we hear the crash of cars in our intersection during the middle of the night, because someone thought it would be safe to run a red light. On weekends, we have various charities screeching, "Carwash! Carwash!" in the parking lot of the Grocery Outlet. In the moments between all of the human and machine-made din, the dogs bark. And bark. And bark. They're keeping the houses safe. I dedicate this poem to the barking dogs of my neighborhood:

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Today's Poetry Friday roundup is over at Shaken & Stirred.