POEM #6- CATHEDRAL

Woman Fishing, from Mary Lee at Year of Reading

My first thought when I saw Mary Lee's picture this morning
"Are you kidding ?
Now I'm supposed to write about fly fishing?"
I don't know one single thing about fly fishing.
When I write anything.
I try hard to write small.
It's hard to write small when you don't know anything. 

And then I listened to the poem
Kevin had already written, recorded and posted.
I listened to his poem once, twice, three times.
Wow. Just wow.
I was totally intimidated.

 I tried to write. A few words emerged on the page. 

She, the intrepid warrior
mounts her perch.

And then I thought about fish in the Bible.
    - I will make you fishers of men
    - loaves and fishes
    - the disciples bringing up the nets full of fish

And I thought about a time when I was a little girl, and we went fishing with a friend of my dad's. My father was from Detroit, and my mother was from Chicago, and we were not a fishing kind of family. I remember my mom standing in the kitchen packing a laundry basket full of something- food? extra clothes?  And then I remember my father falling into the water and his khaki wash pants being wet to the knees.

And then I thought about a time the summer I adopted the boys, when a man let the boys borrow his fishing pole and try their hand in the filthy, duck-poopy lake at Washington Park. And the boys caught a fish and put it in a plastic bag and tied it to their bike handlebars, and rode home, but about a block from home, it fell out on the street, and fish goo squished out, and the boys made me pick it up and carry the bag home. And I washed my hand off under the outside spigot because I didn't want fish goo in the sink in the house. And then I wasn't sure what to do with the fish in the bag.

And then I went about my day-- did a 5k walk for Brain Tumor research this morning, and then went on to a baby shower. Came home and walked the dog. As I walked, I thought about the photograph. I thought about how Kevin had framed it like it was a conversation between two men, watching this a woman do something that was probably completely out of character for that time period.

I wondered about that woman. I thought she was probably single. I thought about my life as a single woman. I thought about how she might have pushed aside a life of domesticity for a life of adventure. And this stanza came.

Not for her
a steepled sanctuary  
with its daily devotions
of domesticity 
submitting to another
suckling babies
washing windows
laboring in a hot kitchen 

And then it wasn't going that great. Because I like things in threes and I couldn't figure out what other domestic tasks I might want to use. And I kept thinking about pioneer women doing laundry.

I opened a new window to see what people were posting on Facebook. I looked to see if Twister, the puppy from www.explore.org had made it to his new home in Seattle. I procrastinated for as long as I possibly could.

And I thought about how much I hate writing at night.
And about how I should really turn off the basketball game so it would be quiet, because I really write better in the quiet.
And I thought about not writing a poem today.
And I wondered if it would really matter if I skipped a day. 
And then finally I wrote.
And I was totally surprised by the direction it went.
And I'm not thrilled, but a poem is a poem. Right?


"Cathedral"

Sunday.
Not for her
a steepled sanctuary  
hard wooden pews
raging orations
Hymns from the burgundy
robed choir 
mixing in a smoky haze
with yesterday's gossip.

Instead
she hikes her skirt
and climbs a rock pulpit
to worship
in a cathedral 
of rushing water.
 River choir
sings glory hallelujah
As she casts her line
And lifts her heart
heavenward.

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013

POEM #5- MIDDLE SCHOOL RECESS DUTY

 Wikimedia Commons

Today Mary Lee posted this picture, and also some audio of wolves, all found on Wikimedia Commons. You need to go to Year of Reading and check out their poems. I really am serious about writing a poem every day this month, but I also wanted to review DESTINY REWRITTEN, a middle grade novel with poetry at its center. This, then, is a quick ten minute write. But it counts, right?

"Middle School Recess Duty"

Handsome
Eighth grade
he wolves
point noses skyward
and howl
passion
at gorgeous she wolves
preening themselves
in the sun
by the jungle gym

while
sixth and seventh grade
wolves
crawl on their bellies
whimpering
acquiescence.

POETRY FRIDAY- DESTINY REWRITTEN by Kathryn Fitzmaurice

HAPPY POETRY FRIDAY!

Head over to Robyn Hood Black's place for lots of terrific poetry!

I interrupt this month of poetry (and I figure it's ok to interrupt it, since I actually have been writing poetry all week and am totally exhausted by writing poetry, because it's very hard work, kind of like trying to line up spaghetti and don't know how all of you real poets do it every single day) to bring you a novel. And no, it's not a novel in verse. It is a novel, however, where poetry features prominently. I haven't seen many reviews (and it's possible I just haven't been looking in the right places) and really want my poet friends to know about Kathryn Fitzmaurice's DESTINY REWRITTEN.

Eleven-year-old Emily Elizabeth Davis is the daughter of Isabelle, an English literature professor. Shortly before Isabelle is born, her mother finds a first edition of Emily Dickinson's poetry in a used bookstore. She buys it for Emily, and writes this inscription.

"Emily Dickinson is one of the great poets.

The same will be said of you one day."

Isabelle uses the poetry book in place of a baby book. Every time something important happens, she selects a poem and writes a note in the margin. She describes the book as "the roadmap of Emily's life."

Emily and her mother are very different. Isabelle is a free spirit. Emily is an over-the-top organizational goddess. Isabelle believes in waiting on one's destiny and tells Emily that if she "forces things, it will take longer to get to the truth." Emily believes in grabbing hold of life and creating one's destiny. 

Isabelle imagines her daughter growing up to be a poet, but Emily really wants to be a romance novel writer. She has read more than half of Danielle Steel's novels and copied down the happy endings of each of them. She attends meetings of the local romance writers' club at the local library. The chapters about the romance club meetings are guaranteed to make you laugh. Danielle shows up again at the end of the book, "And then, just like one of those endings of a Danielle Steel book, he stood up and he reached over, and he took my mom's hand in his."

Emily has never met her father and wants desperately to know him. One day, Isabelle tells Emily that her father's name is written somewhere in the poetry/baby book. Unfortunately, that same day, Emily's cousin, Mortie, accidentally donates the precious book to the Goodwill. And so a frantic search of used book stores all over the city ensues.

Poetry figures prominently throughout Destiny Rewritten. Early in the book, Emily's English teacher asks her students to write a "wonderful, elegant haiku." Connor, Emily's secret crush, raises his hand and says, "So when you say wonderful and elegant, you mean it can't be about sports?" (Why does this remind me of my life!?) And then Cecily Ann, who is a poet, raises her hand and suggests that when she is trying to write in a particular form, it helps her to think in the five-seven-five form.

"Pick up your pencil.

What will be written? Perhaps

an elegant poem.

Mrs. Mendoza thinks this is a great idea, and a two-page conversation between Emily and Connor, all done in haiku, ensues. Another day, Emily misses school and Cecily Ann writes the homework assignments in a poem. At still another point Emily, thinking that perhaps a poet might have bought the missing book, attends a poetry reading with Cecily Ann reads a list poem about a tree and then "some man reads about a garden he used to have, all in rhyming words." And most of us can relate to Emily, who says, "Sometimes you just want to slip out the back door."

Destiny Rewritten is full of twists and turns and surprises and funny lines lots of poetry. I don't know that it has universal appeal, I'm not sure I'd use it as a read aloud, but it's a definitely a book that I know lots of upper intermediate and middle grade readers, probably mostly girls, are going to love.  And I think it's a perfect read for National Poetry Month.

(A side note: I don't especially love the cover of this novel.  I really doesn't feel like it matches the book all that well and I am a little worried that people might miss the book because of that).

Poem #4- Shhh…

 Wikimedia Commons: Le Silence by Antoine-Augustin Préault

Still trying to participate in Mary Lee's Common Inspiration- Uncommon Creations. This is poem #4.

"Shhhh…"

Shhhhh…

Let us not speak 

of  pools at summer's end

dropped ice cream cones

jeans that used to fit.

                                         

Neither will we speak of

birthday cards not mailed

library books overdue

friendships left untended.

And of course there will be no talk of

toddlers now adults

nests that echo emptiness

forgetful parents

And please do not bring up

Bubbles burst

Broken promises

Dashed dreams.

We will not speak of these.

Shhhhh…

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013

POEM #3- ABC'S OF COLLABORATION

This morning, at Year of Reading,  Mary Lee posted the thinking behind her Common Uncommon Month of Poetry. In that post, she shared her four rules for collaboration: 

• Share ideas
• Create with joy
• Work  together
• Don't destroy

And she said I could take a day off from writing poetry. Phew!  But then I kept thinking about the four rules. And I kept thinking that I had committed to writing a poem every day. So tonight, when I got home, after fourteen hours of giving makeup tests, and going to a district class, I dragged out something I had started this morning. Don't know that I would necessarily call it  a poem, but at least I tried to write something…

"ABC's of Collaboration"

Avail yourself of every opportunity

Because you never know when

         Coming together could lead to creation.

Delight in differences

            Engage in each other’s possibilities

Feel free to make mistakes.

Give up the need to be right and           

            Humble yourself to others’

                    Intelligence and imagination.

Just be ready for surprises.

            Know that there will be conflict

Laugh a lot.

Make miracles together

Never quit listening asking sharing believing

Open your eyes and your heart

Plan a little, play more.

 Quiet the inner doubter

Resist the need to be right

Stay open to surprises

Take time to laugh.

Up the ante.

View the world through new eyes

Wonder at what might be possible

Excite yourself about others’ ideas

You never know when your
zeal might reap rewards.

Poetry #2- Slice of Life/Poem

From Wikimedia Commons, by Lilly_M

Many years ago, I read Ralph Fletcher's novel, Fig Pudding. The book is based loosely on Fletcher's own life, growing up in a large Catholic family, and losing a brother in a car accident when they were teenagers. In that book, Fletcher says, "When someone you love dies, you get a big bowl of sadness put down in front of you, steaming hot. You can start eating now, or you can let it cool and eat it bit by bit later on. Either way, you end up eating the whole thing. There's really no way around it."

I think the same is true of children who grow up in the foster care system. Children love their parents, no matter how inadequate or unworthy those adults may be. When those people that they love are removed from their lives, there is a deep grief that colors every relationship and every experience.

And there is also anger-- at being unloved, uncared for, and abandoned by the people who are supposed to care for them. That comes out too, in many different ways. This morning, on Year of Reading, Mary Lee posted a picture of a flame thrower. I looked at that picture, and the thing that immediately came to mind was how the anger that smolders within some people erupts in surprising ways.

I messed around with that idea for a while this morning, then all day in my head. Tonight I revised and reordered and reworked. I even used a thesaurus, which I hardly ever do, to find synonyms for burn. And here is poem #2. Which will also have to be my Slice for today, because I have way too much school work to write any more.

************

"Rage"

The flame
that smolders
deep within
sparks
then blazes

Your words
red-hot irons
that singe
char
incinerate
my heart

And I wonder

Does 
the rage
that burns within
scorch your soul
like it does mine?

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2013

Dabbling in Poetry

From Wikipedia Commons

So I just finished slicing for 31 days straight. And trying to keep up with writing every day, and commenting on other people's writing, well, I'm just a teeny bit tired. Nevertheless, April IS National Poetry Month.  And I really do love poetry. I'm definitely more of a reader of poetry than a writer. When I do write, it's almost always free verse, quickly written, with little crafting or shaping of language. 

But I have this crazy friend, Mary Lee. And she is a real poet. If you don't believe me, go to Gotta Book and read her "Green Door" which Greg Pincus chose as the opening poem for his 30 poems in 30 days. Or read "On the Eve of the Equinox" that she wrote for March Madness.  That gal can write her some poems. 

On her blog, Year of Reading, she is doing a month long project "Common Inspiration, Uncommon Creations." And this morning she selected a picture of a very strange bee-eating bird, and wrote an amazing poem. And so of course I had to give it a try. I wrote the first one this morning, then messed around some more and wrote the second one tonight.

 "European Bee Eaters"
Bees?
Complainers don't like 'em
But when you pull the stingers out
They are actually
quite tasty.

*****************
"European Bee-Eaters"

Not for us
dull sparrow brown
gloss raven black
or even blue of jay.

Not for us
a shallow scrape
a rocky ledge
a woven crescent cup. 

Not for us
chill rain or breeze
a narrow range
still solitude. 

Not for us
those wriggly worms
the crunch of seeds
sweet meat of fruit.

We prefer
an adventurous life-
mixed colors bright
migration wide
deep tunnels homes
companions close
and bees
to please our palates.

Carol Wilcox
(c) 2013

***************

And then I'm still messing around with this one, that I started a week or so ago, during the Slice of Life Challenge.
 
"Daffodils"
Hey you
yellow cups
of joy juice
I swallow
big gulps
of your promise
of spring