The Lists That Started It All . . .

Way back in December of 2011 Kailana of The Written World had a crazy idea. It was originally called Read more: Blog More, but soon morphed into The Poetry Project. The intent was to encourage bloggers to read more poetry and then write about it.

In her initial post she offered two lists of poems. (a total of 131 poems) The Poetry Project challenge set for this month, is to revisit those lists. Seeing as my blog is ostensibly poetry, I decided to read, or reread all the poems on her lists for the challenge.

                   Don't laugh. I am not crazy! (My mom had me tested.) 

Many of the poems on her lists have already been featured here at The Hearth, and those which haven't soon will be . . . (as long as I can get a hold of them.) After posting for a few years, falling back on old favorites becomes too easy, and I am always looking for new inspiration.

I have reproduced her lists here and charted my progress (or lack thereof). Those I have read (or reread) by today are crossed out, while those I was unable to read for any reason remain as a continuing challenge.

As you can see, except for two that I was unable to find, I demolished the first list. (Yes, I know it's the short one.) For one reason and another, I've only dented the second list. I hope you won't think less of me. I'll repost when I actually complete the challenge. I promise.

As I find and read (With seven shelves of poetry books and anthologies, the odds are in my favor.) the poems I have not yet posted, I will put them up for you to enjoy as well. This challenge has, unfortunately, forced me to purchase more books of poetry. The sacrifices I willingly make for you, my loyal reader.

Jason's List of A Month's Worth of Poems:

1 - Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti
2 - Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay
3 - The Changeling by Charlotte Mew
4 - The Waste Land by T S Eliot
5 - If Not, Winter by Sappho (Haven't been able to get a hold of this one yet)
6 - Aurora Leigh by Elizabeth Barret Browning
7 - Daddy by Sylvia Plath
8 - The Second Coming by William Butler Years
9 - Poems for Akhmatova by Marina Tsvetaeva (Haven't found this one either)
10 - Orchard by H.D.
11 - Resume by Dorothy Parker
12 - The Lady of Shallot by Alfred Lord Tennyson
13 - To make a prairie by Emily Dickinson
14 - The Poison Tree by William Blake
15 - Batter My Heart (Holy Sonnet XIV) by John Donne
16 - High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending by Emily Bronte
17 - For the Courtesan Ch'ing Lin by Wu Tsao
18 - The Wanderer by Anonymous
19 - Cinderella by Anne Sexton
20 - I Sing the Body Electric by Walt Whitman
21 - The Touch by Renee Vivien
22 - Advertisement for the Waldorf-Astoria by Langston Hughes
23 - Ozymandias by Percy Bryce Shelley
24 - As Kingfishers Catch Fire by Gerard Manley Hopkins
25 - A Ballad Maker by Padraic Colum
26 - There was a man of double deed by Anonymous
27 - Lunar Eclipse by Mai Yao-ch'en
28 - Donal Og by Lady Gregory
29 - Muse by Anna Akhmatova
30 - Sonnet #147 (My love is a fever) by William Shakespeare
31 - To One Hated by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Lu's List of 100 Poems:

1. “Please” by Yusef Komunyakaa
2. “At the Screen Door” by Yusef Komunyakaa
3. “The Sea is History” by Derek Walcott
4. “Cottonmouth Country” by Louise Glück
5. “All Hallows” by Louise Glück
6. “October (Section 1)” by Louise Glück
7. “At the Fishhouses” by Elizabeth Bishop
8. “First Death in Nova Scotia” by Elizabeth Bishop
9. “The Bat” by Claudia Emerson
10. “Daybook” by Claudia Emerson
11. “The Bat” by Ellen Bryant Voigt
12. “Tropics” by Ellen Bryant Voigt
13. “The Morning Again It Was In the Dusty Pines” by Mary Oliver
14. “The Kingfisher” by Mary Oliver
15. “Electrical Storm” by Mary Oliver
16. “Separation” by W. S. Merwin
17. “What the Body Told” by Rafael Campo
18. “Cultural Stakes: or, How to Learn English as a Second Language” by Kevin A. González
19. “To You” by Kevin A. González
20. “Hanging Fire” by Audre Lorde
21. “Never to Dream of Spiders” by Audre Lorde
22. “Dirge Without Music” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
23. “Hearing your words, and not a word among them” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
24. “Inland” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
25. “The Afterbirth, 1931” by Nikky Finney
26. “Aubade” by Philip Larkin
27. “I Have Started to Say” by Philip Larkin
28. “Flying at Night” by Ted Kooser
29. “Porch Swing in September” by Ted Kooser
30. “Daddy Long Legs” by Ted Kooser
31. “Artichoke” by Joseph Hutchinson
32. “Something About the Trees” by Linda Pastan
33. “Lines” by Ruth Stone
34. “Prayer for Sleep” by Cheryl Dumesnil
35. “Of the Parrat and other birds that can speake” by Nick Lantz
36. “i have found what you are like” by e. e. cummings
37. “the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls” by e. e. cummings
38. “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in” by e. e. cummings
39. “Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World” by Sherman Alexie
40. “How to Write the Great American Indian Novel” by Sherman Alexie
41. “Crow Song” by Margaret Atwood
42. “I Was Sleeping Where the Black Oaks Move” by Louise Erdrich
43. “Speaking of the Devil” by Leslie Adrienne Miller
44. “Cherries” by Leslie Adrienne Miller
45. “Blood” by Naomi Shihab Nye
46. “Last August Hours Before the Year 2000” by Naomi Shihab Nye
47. “Making a Fist” by Naomi Shihab Nye
48. “Hir” performed by Alysia Harris and Aysha El Shamayleh http://www.dailykos.com/story/2009/07/01/748654/-Brave-New-Voices
49. “Pesto in August” by Katrina Vendenberg
50. “Op-Talk” by Rives (spoken word)
51. “Glaucoma” by Rives (spoken word)
52. “I Could Be A Poet” by Taylor Mali (spoken word)
53. “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens
54. “To My Lover, Concerning the Yird-Swine” by Julianna Baggott (This poem is not online. I will feature it in Poetry Wednesday one day.)
55. “When At A Certain Party in NYC” by Erin Belieu
56. “Here and There” by Billy Collins
57. “Fishing on the Susquehanna in July” by Billy Collins
58. “There’s Been A Death in the Opposite House” by Emily Dickinson
59. “Natural Wonder” by Diane Ackerman
60. “Buckroe, After the Season, 1942” by Virginia Hamilton Adair
61. “Louisiana Line” by Betty Adcock
62. “Language of Love” by Rae Armantrout
63. “Dusk” by Rae Armantrout
64. “Mothers” by Nikki Giovanni
65. “Poem for a Lady Whose Voice I Like” by Nikki Giovanni
66. “Entrance into wood” by Pablo Neruda
67. “Love for this Book” by Pablo Neruda
68. “The Lark” by Gabriela Mistral
69. “Lost in the Hospital” by Rafael Campo
70. “Firefly Under the Tongue” by Coral Bracho
71. “Boy Breaking Glass” by Gwendolyn Brooks
72. “This Corner of the Western World” by Jennifer Chang
73. “Bankruptcy Hearing” by Dana Bisignani
74. “Requiem for a Nest” by Wanda Coleman
75. “sweet reader, flannelled and tulled” by Olena Kalytiak Davis
76. “Weighing In” by Rhina P. Espaillat
77. “Bilingual/Bilingüe” by Rhina P. Espaillat
78. “The Sign in My Father’s Hands” by Martín Espada
79. “Kaddish” by Allen Ginsberg
80. “After Fifty Years” by William Faulkner
81. “Ways of Talking” by Ha Jin
82. “Chernobyl Year” by Jehanne Dubrow
83. “Visiting My Gravesite: Talbott Churchyard, West Virginia” by Irene McKinney
84. “Our Lady of Perpetual Loss” by Deborah A. Miranda
85. “Love Poem to a Butch Woman” by Deborah A. Miranda
86. “Out of the rolling ocean the crowd” by Walt Whitman
87. “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” by Walt Whitman
88. “Sometimes with One I Love” by Walt Whitman
89. “Clarinet” by Terrance Hayes
90. “Planetarium” by Adrienne Rich
91. “What Kind of Times Are These” by Adrienne Rich
92. “Genesis: The Resilient Colors” by Roberto Tejada
93. “As from a Quiver of Arrows” by Carl Phillips
94. “This Can’t Be” by Bruce Smith
95. “A Certain Kind of Eden” by Kay Ryan
96. “Paired Things” by Kay Ryan
97. “Flounder” by Natasha Trethewey
98. “Pilgrimage” by Natasha Trethewey
99. “Providence” by Natasha Trethewey
100. “Blackberrying” by Sylvia Plath

Lest We Forget

Has there been a generation in recent memory to grow up without war, (or police action) its build up, or aftermath? Perhaps one day we can answer that question with a resounding Yes!

But until that time, let us remember all those who answered the call of service . . .                        

For the Fallen
- Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 
England mourns for her dead across the sea. 
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, 
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal 
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. 
There is a music in the midst of desolation 
And a glory that shines upon our tears. 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, 
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. 
They were staunch to the end against odds uncountered: 
They fell with their faces to the foe. 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn. 
At the going down of the sun and in the morning 
We will remember them. 

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; 
They sit no more at familiar tables at home; 
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; 
They sleep beyond England's foam. 

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, 
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, 
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known 
As the stars are known to the Night; 

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, 
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; 
As the stars are starry in the time of our darkness, 
To the end, to the end they remain. 

First published in 1914.

Aren't We All Haunted . . .

No. No. No. Hear me out.

Haven't you ever walked into an old house and just felt the history, felt the presence of the people who lived there before? Haven't you ever touched an antique in a store, with its wear and scars, and sensed the hands that used it, sensed the lives lived in its presence?

My old house is full of antiques (some precious, most not) and on a lonely evening I can stand in my living room and smile because I am never really alone. Our little house is a crowded house, filled with many old friends. If you listen closely, you can hear their footsteps upstairs or in the next room.

We share space with other people from other times, and our lives are blessed. The graceful china cabinet with the curved glass, the well used old pine library table, the creaky straight back rocker, the beautiful pieces of china picked up here and there, all bring their own spirits. It makes for a full house.

                         How about some poetry:

Haunted Houses
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.


Photo Source: All Things Halloween.

BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.

Leaving Yuba City - Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni     

I ran across this gem by accident, in our local used book store. (the only type of book store we have left)

Yuba City is a diverse community boasting the largest Indian population outside of India and its immigrant history mirrors that of the nation at large, a nation that has often been unkind to the very groups which helped to build it. (an unhappy reality)

Ms Divakaruni pulls no punches about the culture her subjects left or the one they found waiting for them. This book is about people, their pleasures and their pain. Powerful and passionate, it gives us a glimpse into a place we've never been.
 
The theme for this month is 'classics,' and it occured to me that what I had just read deserves to become a member of that society. After all, what makes a poem a classic? Does it evoke a feeling more profound than you expected? Does it illuminate a piece of history or society? Does it bring the entire world into its snapshot of a moment? This collection took me to a time and place very much outside my realm of experience and understanding and made me feel profoundly.

Did I mention I sort of liked it?

It's a powerful little book and I had a difficult time choosing a poem to share with you.

The Geography Lesson

Look, says Sister Seraphina, here is
the earth. And holds up, by its base, the metal globe
dented from that time when Ratna, not looking,
knocked it off its stand and was sent
to Mother Superior. And here

the axis on which it revolves, tilted
around the sun. Like this, the globe a blur now,
land and water sloshed
into one muddy grey with the thick jab
of her finger.

Ratna returned to class with weal-streaked
palms, the left one bleeding slightly. She held it curled

in her lap so it wouldn’t
stain her uniform as she wrote out,
one hundred times, I will not damage
school property again.

Now each girl sits with her silent laced shoes
flat on the classroom floor. I grip
my chair-edge. I know, were it not for the Grace
of the Holy Ghost, we would all

be swept off this madly spinning world
into perdition. Sometimes I feel it
at morning mass, six a.m. and the ground
under my knees sliding away, hot press
of air on the eardrum and the blue sleeves
of the Virgin opening
into tunnels.

Ratna didn’t cry, so Sister Seraphina

pinned to her chest a placard that said,
in large black letters, WICKED. She
was to wear it till she repented, and no one
could speak to her.

This is the way the moon
travels around the earth, Sister
says, her fist circling the globe, solid,

tight-knuckled, pink nails
clipped back to the skin. I know
the moon, dense stone
suspended in the sky’s chest,
which makes flood and madness happen and has
no light of its own. As our heathen souls
unless redeemed by Christ’s blood.

That night in the moon-flecked dormitory

we woke to Ratna thrashing around in bed,
calling for Sultan, her dog back home. She
would not quiet when told,
and when the night nun tried
to give her water, she knocked the glass
away with a swollen hand. All
over that floor, shards, glittering
like broken eyes, and against the bed-rail
the flailing sound of her bones. Until they took her

somewhere downstairs.

On this chart, points Sister, you see
the major planets of the Solar System.
Copy them carefully into your notebooks. Smudges,
and you’ll do them over. I outline
red Mars, ringed Saturn, the far cold gleam

of Uranus, their perfect, captive turning
around a blank center which flames out
like the face of God in dreams. I will my hand
not to shake. We never saw Ratna again, and knew
not to ask.
Tomorrow we will be tested
on the various properties of the heavenly bodies,
their distance, in light years, from the sun.

Guess Who I Ran Into. Sort Of.

Wedged in among all the classes I had to take in college (I'm sure you know how that goes) was one class I took because it was what I wanted - a class on poetry writing. Professor Jeanne E. Clark, a published poet herself, diligently filled our reading list with many wonderful contemporary poets and brought several of them to speak with us in class.

As I was wandering around the interwebs the other day, (a seeming non sequitur) I ran across the title to an article that rang a bell way in the back of my head. (Does that ever happen to you?) The article was entitled, The Solipsist in Purgatory: Jollimore’s AT LAKE SCUCOG, and it should have sounded familiar. I knew the poet (sort of) to whom it was referring.

Troy Jollimore (the poet at the core of the article and this post) was one of the poets we read in class that semester. Once I made the connection, memories came flooding back. He was also one of the poets who came to speak with us. And notice I said "with," not "to." The class was very much a fun, friendly discussion among people who loved poetry.

That day he read from his first book of poetry, Tom Thomson in Purgatory, which won the 2006 National Book Critics Circle Award and was, of course, our assigned reading. I remember him as a pleasant man with an enjoyable sense of humor.

Currently he is a professor in the philosophy department at California State University, Chico, and has written books of both poetry and philosophy.

Here is a poem that caught my breath when I first read it. I truly recognize the feeling of regret at too much caution, and the desperate desire to undo that which cannot be undone.


Regret

I’d like to take back my not saying to you
those things that, out of politeness, or caution,
I kept to myself. And, if I may —
though this might perhaps stretch the rules —I’d like
to take back your not saying some of the things
that you never said, like “I love you” and “Won’t you
come home with me,” or telling me, which
you in fact never did, perhaps in the newly
refurbished café at the Vancouver Art
Gallery as fresh drops of the downpour from which
we’d sought shelter glinted in your hair like jewels,
or windshields of cars as seen from a plane
that has just taken off or is just coming in
for a landing, when the sun is at just the right angle,
that try as you might, you could not imagine
a life without me. The passionate spark
that would have flared up in your eye as you said this —
if you had said this —I dream of it often.
I won’t take those back, those dreams, though I would,
if I could, take back your not kissing me, openly,
extravagantly, not caring who saw,
or those looks of anonymous animal longing
you’d throw everyone else in the room. I’d like
to retract my retracting, just before I grabbed you,
my grabbing you on the steps of the New York
Public Library (our failure to visit
which I would also like to recall)
and shouting for all to hear, “You, you
and only you!” Yes, I’d like to take back
my not frightening the pigeons that day with my wild
protestations of uncontrolled love, my not scaring
them off into orbit, frantic and mad,
even as I now sit alone, frantic and mad,
racing to unread the book of our love
before you can finish unwriting it.

from: the December 2008 magazine The Walrus.
 
BOOKS

Poetry:
     Chapbook, The Solipsist. 2008.
     His second book, At Lake Scugog. 2011.

Philosophy:  
     Friendship and Agent-Relative Morality. Garland Publishing. 2001.
     Love's Vision. Princeton University Press. 2011.

Everything Old is New Again

I ran across some fun poetry that puts a modern twist on an old poetry form, the Cento.

Cento hails from the Latin word for 'patchwork,' and has been around since at least the 4th century. It is basically a poem made up of lines from poems by other poets. Each line must be taken from a different poem. and when the lines are put together, they must make sense. The poem doesn’t have to rhyme, but rhyming adds a nice touch. And always give credit to the poets you use.

One of my professors insisted we write these as a way of proving that we were familiar with a broad array of poetry. At first I hated it but it became a fun challenge and as an added benefit I found myself immersed in poetry I might have otherwise overlooked. (I'm sure that was entirely unintentional)

Here is a great example by Simone Muench called:

 Wolf Cento  

Very quick. Very intense, like a wolf at a live heart, the sun breaks down.  What is important is to avoid the time allotted for disavowels as the livid wound  leaves a trace      leaves an abscess  takes its contraction for those clouds that dip thunder & vanish like rose leaves in closed jars. Age approaches, slowly. But it cannot  crystal bone into thin air. The small hours open their wounds for me.  This is a woman’s confession:  I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me.

Sources: [Anne Sexton, Dylan Thomas,  Larry Levis, Ingeborg Bachmann,

 Octavio Paz,  Henri Michaux, Agnes Nemes Nagy, Joyce Mansour,

 William Burroughs, Meret Oppenheim, Mary Low, Adrienne Rich, Carl Sandburg]

The twist   is "Book spine poetry."

It has been around for a few years and if you google it you can find tons of examples by a wide range of people: students, teachers, children, adults. It's as easy as you want to make it.
 

This one is by Travis at 100 Scope Notes.


Look Who's There!
The Watcher
What Do You See?
More
People





Lorne Daniel at Writing:Place created his book spine poetry from poetry books.


What Goes On
Here and Now
A Long Continual Argument
The Poet in the World
Writing Down the Bones
Refusing Heaven

 Many others have tried their hand at book spine poetry here, here, here, here, 

I made my own book spine poem, but technical difficulties have kept me from uploading the picture. (lost cabely thing)

It was fun playing with the books in my own library to create a poem. I think kids would really enjoy this and I can see it as a way to jump start creativity in a dry spell.

I'll admit though, it would have been more fun if I had someone to clean up the mess I made.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep
Reading Lolita in Tehran

A Passionate Apprentice
Wicked
Insecure At Last

East Wind Melts the Ice

[Sources: Philip K. Dick, Azar Nafisi,

 Virginia Woolf, Gregory Maguire, Eve Ensler, Liza Dalby]

How to:

 

Create a Cento

1). Take the time to look through a few poetry books. Enjoy the poems.
2). Find a line you especially like, and make that the first line of your patchwork poem. Write the poet’s last name in parentheses at the end of the line.
3). Repeat #2. Choose your lines carefully—your poem must make sense.

Some things to consider: 
Try to make your poem rhyme. 
Make sure the beats sound right. 
Tenses should agree.  
Person should agree. In other words, pick lines that have all been written in either first or third person. 

4). And remember, at the end, list each poet’s full name. Include the name of the poem in quotes.

Create a Book Spine Cento
1). Find a place with plenty of books: a library, home collection, or even a book store (if they'll let you).
2). Find titles that strike you and write them down – you can refer back to them later.
3). Arrange and rearrange them (in your head or on paper).
4). The Library card catalog can help you find titles with specific words or phrases that fit.

The Poetry Project - July

Here are my answers to the Meet and Greet Questionnaire posed as the beginning of the newly revamped Poetry Project. (i.e. Read More, Blog More)

1) Why do you want to join the Poetry Project?

My goal is twofold. I wanted to push myself to expand and take chances as well as connect with more bloggeres who enjoy poetry. Although I post a lot of poetry on my blog, before Read More, Blog More I never wrote about it. And also, there are hundreds (thousands?) of blogs about books, but relatively few about poetry.

2) Do you have a favourite poet?

Not really. My favorite changes with my mood or if I find something new. Wisława Szymborska however, is never far from my heart. Her poetry seems to reach out and touch me when I'm not expecting it.

3) Hopefully this will go longer than a year. Do you have any suggestions for monthly themes?

I generally have a difficult time thinking up that sort of thing.  Looking back over my blog I find I do tend to have themes, but unofficially and short term. I am often moved by current events and that's nearly impossible to plan for. I'll have to keep thinking about it.

4) What are your experiences with poetry in the past? Have they been positive or negative?

My reading experience has been positive. Since I was reading way above my level at an early age I was used to not always understanding all I read and that muted the blow of poetry's innate opacity. It was only when I began looking to others to help me understand and create (teachers, etc.) that my experiences began to sour. I touched on that in my first Read More, Blog More post.

5) Tell us about a poem or poet that has had a profound effect on you. If you can’t think of a poem, how about a song? Or a line from a story?

Funny. I also wrote about this for Read More, Blog More. To this day I can still feel the 'shock of recognition' that came with reading Edna St. Vincent Millay's I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed.

6) What frustrates you about poetry or the way we talk about poetry?

There's not enough! Seriously, I enjoy the variety in the type of posts and the opportunity to discover new poets and perspectives. My frustration came as I found people dropping off. I love reading the contributions of all the participants and the round ups are like candy.

7) Tell us something about yourself that has nothing to do with poetry!

I returned to school for a teaching credential as a 'mature' student and graduated just in time for the beginning of the yearly teacher purge. (My blog started as an assignment for one of my classes.) I work part-time as a tutor for at risk students. I keep my sanity by gardening and I am slowly turning my small urban yard into a tiny farm. (which I can talk about ad nauseam) No livestock, just produce. And ... I read continually.  . . .

POETRY: Read More, Blog More #7

After last month's mess up where I managed to put up the posts for both that month and this month as well as botch the links, I was left wondering what I could possibly do this month to top that technical sleight of hand.

Some questions should just not be asked.

Anyway, school is finally out for the summer and I've been recouping in my garden. It's amazing how frustrations and anxieties flake off into the dirt as compost and fertilize new life. It doesn't make anything easier really, but it sure does feel good.

Most mornings are spent working in the soil, weeding and watering, and then topped off with tea, breakfast, and a good book in the garden. All the while I'm surrounded by singing birds, dancing butterflies, buzzing bees, wonderful scents - and beauty.

I also mentioned last month that I've started writing daily Haiku. And as it just so happens, most of those little gems are about my garden.

Quelle Surprise!

I don't practice perfectly. Occasionally I miss a day or two and go back to fill in. And on other days I find myself writing several. But those days I miss just feel wrong; I can tell that there is something missing. 

Because I take a few minutes every day to write (often in the garden), I find myself paying closer attention to the things around me. I have cultivated a deeper connection with, not only my garden, but all of its varied inhabitants and visitors, and of course, myself. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm still dealing with all the same issues as I was before. The world itself hasn't changed - but I have. 

I'm no Basho; not even close. But the benefits of "living a haiku life" are palpable. I have even expanded my initial goals, but that's for another time.

Here are a couple of my efforts:

brightly colored pot 

now a home for garden frogs
broken no more

no cherry blossoms
just swaying fields of orange
California spring

Haiku copyright © J.F. Spillane.

POETRY: Read More. Blog More #6

To Challenge Myself . . . Living a Haiku Year

 I recently revisited a little book called The Haiku Year, which I had originally discovered while looking for something else. Serendipity, indeed!

I had really enjoyed my original reading of this little book and the reread was no disappointment. The poetry is interesting, as is the story of the book's inception.

But what really struck me was the reactions of those who took the time daily for a year to write the haiku contained in the book.

Tom Gilroy, one of the contributors who also wrote the Forward, called the resulting poems "precious moments." And Steve Earle, who wrote the Introduction, calls his Haiku year "The best year of my life."

Reading these responses got me to thinking.

We all live busy lives, whatever our circumstances, and it is so easy to get caught up in the business of living and forget to really notice, let alone connect with, the world in which we live.

So, here's the challenge:

After rereading this short book and noting the thoughts of the participants, I have decided to challenge myself to "living a Haiku year." That is, I challenge myself to take a few moments each day to write three lines, 17 syllables, one haiku. I even have a beautiful little red book in which to record my "precious moments."

Is anyone interested in joining me?

The purpose is to take a few moments and really notice the world around you, feel it, and capture the experience. Good, bad, mediocre. It doesn't matter. It's not nearly as difficult as it may sound, and like any exercise it actually gets easier with practice.

If you need a little information on the form and its requirements there have been many books written on the subject, as well as many online resources. Some are concerned with form only while others incorporate the writing of haiku into a spiritual journey.

 
These are a few BOOKS I've read myself:

• How to Haiku: A Writer's Guide to Haiku and Related Forms - Bruce Ross
• The Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Share, and Teach Haiku - William J. Higginson
• Haiku - The Sacred Art: A Spiritual Practice in Three Lines (Art of Spiritual Living) - Margaret D. McGee
• Seeds From a Birch Tree: Writing Haiku and the Spiritual Journey - Clark Strand

And a few WEBSITES: 

Haiku World, Composing your own Haiku, Absolute Write, How to write/teach Haiku poetry,  In the moonlight, a worm...,

Here is a book that I have not read, but the title intrigues me: [UPDATE: It just arrived in the mail and is only waiting for me to begin!]

• One Continuous Mistake : Four Noble Truths for Writers - Gail Sher 

And just for fun, 
here is a website with writing tips - WRITTEN IN HAIKU. 

POETRY: Read More, Blog More #5

Last month Lu posted some interesting 'just in case you need one' prompts for this challenge but I had already written my post for the month.

One of them was actually a subject close to my heart, and I really wanted to give it a try, so I'm going to tackle it this month:

How do you think we can teach kids to love poetry?

First, A little disclosure. I refer to myself, euphemistically, as an "underemployed teacher" (English Language Arts, Special Education). My background also includes many years of working as a Literacy Volunteer. I currently tutor at risk kids in local school districts as an off shoot of No Child Left Behind. 

It is a challenge that often leaves me feeling elated and defeated simultaneously. As you might imagine, kids who are struggling generally don't want to read at all - forget poetry! But I have found that what matters is 1). The poems you choose and 2). your attitude toward their attempts.

Oh. And don't think they won't know if YOU don't like poetry.

Regardless of age, I like to start with Shel Silverstein. Who can't relate to his poetry? And relating is the name of the game.

My copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends is worn and a bit tattered around the edges. I've lost count of the number of young hands that have held that book; the number of intense and struggling students who have found laughter - despite themselves. If a book could have emotions, this one would be happy and proud to have helped so many striving minds.

Here is one of my favorites (though that changes often):

If the World Was Crazy  

by Shel Silverstein

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd eat?
A big slice of soup and a whole quart of meat,
A lemonade sandwich, and then I might try
Some roasted ice cream or a bicycle pie,
A nice notebook salad, an underwear roast,
An omelet of hats and some crisp cardboard toast,
A thick malted milk made from pencils and daisies,
And that's what I'd eat if the world was crazy. 

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd wear?
A chocolate suit and a tie of eclair,
Some marshmallow earmuffs, some licorice shoes,
And I'd read a paper of peppermint news.
I'd call the boys "Suzy" and I'd call the girls "Harry,"
I'd talk through my ears, and I always would carry
A paper umbrella for when it grew hazy
To keep in the rain, if the world was crazy. 

If the world was crazy, you know what I'd do?
I'd walk on the ocean and swim in my shoe,
I'd fly through the ground and I'd skip through the air,
I'd run down the bathtub and bathe on the stair.
When I met somebody I'd say "G'bye, Joe,"
And when I was leaving--then I'd say "Hello."
And the greatest of men would be silly and lazy
So I would be king...if the world was crazy. 

from: Where the Sidewalk Ends. Copyright 1974. 

POETRY: Read More, Blog More #4

When I returned to school as a "mature" student, my quest for a Bachelor's degree and Teaching credential took most of my time and even more of my limited intellectual resources - with precious little of either left for leisure reading. 

But I hate being caught out at odd times with nothing to read. You know those times when for one reason or another you end up with extra time - not enough to do something constructive but enough to drive you crazy.

So I began to carry a book of poetry wherever I went.
(A practice I continue to this day) 

Most poetry collections have the virtue of being small and portable while still offering real gems that can be read when time, and concentration, are limited.

It was also at this time that I developed a love of Haiku, first reading, then writing.

Successful Haiku capture and share the essence of an experience rather than a describing it. This is both the strength of the form and its challenge. For many folks, including myself, the time spent with each tiny, exquisite poem can also easily become a meditation.

 
 

Matsuo Basho remains a giant in the field, and I'm saving my pennies to purchase Basho's Journey: The Literary Prose Of Matsuo Basho. 

A crow

has settled on a bare branch -

 autumn evening.

- - Matsuo Basho

Early on I became quite enamored of some of the ladies. Two of my favorite volumes are, Chiyo-ni Woman Haiku Master and Far Beyond the Field: Haiku By Japanese Women.

to be in a world
eating white rice
amid plum fragrance

- - Chiyo-ni

one naked baby

is all I've got

and I pray

- - Ishibashi Hideno

I've also come across a few surprises along the way. For instance, did you know that Jack Kerouac wrote Haiku? 

Trying to study sutras,

the kitten on my page

Demanding attention

- - Jack Kerouac

Some other favorites include: 

The Haiku Year, a compilation of Haiku written by some surprising people, one for each day of the year.

No desire

to read the news - 

my life's enough for now

- - Jim McKay

Haiku U., by David M. Bader, makes literary allusion fun.

The Sun Also Rises

"Why can't we?" she said.

"War wound," I said. "Oy," Cohn said.

Back to Harry's Bar.

- - Ernest Hemingway (sort of)

Then there's If Not For The Cat, Haiku for children, by Jack Prelutsky.

When I raise my tail,

Expressing my displeasure,

Even wolves make tracks.

- - Jack Prelutsky

The Essential Haiku, ed. Robert Hass & The Haiku Anthology, ed. Cor Van Den Heuvel, are also mainstays.

There are many interesting links out there: online journals, poetry societies . . . Here are just a few.

• The Haiku Society of America
• Modern Haiku Journal
• Daily Haiku
• Review in Haiku

POETRY: Read More, Blog More #3

I've been thinking a lot about Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's own." Yes, I realize that Virginia and her writing have nothing to do with poetry, but making a space 'your own' decidedly does.

My own "room" is about the size of a postage stamp. It is a functioning office for household management, a small business, and my career as a tutor, which makes me an independent contractor with its attendant paperwork. It also acts as nexus for my writing, and of course, this vital and terribly significant Blog, (averaging 150 hits a day!).
 
It may seem that squeezing that massive amount of function into such a tiny room would leave little space for comfort and warmth.

But Au contraire, mon ami. (That's French for nu uh)

When you're a bibliophile, my friends, decorating is not really that difficult. Book cases - bulging, surprise laden book cases - make any room.

"Still," I hear you saying, "Not. poetry."

We'll get there. I promise. But 'till then, stay close folks. Oh, and make a left here.

The anthologies on my shelves pay tribute to my days at university. (English teacher, here) They include the usual basic literary cannon fodder (see what I did there!?) but because of a wonderfully progressive and diverse faculty, my collection goes way beyond the basic OWM (old white men).

The jewel like seeds from my anthologies have, with the help of online used book "stores," germinated into fruit that spills abundantly from myriad countries, cultures, and times into all the rooms of my tiny home.

I've obviously found a way to survive the drought caused by the closing of our town's last book store.

OK. Here's the path again to your right.

My love of poetry has helped my collection to quietly overtake my office. One by one, authors slip out of tight fitting and restrictive anthologies to make themselves comfortable on the poetry book shelves. Greeting earlier arrivals and fitting in easily, they stake out their new territory.

And when I sit back in my reading chair in this sunny little room, I find myself surrounded by friends. Their easily accessible words comfort, admonish, amuse, and educate. They also help to make this space truly my own, a space to retreat, rewind, refill, and renew.

A room of my own.

My favorite wall decor? Book cases, overflowing and interspersed with treasured keepsakes gathered through the years.

Is there a poem that celebrates this love of books? Don't be silly. There's a poem for just about any occasion you could want.

Once again, Miss Emily Dickinson obliges us with a verse that captures the thought.

There is no frigate like a book

    - Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book  
To take us Lands away,  
Nor any Coursers like a Page  
Of prancing Poetry –   
This Traverse may the poorest take         
Without oppress of Toll –   
How frugal is the Chariot  
That bears a Human soul.

A little library, growing larger every year, is an honorable part of a man's history. It is a man's duty to have books. A library is not a luxury, but one of the necessaries of life.

 - Henry Ward Beecher