1. Find a copy of your favorite poem. It does not have to be one that you wrote yourself. It might even be better if it isn't (no offense intended to most of you). It could be inspirational, mood-revealing, whimsical, whatever. Yes, I know that's tough for some of you (and geeks like me), but just pick one. Last Thursday, I read with my seventh graders from X.J. and Dorothy M. Kennedy's Knock at a Star: A Child's Introduction to Poetry that one thing that a poem can do is make you smile. Choose a poem that will make you smile.
2. Carry a physical copy of the poem on your person all day long.
3. Take out your poem frequently and read it. This will give you that little chuckle or kick in the pants or reality check that you need to get through the day.
4. Share your poem with your colleagues, friends, family...anyone who will take the time to listen.
5. Notice how poetry makes the world a better place. Poems help make you smile, tell stories, send messages, share feelings, understand people and the world around you, and maybe most importantly, they start you wondering (Kennedy and Kennedy, 1999).
Last year my poem was Naomi Shihab Nye's "Valentine for Ernest Mann." This year I'm packing "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins. I'm including it at the end of this post for those who may not be familiar with it. It strikes a chord with how I've been viewing myself lately.
I'm curious as to what poems you will be carrying tomorrow (or in retrospect if you don't remember in time). Even if you don't participate in this awesome celebration of poetry, leave a comment about what poem you have chosen or would have chosen. Share with me (and the world). I promise not to mock you.
“Forgetfulness” (by Billy Collins)
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Metaphors
ReplyDelete~ Sylvia Plath
I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.
I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who is losing his/her mind. I thought it was old age - but perhaps it is overuse.
ReplyDeleteFavorite poem? Death be not Proud by John Donne. Smile? Why, yes, of course it makes me smile. Every time I read it I want to finish with, "HA! Take THAT, Death!"
If it's alright with you, I'll just keep the poem in my virtual pocket since all day tomorrow I will be sitting on my pockets (assuming I even change out of my pajamas, which don't have pockets) writing a contextual analysis.
Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
(Ha! Take THAT!) :)
Mine is "The Fish" by Elizabeth Bishop. As a junior in AP English we attempted to explicate this poem. I had an insight that my teacher accepted as valid. It probably really wasn't, but it gave me a boost of confidence and after that poetry didn't seem quite as scary.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure it's my favorite poem and it's certainly not a classic, but it was given to me in High School by an influential adult who was wise in giving it to me. I didn't even understand completely then what she was trying to tell me. But I think about it often and it was very important to me. Thanks for the reminder.
ReplyDeleteThe Cast
by Carol Lynn Pearson
https://www.lds.org/new-era/1976/03/the-cast?lang=eng
How do I choose? It's like choosing your children. So I won't but I'll share my poetry blog with you.
ReplyDeleteI work with Michelle, and here's mine.
ReplyDeleteBird of War
Natalie Young
Today let’s talk about the bird who wages his own war.
He flutters shades of late summer: cloudless sky, cornfields,
early-morning sun, asphalt.
He clangs his black beak against his cage in rapid fire, hurls
steel bowl to ground, a landmine of fruity pellets. His head full
of mischief juts to the hum of vacuum erasing siege.
Tomorrow he will drop the F-bomb and that man I live with
will laugh, issue a statement of non-accountability: “I never
actively trained him to say a word,” tossing a grenade
of dirty socks next to the bed. Several treaties broken as wars roar on.
(Hear her read it here: http://terrain.org/poetry/27/young.htm)
Here's my favorite, which always makes me smile, partly because I can hear Billy Collins reading it in my head.
ReplyDeleteThe Lanyard
by Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
I've had two opportunities to hear him read his own work. I could listen to him all day and never tire.
Delete