“If there would be a recipe for a poem, these would be the ingredients: word sounds, rhythm, description, feeling, memory, rhyme, and imagination. They can be put together a thousand different ways, a thousand, thousand… more.” – Karla Kuskin

So for the past 27 days, teachers coast to coast have been featuring poetry, front and center, in the classroom. It’s National Poetry Month and dadgumit, these kids are gonna make poems.

We’ve got acrostic poems and concrete poems and haiku. We’ve got Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss. We’ve got simile and alliteration. And we’ve got the little one in the back row, raising his hand and pleading, “But what exactly IS poetry?”

Is it short or long? Is it rhymed or unrhymed? Is it about love or nature or brushing your teeth? 

And the teachers knead their furrowed brows and mutter, “Is is May yet?”

But, really. What exactly IS poetry?

I tend to make camp with the Moving Us Deeply campers. This school of thought defines poetry as an attempt to make sense of the world in human terms and, in so doing, arousing kindred emotions in its readers. Poetry says the unsayable, discovers the undiscoverable, touches the untouchable. “A poem,” says Frost, “begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness….” 

But if you leave it at that, all the eager, budding poets will write rivers of verse about Love (capital L), Grief (capital G), Faith, Sorrow, and Exaltation (capital F, S, E), and we’ll be wishing we’d said something about concrete imagery, tangible metaphor, or red, red wheelbarrows.

Or mud puddles, as the case may be: 

“Never forget that the subject is as important as your feeling; the mud puddle itself is as important as your pleasure in looking at it or splashing through it…. in many ways, the mud puddle is the poetry.” — Valerie Worth

So what distinguishes poetry and, at the same time, allies these perspectives? I’m pretty sure the answer is little instead of big, and simple rather than overwhelming. 

I think it is conscious, concentrated language, such that whatever the subject, it is evocative. 
Whatever the form, it will resonate, echo and sing. 
In poetry, language is semantic and notational, but also metaphoric, aesthetic and emotional. 

Who knew words could do all that?!
How strange. 
How magical. 
Like “a dragonfly catching fire,” says Ferlinghetti, or “a rope… a real canary… a passionfruit.” 

Yeah. Like that. Something like that. 

I don’t have time for much musing this morning, since I’m off for the TLA Conference in San Antonio! So excited to see what’s front-and-center on publishers’ tables, and to bump shoulders with librarians (aka Writers’ Guardian Angels).

So, in the interest of time — and nepotism notwithstanding — two poems, both written by my daughters when they were each, respectively, five:

Fall Poem

The Spring is green
All over 
In the woods

And then leaves drop
From the trees
Because it’s autumn

And branches want 
To soon be 
In the snowy banks below

The Arrow

I mean, I recognize my bias but these have characteristics I try to encourage in college students — vivid imagery, confidence of voice, and a sense of discovery and surprise. 

I think this is why I write for and with children. And why I’m a mom…

I just got an email announcing that I won a copy of Cures for Heartbreak by Margo Rabb — thanks to a Random House contest! 

I loved Margo’s virtual tour — when she visited Fuse #8, Big A, little a, A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, and others. Her open, touching interviews inspired me to read this tear-jerker of a YA ,and now it’s coming directly to my doorstep. 

Here’s what some of the reviewers have to say:

Booklist (Starred Review):
“Rabb leavens impossible heartbreak with surprising humor, delivered with a comedian’s timing and dark absurdity. 

School Library Journal (Starred Review):
“Black humor, pitch-perfect detail, and compelling characters make this a terrific read, despite the pain that permeates every superbly written page. As Mia struggles to make sense of her mother’s death and her father’s illness, she also sees humor in everyday situations, and her irreverent commentary brings the story to life.”

The Bulletin (Starred Review):
“This is undeniably a book of anguish, it’s also one of raw strength and casual, clever humor in random and surprising places, making it a compelling as well as tearful read.”

Here’s what I have to say:

I’m feeling lucky. Now please pass the kleenex.

The girls each got a new skort and a paperback book in their Easter baskets this morning — along with their body weight in chocolate. 

Tonight, as we sit down to crack the spines on the new books, our eldest asks, “How does the Easter bunny know our sizes?”

“Yeah,” her younger sister chimes in, “or what kind of books we’re into?”

Pause, pause, while I think, This is it. We’re busted. 

Their stares are decidedly skeptical.

But then, lo and behold, before I get the chance to put my foot in my mouth, elder daughter says, “You told him, didn’t you?”

“Yep, she told him,” confirms her sister.

And that is that.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve just had a birthday. Kind of a biggie. 

I know, I know, I’m an Aries. Meaning anything and everything is a big deal. 
But really. I’m not crying wolf. My new age ends with, umm, a zero. 

I celebrated for 24 solid hours in so many whimsical and delicious ways, including a flock of flamingos in my front yard, soft & salty bagels-and-lox, and an hour long conversation with my sister who lives, by the way, in east Africa. 

Total decadence — and it’s not over yet. 

I still have a little junket planned with three good girlfriends (think vineyards, redwoods and facials) and a new mountain dulcimer to master. (I’ll get back to you on that one. Could you give me ’til next April?)

In the meantime, it’s Friday and (lest we forget) NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!!! 
What better way to draw out my day into weeks than reading birthday poems?

Come on. Grow old along with me….

A Joyful Song of Five
by Katherine Mansfield

Come, let us all sing very high
And all sing very loud
And keep on singing in the street
Until there’s quite a crowd;

i thank you God for this most amazing day
By e.e. cummings

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Turning Forty
By Ted Kooser

At times it’s like there is a small planet
inside me. And on this planet,
there are many small wars, yet none
big enough to make a real difference.
The major countries—mind and heart—have
called a truce for now…

You can read the rest of the poem here. It’s one of my favorites. But really, I’m not mourning over the old dictator. Conquering the world’s not all it’s cracked up to be and committees are awfully fine. Dontcha think?

Well, I got my glorious brush with fame last week when the uber-talented artist Robin Preiss Glasser (also known as MY illustrator!!!) came to town. 

She was touring Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy with author Jane O’Connor and I mean TOURING. At least one state per day. Sheesh — be careful what you wish for. 

I mean, most of us yearn for our publishers to toss a few bookmarks our way. 
A tour?!? Complete with airline tickets and a meal or two?!? Nirvana!

Well, let me tell you — they were tired. Posh, but tired. Jane had somehow gotten trapped in her seatbelt the night before and had to be extracated with a kitchen knife, and Robin had been hung-up on by the hotel’s tech guy who apparently decided she was too brain-dead to effectively access the wireless network. 

And the night after their Austin stop, they found themselves trapped by Houston thunderstorms. (Raise your hand if you’ve been trapped by Houston thunderstorms before. Double points if you’ve also been stranded at O’Hare at least once…)

Anyway, not that I’m not lusting after the glamorous life, but I was sort of glad to have breakfast with Robin, tour her around town a bit, cheer her on at the bookstore, and then Go Home. It’s cozy here, even if I don’t have turn-down service.

Still, the 1/2 day we got to spend together was delectable. We had never met, but we’ve phoned and emailed for enough years to consider each another friends. When I arrived at her hotel room, we hugged like sisters and then I curled up on her couch while she finished gettin’ fancy. 

Next, onto breakfast, where we got to dish about books and kids and husbands — totally titallating subjects, especially when you’re sitting in a comfy booth on a very rainy morning next to the woman who gifted you a more beautiful book than you’d ever dared imagine. 

I have been so blessed in my writing life by generous people. People who want success and happiness and books books books for me. 

My writing chums, from way back in college and then graduate school; the amazingly talented professors I’ve worked with, including Ron Wallace, Jim Magnuson, Judith Kroll and David Wevill; the illustrious Naomi Shihab Nye who believes, apparently, that there is enough space and success for everyone so she shares secrets like candy; my Goodness group who buoy me up everyday; so many SCBWI friends, including Dianna Aston, Lindsey Lane, Chris Barton, Julie Lake, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Jenny Ziegler, Don Tate, April Lurie, and gosh, a lot of others who’ve shared coffee, advice and editor’s secret addresses;  my colleagues at ACC; all the amazing bloggers I’m growing to know (Vivian, Jules and Eisha, Jen, Mary Lee and Franki, Kelly, and many other brilliant voices), and also Robin. I mean, this is the woman who sent me the watercolor original of our book cover to hang above my desk for good luck. As if I hadn’t already hit the jackpot…

I know this reads like a name-droppers notebook but rather than haughty I’m just incredulous — breathless– over my good fortune. That all of these vibrant, loving, talented folk are willing to share their time, their knowledge, bits of their life and humour and wisdom — gosh. 

Someday, may I be on a state-a-day tour and gift anyone with the same thoughtfulness. Even if I’ve had to get cut out of a seatbelt to do it…

For now I’ll hop down off my soapbox and just say that my time with Robin was perfect. She was funny and loving and big-hearted with her time and ideas and good wishes — and then, to top it off, she was fancy. She and Jane had a darling little schtick at the bookstore that included eating sweet round cookies off their pretty little pinkies and posture-walking with bananas on their heads.

And then we said goodbye and I sent her off into the rain. What a day. Rich and wondrous day. Almost as fine as when my editor at Harpers told me Robin’d said she’d illustrate my book.

This weekend was a laugh riot at our house. 

Funny faces stuck to Daddy’s back. Green milk in my coffee. A six-year-old dressed up like an aardvark, complete with pointy paper claws taped to the end of each fingernail. (I’m not sure if the joke here was that we have an aardvark for a daughter or that — surprise — she’s not really an aardvark. Either way, it was funny.)

But here’s the thing. All of these jokes unwound on Saturday. Which was March 31st. 

That’s right. Our whole family spent about two hours cuttin’ it up on the wrong day. By the time Sunday rolled around, we’d exhausted our creative depths and besides, nothing is as funny as celebrating April Fool’s Day in March.

Now what’s today again?

On Friday, we spent the evening soakin’ up the vibes at the annual Coffehouse and All-School Art Show at our beloved elementary school. 

This is the talent show to end all talent shows. 
The stage steams. The crowd swoons. Reality TV quakes in its Uggs. 

The objective stats: 
3 hours, a coupla dozen performances, a hungry line at the pizza table all night long. But that’s not the half of it. 

It’s the courage exhibited by these vivid, dynamic, uninhibited kids — singing, dancing, joking, kung fu-ing — in front of a cafeteria chock-full of parents, teachers, neighbors, friends. The curtain opens anew on each act, and there is a 6-year-old, finding her voice; two 5th grade boys playing a ragtime duet on the piano; a couple of 8-year-olds kickin’ a Scottish dance. 

To me there’s hardly a thing in the world more moving than young people courageous enough to put themselves out there and adults engaged enough to receive them with roaring applause. If there is this much heart available in your average elementary school — this much heart and imagination and humour and connection — all is not lost. 

Here were some highlights of the evening:

Our daughters. Naturally. 

Elder daughter played a Brahams waltz on her violin and took a deep and satisfying bow at the end; younger daughter played two songs on the piano at mock speed — I think with the hopes that she could get off the stage more quickly — but she was spot-on, and you should have seen her pink dress and her tiny feet dangling from the bench as she played.

Elder daughter also sang in a skit with 3 friends — a dramatization of Oh, Dear, What Can the Matter Be? — and her voice could’ve busted a goblet. 

A 3rd grade boy did an original comedy routine based on the fickle, funny life of a frozen lasagne. There’s no way I could do this one justice but suffice it to say that his timing was genius and I was not the only one with tears running down my cheeks. 

OK, everyone cried at this one, too. But I mean, really cried. A little boy — in 1st grade I think — singing Puff, the Magic Dragon and accompanied by his dad on guitar. He knew every slow, crushing word of every verse and he sang like a bell and the audience, little-by-little, chimed in very quietly at the chorus. All the way through the part where old Puff drags his lonely self off to a cave. It was utter heartbreak.

But then we were resuscitated by a little kindergartener doing a speed round of cup stacking. Who knew???

And then the 5th grade orchestra played Stand By Me, and there was a lovely Fur Elise on the piano and a couple of beautiful cello pieces, too. (A cello can put a lump in my throat the moment it’s set up on its end-pin.) But there was also hip-hop dancing and a sort of free-form drum solo and at least one original song — sung a cappella — through a microphone. I mean, have you ever been that brave?

The clincher, for me, was my friend Bernadette and her daughter reciting mother-daughter haiku. With their arms casually slung around each other’s waist. Haiku about their family, three walking-talking kiddos and a brand new baby, haiku about their family being its own party, about seeing each other in themselves, about love. That did me in completely.

At the end of the night, all the dads moved to fold up the tables and the kids ran wild on the darkened lawn until a few of them fell and skinned their knees. Then we reluctantly crawled away toward our own homes, not wanting to give each other up, to let go of the throbbing hum, the choir of voices, the whistles and whoops and laughter that happen when a whole group of folk comes together to celebrate the vision and voices of kids…