Inspiration

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Tonight I was the featured reader at a college-sponsored coffeehouse event.
 
It’s been awhile since poetry was my primary focus, so I had a little case o’ the ‘noives’ earlier today.
 
For one thing, why did every poem in my file seem to conjure up rain or derelict housing or both? And also, how many pieces should I read, and do I have anything funny (or at least pithy), and jeans or jodpurs? Y’know, the usual questions.
 
So, to top it all off, my husband had to work late which meant the girls were coming along. My own built-in audience, ages 6 and 8. Thankfully, they brought a big bag of markers and construction paper, and the chocolate chip cookies at the coffeehouse were about the size of their heads.
 
It was humid, and that’s an understatement. We sat in between cloud bursts, on a covered back patio, every table taken. There was a pretty good lead in, giving me plenty of time to panic, but instead I just settled deeply into the whole deal so that by the time I stood at the mic, I wasn’t woozy or dry mouthed at all.
 
I read for awhile – a couple of pieces of prose that would ring awfully familiar to my blog audience – and then a number of poems, a few of which didn’t feature rain at all. Not even a sprinkler. I was nearly finished before I realized that my elder daughter had crawled up to the front, skittered in between the tables, and was hunkered down on the concrete – just soaking it in. My younger patted me on the head, and then the knee, and then the head again when I sat back down.
 
They were rapt. So much so that we stayed through the open mic – way past their bedtime. At home, the 6-year-old showed me the vivid, ankh-like piece of art she’d done while listening. The 8-year-old read the haiku she’d written on the spot. 

“Can we come to your next reading, too?” the little one asked. 
The big one nodded.  And so did I.

Acts of Kindness

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Yesterday was my husband’s birthday and he spent pretty much the whole of it driving a Bobcat through an envisioned garden plot at the elementary school. It was hot out; there was a lot of soil to be scraped and rock to be moved, and he just kept chugging from his water jug and carrying on.
 
The girls and I joined him for part of it – they rode their scooters around and around the sidewalks and nobody whistled at them to knock it off. 
There’s something thrilling and mysterious about being at school on a Sunday.
 
By three o’clock, the bed had been laid, and big, red, licheny boulders had been set. 
We were eating sub sandwiches and heading for the swimming pool to cool off.
 
I love the new rocky area that’s like a creek, the girls said.
 
I love driving great big noisy heavy machinery, the husband said.
 
I love a guy who’ll spend his birthday helping to make an eensy teensy corner of the world more beautiful, I said.
 
And you know what ole’ Aesop would say:
 
No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.
 
 Happy Birthday, Honey. And thanks…

My Daemon

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OK, I’ll admit to being a little slow on the uptake on this one. If anyone’s been waiting with bated breath, you can let ‘er out.

My Golden Compass Daemon is (drum roll, please) Olin, the Crow. 

In Native American lore, Crow is the keeper of all sacred law, which is kind of a tall order if you ask me. 

But there’re some bennies, too. Crow gets to bend the laws of the physical universe and shape shift in order to see that higher order laws (like peace and harmony and integrity) get attended to. (I think when they say “bend the laws of the physical universe” they mean something more than just driving against the arrows at the Whole Foods, don’t you?) 

I’m not exactly sure how all this fits with my daemon crow, although “assertive” could be another word for law bender. Regardless, I like that my daemon’s got wings and a good strong voice. Not necessarily melodic, I’ll admit. But strong.

Check it out, and while you’re at it, take the nifty little quiz and see who’s embodying you!

What IS poetry anyhow?

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“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. 

Perspective

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I’d understand if you’d given up on me or thought I’d been sucked into the blogger’s black hole. I’m surprised the truancy officer’s not knocking at my door.

I think now’s when I say, “The dog ate my homework.” But really, it was more like this:
A couple of weeks ago, we shopped for, and finally purchased, a minivan. I know, I know. Gasp, snicker, blush. Stick on the soccer decals and spill some dry cereal across the backseat. I’ve arrived.

This decision caused just a little bit of grief since it did not exactly get me closer to my VW bug convertible fantasy.  And there was the whole gas mileage crunching – older Subaru vs. newer van divided by a carpool or two, times one noble husband commuting by bike and bus.

Still, after driving it for 4 days and multiple playdates, I grew very fond indeed. This is why I was a tad distressed when the wind storm that Friday night pulled down our neighbor’s tree, which ripped out all our power lines and landed on said van.
As we gasped for air without a phone or computer or automobile, we talked about the difference between a hassle and a disaster. This fell into the category of hassle. Big, green, heavy hassle, but hassle nonetheless. 

The girls got it. Our six-year-old told us a story about a woman in Africa who was a widow with 11 children and they were all ill. “A broken van is not like that,” she sighed.
This was beginning to look like a bit of a blessing, in that teachable moment kind of way. 
We stopped gasping and began to breathe deeply again.
And then the Virginia Tech shootings happened.
A broken van is not like that either. At all.

Deep breathing? Impossible. There is a hook in every inhale as we think about the victims’ agony, the parents’ grief, the unfathomable choices of the mentally ill. I cannot begin to plumb the depths of all that suffering.
Too, I think about Cho’s teachers, his writing. When we read our students’ creative work we grow intimate with them in a way we might not if we were correcting algebraic equations. This is a privilege, and every writing teacher I know holds it carefully, in confidence, with respect. We are writers. We know what it is to take our hearts off of our sleeves and plant them firmly on the page.
The hidden burden of this privileged intimacy has now come swinging through the teaching community like a catapult. I sit here myself with a stack of student journals at my side, and am sorely tempted to try a laying on of hands instead of my usual close read. But that’s not my job. Writing without authenticity or provocation is cold. Writing without readers is lonely and empty. With privilege comes responsibility.
On the tail of all this, I went away last Thursday for a long weekend with three old friends. Old like introduced-me-to-my-husband old. Old like all-of-us-turning-40-and-needing-facials old. Old like good old.

We spent a blissful, funny, easy few days together. The blips were microscopic: the first night, the hot tub was cold; one time we turned right when we should’ve turned left; a crowd of greyhound buses overwhelmed one of the vineyards we visited. Nothing that even registered on the hassle scale, much less disaster.
And last night I arrived home to a beaming family — flowers on the table and the tent still set up from their backyard camp-out. This is the same family who’s out a van, but nevermind all that. What a difference a week makes.
Tonight, I’ll sit in circle with my students again. We will read each other’s work and carefully comment and suggest and guide. And under my breathe, I’ll be counting my blessings. It’s only fair. Privilege. Responsibility.

Poetry Friday — Being Five

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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 had a piece of paper
and pencil.
 
I did not know what to draw.
 
I drew a triangle.
And a line.
 
It made an 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…

Laurels Aren’t For Resting On

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In Reggio Emilia, Italy, the youngest children are ensconced in a community of exquisite beauty – vibrant, conscious schools, pulsing with creative energy.
 
These schools are the tangible result of a cultural philosophy emphasizing the “hundred languages of children” – the infinite potential kids have to wonder, explore, investigate, express, and co-construct their own learning, in myriad ways.
 
The idea is that kids want to sing, paint, dance, sculpt, playact, move and grow their own experiences – but society, little by little, whittles away at that until we’re pretty much focused on readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic. (Or No Child Left Behind mandates, as the case may be.)
 
The Reggio schools act in defense of the primal creative impulse – offering spaces that are full of freedom but also visionary guidance, full of respect for the individual and the community, full of light.
 
We were lucky to find our own Reggio-inspired preschool here at home. But if I’m honest, I have to admit I knew very little about the philosophy when we first brought our girls to the All Austin Cooperative Nursery School. The appeal, to us, was intuitive rather than informed.

 

My first exposure to the source schools in Italy was through a slide show our director presented to a parents’ group one night. Jennifer had been to Reggio more than once and she brought me to tears more than once with her thoughtful discussion and evocotive photographs. 

I’m pretty sure it was the articulated presumption that early childhood should be treated with such utter humanity and respect that really slayed me.

 
A couple of years later, I traveled to Reggio with a study group made up of teachers and directors and parents from our school and others. We listened to pedagogical lectures, toured the centers and ate some incredible pasta. (Okay, there was a glass or two of limoncella, too.)
 
I returned home:
 
Wanting to rid my living room of clutter
Promising to build installation art with my kids
And revering Jennifer
 
So where I am today?
My living room has its good days and its bad.
My girls create more three-dimensional art than I do, unless you count laundry piles.
But I do revere Jennifer. 

For the 30 years she’s devoted to our cooperative preschool…for her quiet voice and wry patience… for comforting children (and parents!) out of their separation anxiety.

For leaving her office door open… for listening to what kids say and watching what they do… for continuing to learn, inquire, explore and expand, right up ’til the end. 

For creating the perfect amalgamation of Reggio and Austin, in one small space. One small space ringing with the hundred languages of children.

 
Now, Jennifer’s retiring – leaving our school (a community of exquisite beauty) and our town (ditto). 
We’re inclined to say we can’t go on – she’s that sort of presence. 

But what is truer is this. At the Co-op, she created (okay, co-created) a dynamic model of education – a loving home for children – that is bigger than any one person, and will go on with vitality and respect.

 
It’ll go on, we’ll go on, and so will she, to fortunate new communities of parents, and children. 

Grazie, Jennifer, and Ciao…

My Lucky Day

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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.

Easter Baskets

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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.

Poetry Friday — Birthdays

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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;

And keep on singing in the house
And up and down the stairs;
Then underneath the furniture
Let’s all play Polar bears;

And crawl about with doormats on,
And growl and howl and squeak,
Then in the garden let us fly
And play at hide and seek;

And “Here we gather Nuts and May,”
“I wrote a Letter” too,
“Here we go round the Mulberry Bush,”
“The Child who lost its shoe”;

And every game we ever played.
And then–to stay alive–
Let’s end with lots of Birthday Cake
Because to-day you’re five. 


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

i thank you God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of all nothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(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?