I’ve been away for a week. National Poetry Month came to a close. My family came to visit. And this week has been all madness all the time.
The end of the semester (for me and for my students and for my daughters) is so full of celebration and responsibility, my knees buckle a bit. And when you add in the fact that it is school visit season (I’m on my way to one this morning), blogging and breakfast dishes take a back seat.
It’s no wonder that what I wanted this morning was a quiet poem. A lovely, leaf- and rain-filled quiet poem.
I found one:
The Copper Beech
by Marie Howe
Immense, entirely itself,
it wore that yard like a dress,
with limbs low enough for me to enter it
and climb the crooked ladder to where
I could lean against the trunk and practice being alone.
Today I got to talk to my daughter’s 2nd grade class about reading poetry aloud. Because tomorrow, they’re hosting a Poetry Reading (capital P, capital R) in the library — the culmination of National Poetry Month.
Small One tells me she’s reading her Free Verse (which still sounds like Fwee Vewse, even though she’s in speech therapy) and her Diamante (which I guess is about Dumbledore and He Who Must Not Be Named).
I really think I’d rather go this poetry reading than see The Rolling Stones. For real.
So, we talked about speaking loudly, slowly, clearly. And about how you can look at the top of your audience members’ heads and it’ll seem like you’re making eye contact. And about how important it is to really know the piece you’re reading and, at the same time, to remember that your audience doesn’t know it at all.
Then, some of these smart, funny, rascally, eight-year-olds volunteered to practice and they brought down the house. We all nodded and laughed and mm-hmmed at appropriate times and then sent up a roar of finger-snapping at the end. And this was just the rehearsal. I’ve got to go set my alarm right now…
But first, I have to say, as we close out National Poetry Month and put April to bed for another year, I love poetry. I love it for children and I love it for beauty and I love it for grief. I love it for meaning and for humor and for relief. I love it for it’s roundness in a linear and chronological life and for it’s sensuality in a technological age. I love poetry.
And, specifically, right now, I really love haiku. I’ll admit that I set out to write one haiku a day this month because haiku are short and I figured I could handle it. Really. I admit it.
But I didn’t realize how much more than that the practice would become.
So, here’s the deal. I cannot stop.
I am not making any promises right this minute because, instead, I want to see what I feel like doing. But I will say that even though April’s over, my haikuing days aren’t.
Thank you for joining me this month. Namaste…
Haiku 30
cat, do you need oil, wailing like an old screen door? in or out, my friend?
I’ve been thinking lately about how much effort we’re meant to put into things — or how little. When should we be really proactive and when should we let life flicker? How do we know when to energize and when to surrender? What’s the role of intuition and what’s the role of training? What difference does it make, whether I’m leading or bringing up the rear? Etc….
The answers, of course, are circumstantial. But today I’ll take my cue from the squash blossom out front. Because why not?
Haiku 28
volunteering vine curbside, bright egg-yolk blossom; sometimes things just grow
I guess it’s the barometric pressure or something, but you know those days where you can just tell that everyone’s walking around with a lump in the throat?
It’s like we all notice on the same day that our hearts are spongey and our kids are moving through the world without us and our dogs are old and our words are inadequate and trouble is brewing.
It’s like we all notice we’re human and that the earth is spinning and keening and paying no attention whatsoever to the fact that we’re this close to flying off.
It’s like we all notice that we’re utterly alone and, yet, in it together.
It’s just a little much sometimes, don’t you think?
Today was like that and I’m pretty sure that I’m not the only one who was madly relieved when the sky just cracked open and let it rip.
Haiku 27
green-gray clouds, steaming we wrench our necks looking up we beg for a break
Yesterday morning I posted about haiku and I linked to a haiku video and I thought about haiku, but I didn’t have time to write and post my own.
(I know, I know. 17 syllables. Should take 17 seconds. But it doesn’t. At least not for me. I am the queen of spending about 6 months on 200 words which may well be a sign of illness but so be it…)
I’m good to my word, though. A haiku a day. So, yesterday afternoon my daugher inspired this when she updated me on her Painted Lady caterpillar (named Lazy Jane, after a Shel Silverstein character):
Haiku 24
caterpillar spins her silk button and holds fast — waits for it to rain
I’m off for a school visit with second graders, so my own personal haiku will have to wait ’til a little later this afternoon. In the meantime, if you’d like to catch up on the daily haiku I’ve been composing all month, click here and scroll backwards. I’ve been having the best time with this lovely little form.
And then go enjoy this short video of Robert Hass reading his translations of Issa’s haiku at the Dodge Poetry Festival awhile back. It is DELIGHTFUL! The thing I love so much about this clip is the humor in every breath. Who knew haiku could be so funny? Partly, it’s Hass’ wry delivery, to be sure, but it is also the genius of the form that such a close observation of almost anything is either heartbreaking or hilarious.
I just got home from teaching my three-and-a-half hour Thursday night marathon. And I have a school visit tomorrow. And I’m in one of my "can’t seem to sleep through the night even though I’m exhausted" phases. So, nothing witty or thoughtful or philosophical tonight.
Just this:
Haiku 23
old dog and soup bone picture of satisfaction; how little one needs
