Rattle to Publish Children's Poetry -- Deadline September 15

Rattle is calling for submissions for their second Young Poets Anthology. From their website,

Way back in 1998, Rattle published an issue featuring poems written by children.  Unfortunately it is now out of print.  Starting in 2013, we would like to extend that idea, and place a submissions call for an annual anthology of young poets.  The books will be available both in print and as ebooks, with a portion of the proceeds going to a relevant charity.  Every poet contributing will receive a free copy.

What a fun opportunity for children to see their poems in print!  Pass the word (or submit your children's poetry.)

"The Yellow Lane" -- September and Poets Think About War

My Saturday, September 7 post on Cupertino Patch.

California Poets in the Schools -- Santa Clara County

I've just become the Area Coordinator for California Poets in the Schools. I'll continue to put up ideas about teaching poetry to children on this site, but I might also sometimes post on my companion blog, Santa Clara County Poets in the Schools.

Keep checking in!

Inaugural Poems

There have been many poets writing about presidents, but only a few who have read poetry at POTUS inaugurations.

Here's a poem by Walt Whitman "Specimen Days [The Inauguration]"

March 4th.—The President very quietly rode down to the Capitol in his own carriage, by himself, on a sharp trot, about noon, either because he wish'd to be on hand to sign bills, or to get rid of marching in line with the absurd procession, the muslin temple of liberty and pasteboard monitor. I saw him on his return, at three o'clock, after the performance was over. He was in his plain two-horse barouche, and look'd very much worn and tired; the lines, indeed, of vast responsibilities, intricate questions, and demands of life and death, cut deeper than ever upon his dark brown face; yet all the old goodness, tenderness, sadness, and canny shrewdness, underneath the furrows. (I never see that man without feeling that he is one to become personally attach'd to, for his combination of purest, heartiest tenderness, and native Western form of manliness.) By his side sat his little boy, of ten years. There were no soldiers, only a lot of civilians on horseback, with huge yellow scarfs over their shoulders, riding around the carriage. (At the inauguration four years ago, he rode down and back again surrounded by a dense mass of arm'd cavalrymen eight deep, with drawn sabres; and there were sharpshooters station'd at every corner on the route.) I ought to make mention of the closing levee of Saturday night last. Never before was such a compact jam in front of the White House—all the grounds fill'd, and away out to the spacious sidewalks. I was there, as I took a notion to go—was in the rush inside with the crowd—surged along the passage-ways, the blue and other rooms, and through the great east room. Crowds of country people, some very funny. Fine music from the Marine Band, off in a side place. I saw Mr. Lincoln, drest all in black, with white kid gloves and a claw-hammer coat, receiving, as in duty bound, shaking hands, looking very disconsolate, and as if he would give anything to be somewhere else.

Here is an article about how J.F.Kennedy invited Robert Frost to read at his inauguration. There is an audio clip at the end of Frost, in his old voice, reading "The Gift Outright."  Robert Frost was the first poet to read in the program of a presidential inauguration in 1961.

The Gift Outright 

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England’s, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living,

And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.

Elizabeth Alexander read "Praise Song for the Day" at President Obama's first inauguration. The poem is long, slender and passionate, like the man it honors.The link to the Poets.org site also has a video recording of her reading it. My favoirte parts of this poem are when Alexander describes the people of America --

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Before Obama, Bill Clinton had resumed the practice of having poets at the inauguration, with Maya Angelou, who's poem "On the Pulse of Morning"can be read in its entirety here. Angelou speaks for trees and rocks and rivers, as well as for peoples from all over the world who have found their way to America. At his second inauguration, Clinton asked Arkansas poet Miller Williams to read, and his poem "Of History And Hope" can be read here. In his very first line, "We have memorized America," he associates America with poems children have been asked to learn by heart for centuries. 

I found a ready-made Inaugural Poem lesson plan at TeacherVision.com. While these poems are often critically panned, the general public tends to love them. And that's what a good poet does, write and speak to her audience. Children will respond to the familiar language and enjoy the simpler imagery. 

I'm going to save my comments on "One Today" by Richard Blanco until tomorrow. But you can hear him read it here, if you like. I find the stream of tweets below his face distracting, but the recording is very good. If you can, listen to the poem first, don't read along. It's better that way, that's the way it was intended to be given, to be heard.

 

My Poem "Rural Cemetery" Wins Third Prize

What fun!  I am very lucky to be participating as a judge in the Cupertino Poetry Contest, sponsored by the Cupertino Poet Laureate, David Denny. I had the honor of judging over 30 poems in the Teen category (ages 13 through 17).  The awards ceremony will be later in the month, and I'll post about that (and the winning teens) later in the month. 

Today I was notified that one of my own poems (submitted in the Adult category) has been awarded Third Prize. Sally Ashton, the current Santa Clara County Poet Laureate, was the Adult category judge. I wrote this particular poem, "Rural Cemetery," in 1997. It is a dream musing about an actual cemetery near my mother's home in Maine. 

Rural Cemetery

Why so beautiful, the cemetery on the meadow's edge?

Tucked in finally where trees begin their walk,

the colors good: wild goldenrod and lichen,

weary granite, rusty iron spike.

Perhaps the slope suggests a humble inclination,

think of the small graves, and of the new, along the fence.

But I suspect what lingers in the eye as we round the road,

is the pattern of stones, certain now, sure to topple,

with which we invite order

among chaotic grass.

The cemetery in question is Woodlawn Cemetery, on Birch Point Road in Wiscasset, Maine. Here's a photo of the cemetery, that I found on the (incredibly) interesting website, Find A Grave. According to a search on that site, the oldest graves in that little cemetery are from the 18th century.

  

I'm thinking I will have to ask my mother or my uncle to take a new photo, from the road, that better shows what I can see driving by this lovely spot. 

All the winners will be reading their poems at the contest awards ceremony. Details on the Cupertino Library website, or Dave Denny's Facebook page.  
 

Handy Words and Jabberwocky

A Facebook friend shared a link to 25 Handy Words That Simply Don’t Exist In English. This list is full of great words that could easily kick-start a poetry or language arts lesson. Not all the words on this list are appropriate for all age groups, but all of them are magical and some are very funny. For example, Mamihlapinatapai (Yaghan), means "a look between two people that suggests an unspoken, shared desire," and Tingo (Pascuense language of Easter Island) means "to borrow objects one by one from a neighbor’s house until there is nothing left."

I've used lists of strange or made-up words in lessons before, and the poetry opportunity is when you ask kids to write poems that include the tricky new words, or, working as a group to come up with your class's own unique words. The poem best suited to a lesson like this is, of course, "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll. Just one stanza is enough to show your students that making up words is a very cool way to write. (Make sure you're not asking kids to compose on a computer with a spell-check program, as that takes all the fun out of it! Remember that a critical part of an art lesson is to remind your students that not everything they learn in school has to have only one right answer, one correct spelling, one perfect solution.)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

This link will take you to a complete version of the poem, annotated with sounds and images to enchant and educate. In particular, I love Kennith William's reading from his album Parlour Poetry. Make sure you click on the yellow text in the poem to see the amazing artwork that has been illustrating this poem throughout the years. My favorite is this illustration of the Tum Tum tree.

 

Enjoy this word play lesson! Add some English history or etymology concepts for expanded reach.

The Hokey Pokey and Shakespeare's Songs

More in the vein of teaching kids poetry with old and new language: this time imagine singing and dancing the Hokey Pokey with children and then sharing this Shakespearean version of the song with them. Thanks to Grammarly.com on Facebook for posting this hilarious rendition of "The Hokey Pokey."

 

And then perhaps a real Shakespeare song: my favorite is "O Mistress Mine" from Twelfth Night. Here are the lyrics.

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 

O stay and hear, your true love's coming 

That can sing both high and low. 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 

Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 

Ev'ry wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; 

Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 

In delay there lies no plenty; 

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty; 

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Here is a great version, sung to the oldest known tune, although the film cuts and other people talking over the singing are distracting. This is perhaps the most authentic version I could find. Here is an excellent audio version, with alternate more upbeat music, that might appeal to kids more than the more sober tune originally sung with the verse. And if you're really interested in giving kids different versions, I highly recommend this young woman's own. This is the version I sang in high school. I love these four-part madrigal songs by Emma Lou Diemer, but this audio is a little scratchy and the accompaniment is terrifying.

And then, if you're still interested in poetry, not having forgotten that inspiration with all the signing and dancing, why not follow up with a Shakespeare sonnet. Depending on the age of the children, the lesson would revolve around dance, song, theater, poetry and silliness!

High-Tech Poetry

And so the work of non-poetry work begins again in 2013.

A water-cooler friend told me this morning that she met, over the winter break, a poetry editor for the Colorado School of Mines student magazine, High Grade. High Grade publishes art and fiction, as well as poetry. The poetry seems typical of college-age stuff, wonderful, awful, funny, dramatic, self-revelatory, and perfect in every way. Here's the PDF of their 2012 issue. There's even a poem about boogers.

I was intrigued, because this is a school known for its technical education, not its liberal arts. However, their website informs me that they are very interested in the intersection of arts and sciences. In March 2012 they hosted the first artistic conference for science and technology universities. MIT and other "tech" schools also have literary journals and participated in the conference.

(The idea that technically oriented people also like [and write] poetry is not foreign to me, in part because I learned much about observing the world, being a solo creator and a sentimental goose from my computer programmer dad.)

Before my conversation with my friend at work, I was thinking similar thoughts listening to KQED's Forum program during my drive to work. Michael Krasny interviewed Robin Sloan today about his book Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore. It sounds like a delightful book, about the world of super geeks and magical technology, and the interview is worth listening too. But the thing that caught my ear (enough to note it in my little book at 65 mph) was the discussion about how important art and books are to folks in the high-tech industry, a concept which seemed to surprise some people.

I'm thinking I need to investigate how to teach poetry classes in high-tech companies around Silicon Valley. A project for the next Cupertino Poet Laureate. (Yes, I'm dreaming ahead of myself ...) Maybe I can bring employees and kids together to write poetry about technology, or just to write poetry.

So, it seems the work of poetry work is still possible. But, as Sting would say, "Break Over!" (Which song is that??)

A Simile Lesson: Balloons

A W. B. Yeats poem popped up in my email Inbox this morning. Ah, Yeats! So childlike, so romantic, so earnest, so terrifying, so beautiful. So academic, so innocent! It's a short poem that employs the technique of simile in the title, to lead the reader into the poem. 

 

The Balloon of the Mind 
Hands, do what you're bid:
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags in the wind
Into its narrow shed.


What a delicious description of the mind as an unruly colorful organism that must be tamed or disciplined.

The AAP email suggests several related poems. One is "The Eye Like a Strange Balloon Mounts Toward Infinity" by Mary Jo Bang. (I was previously unaware of Ms. Bang, and I will follow her work more closely now. Such mysterious language!) AAP has included an audio recording of the poet reading her poem. I try to use audio in poetry lessons as much as possible, and having a recording of the poet is a plus when engaging kids, especially older ones, paradoxically, who will listen to a recording more readily than to you reading it aloud. The balloon image appears only in the title in this poem.

Another related poem is "The Armadillo" by Elizabeth Bishop. (This is one of the luxuries of AAP's website -- they link you to poem after poem and that can be a delightful way to spend a distracted afternoon--.)  The first stanza includes the balloon image this time, where Bishop has used it as a metaphor for fireworks. Here are the first two stanzas. AAP includes an audio of this poem, too. Lucky lucky us. This reading will give your young listeners a way to hear rhyme rendered masterfully by a modern poet. 

The Armadillo
For Robert Lowell

This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height, 

rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.

Bishop's work is rife, filled, huge with metaphors and similes, and I particularly love the way she likens the light coming and going to the beating of a heart. She likens the fireworks later on to an egg, which is also like a balloon, but in a different way.

I imagine this lesson beginning with actual balloons. Kids can blow them up, you can talk about breath. Or you can bring them into the classroom in a huge bouquet -- every child or student can hold one on a string, you can talk about color, buoyancy, edges between one pocket of air and another, all the associations the students have with balloons previously in their life. You can talk about motion and all the verbs that go with balloons. There is a lot to do.

Depending on how much time you have, read one of these three poems. Or, make it a three day lesson. Have the children write poems about balloons, or encourage them to come up with their own metaphors and similes for the mind, the eye, fireworks. The possibilities are endless. 

If you want to incorporate the science of balloons or armadillos, the lesson possibilities are even more endless than normally endless. Here is a link to some wonderful images of armadillo behavior. They look like balloons, sort of, except made of armor. But of course, that was part of the poet's point. 

 

Using Old Poems to Find New Language

Often I am inspired by language and new words the teenagers in my life are constantly inventing. I believe teens have been inventing the language for millennia, but Facebook and the texting culture have documented some of these evolving words earlier than they might otherwise enter the lexicon (or the dictionary). One of my young friends wrote today about an earring that was returned to her from "MISSINGITUDE" -- which is more likely a state of being than a location, but a convincing one.

Two of my email subscriptions, "Poem-A-Day" from the AAP, and "The Writer's Almanac" from American Public Media, recently contained poems with unusual words that inspired fresh lesson ideas.
 
"The Visionary" by Emily Brontë, uses some wonderful sound strategies to create a sensual representation of wind and winter night. In particular, the first stanza: 

The Visionary  by Emily Brontë Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep, Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the     groaning trees. Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong     and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star. Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow. What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay. Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear- Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou     my constancy.

How can one resist the "wildering drift"? A word like this will seem "made up" to young children today, but it can be a tantalizing starting point for making up even more words that sound like the wind -- or whatever you like. Of course I am describing the craft technique of onomatopoeia, or a word that sounds like the thing it describes. Emily Brontë, in her poem about a spirit visitor at night, uses many words that evoke the hush of the snow and the sharper "little lamp; glimmer straight and clear," with those "l" "t" and "m" sounds. 

"At the Entering of the New Year" by Thomas Hardy is written in two parts, titled "Old Style" and "New Style."  Both halves of this poem would seem incredibly old-fashioned to children today, but my idea for a lesson would be to select an older poem you like, read it to the children, discuss any unfamiliar language and sounds, and then ask them to write a "new" poem in response. If the "old" poem chosen for the lesson is also tied to an important event or day, as is Hardy's, it will give younger children more steady footing as they try to come up with a poem of their own. 

This poem is also filled with wonderful less familiar words: "allemands" and "poussettings" could be contrasted with any current dance terms the children know. Another discussion of how funny the words are, and whether "hip hop" is a kind of onomatopoeia, could strengthen the lesson.

At the Entering of the New Year  by Thomas Hardy            I  (OLD STYLE) Our songs went up and out the chimney, And roused the home-gone husbandmen; Our allemands, our heys, poussettings, Our hands-across and back again, Sent rhythmic throbbings through the casements          On to the white highway, Where nighted farers paused and muttered,          "Keep it up well, do they!" The contrabasso's measured booming Sped at each bar to the parish bounds, To shepherds at their midnight lambings, To stealthy poachers on their rounds; And everybody caught full duly          The notes of our delight, As Time unrobed the Youth of Promise          Hailed by our sanguine sight.            II  (NEW STYLE) We stand in the dusk of a pine-tree limb, As if to give ear to the muffled peal, Brought or withheld at the breeze's whim; But our truest heed is to words that steal From the mantled ghost that looms in the gray, And seems, so far as our sense can see, To feature bereaved Humanity, As it sighs to the imminent year its say:- "O stay without, O stay without, Calm comely Youth, untasked, untired; Though stars irradiate thee about Thy entrance here is undesired. Open the gate not, mystic one;          Must we avow what we would close confine?          With thee, good friend, we would have              converse none, Albeit the fault may not be thine." December 31. During the War.

 
Word play is an important part of teaching (and writing) poetry. Less well known poems from years ago can be used more effectively when combined with an exploration of their expiring language.