2010 Poetry Parade: Day 4
Morning Red
by
Rossiter Raymond
Morning red, morning red,
Now the shadows all are fled;
Now the Sabbath’s cloudless glory,
Tells anew the wondrous story,
Christ is risen from the dead.
All around, all around,
Solemn silence reigned profound;
When, with blaze and sudden thunder,
Angels burst the tomb asunder,
And the Savior was unbound.
Forth He came! Forth He came!
Robed in white, celestial flame!
Mary, at the empty prison,
Knew not her Redeemer risen
Till He called her by her name.
Morning red! Morning red!
Christ is risen from the dead!
Still He walketh in the garden,
Speaking words of love and pardon.
Though the crown is on His head.
This poem is in the public domain.
(For more details, go to www.YourDailyPoem.com)
You're Doing Just Fine: God Said So!
Day 3 of Wordwoman's Springtime Parade of Poetry
This is a great example of a poem that can be interpreted and appreciated on several different levels; I think it would be a terrific discussion starter for a youth group or Sunday School class.
Jesus Told Me I’m Just Fine
by
Charles Ries
I sat in the rear pew of The Parroquia, the grand church off
San Miguel Allende’s city center called the Jardin. It was early
on Holy Thursday morning and the church was empty except
for the volunteers who were mopping the floor and dusting off
Jesus, who will be carried through the streets later that day on
the backs of twelve believers.
I was there to think, having argued with my brother the night
before over who loved our mother more. This is always a
delicate debate and unwinnable, unless complete and absolute
fidelity is declared to her memory. My love for her is deep,
but not so complete. My brother worries that the memoir I
am writing will not do justice to her memory. I tell him “It’s
a fictionalized memoir. All memoirs live more in the author’s
mind than reality,” but he was very drunk and would not listen.
The youngest is often such a gate-keeper.
So there I sat, eyes closed, listening for some message from
God. I often pray in this way, having a “My Own Personal
Jesus” moment in which the supplicant (that’s me), acts as if He
(God) is listening, pausing to consider my question, and then
stating, loudly and infallibly, (in my mind) the correct answer.
I’m quite certain that many dictators, demigods, and serial killers
have used this same conversational technique with a wide and
surprising host of replies, but I’m a simple man (today) and keep
my questions basic. “How am I doing, Jesus?” I think in my mind.
“Why, you’re doing just fine.” I hear His reply in a lexicon that is
surprisingly like my own (he’s a very personal God).
I leave the church grateful to God for taking time out of His busy
schedule to speak to me, and continue my work of fictionalizing my past.
© by Charles P. Ries
Used with the author’s permission.
Jesus Told Me I’m Just Fine
by
Charles Ries
I sat in the rear pew of The Parroquia, the grand church off
San Miguel Allende’s city center called the Jardin. It was early
on Holy Thursday morning and the church was empty except
for the volunteers who were mopping the floor and dusting off
Jesus, who will be carried through the streets later that day on
the backs of twelve believers.
I was there to think, having argued with my brother the night
before over who loved our mother more. This is always a
delicate debate and unwinnable, unless complete and absolute
fidelity is declared to her memory. My love for her is deep,
but not so complete. My brother worries that the memoir I
am writing will not do justice to her memory. I tell him “It’s
a fictionalized memoir. All memoirs live more in the author’s
mind than reality,” but he was very drunk and would not listen.
The youngest is often such a gate-keeper.
So there I sat, eyes closed, listening for some message from
God. I often pray in this way, having a “My Own Personal
Jesus” moment in which the supplicant (that’s me), acts as if He
(God) is listening, pausing to consider my question, and then
stating, loudly and infallibly, (in my mind) the correct answer.
I’m quite certain that many dictators, demigods, and serial killers
have used this same conversational technique with a wide and
surprising host of replies, but I’m a simple man (today) and keep
my questions basic. “How am I doing, Jesus?” I think in my mind.
“Why, you’re doing just fine.” I hear His reply in a lexicon that is
surprisingly like my own (he’s a very personal God).
I leave the church grateful to God for taking time out of His busy
schedule to speak to me, and continue my work of fictionalizing my past.
© by Charles P. Ries
Used with the author’s permission.
The Color of Day is Green!
Winter drab, begone! 'Tis time for tulip pink, hyacinth yellow, and new leaf green!
My daughter laughed
by
Katrin Talbot
My daughter laughed
and said
she could only hear
her boots
but couldn’t you hear
it too?
The prairie swelling,
the dark and trembling crescendo in
the thawing earth
as the bilateral state
begins to unfurl
towards
away
and I begin
to remember
the shock value
My daughter laughed
by
Katrin Talbot
My daughter laughed
and said
she could only hear
her boots
but couldn’t you hear
it too?
The prairie swelling,
the dark and trembling crescendo in
the thawing earth
as the bilateral state
begins to unfurl
towards
away
and I begin
to remember
the shock value
of
green
© by Katrin Talbot.
Used with the author's permission.
© by Katrin Talbot.
Used with the author's permission.
It's National Poetry Month!
I know April 1st means April Fool's Day to many...or two weeks till taxes are due...or perhaps the advent of spring cleaning. But for me, April 1st means the beginning of National Poetry Month. I've celebrated for the past eight years by sending out a poem a day to anyone who wanted one. But last year's "Poetry Parade" gave birth to a daily poetry venture--a website called http://www.yourdailypoem.com/. A new poem is posted on the website each day, and subscribers enjoy a bit of private commentary which never appears on the site. I've been delighted and astounded at the support the site has found. Now, in this ninth year of my Springtime Parade of Poems, I've decided to post the selections here on my blog as well to allow for some discussion. I always get a ton of comments on the parade selections (ranging from "That's the dumbest poem I ever read!" to "I want this on my tombstone!") and some have suggested it would be fun if everyone got to see those comments and respond with their own, so we'll see how it goes.
I'm not an early riser, so don't expect to find anything to comment on before 9 AM!
Here's the kick-off for the parade this year--a very funny, very clever piece from Wisconsin poet Bruce Dethlefsen:
I'm not an early riser, so don't expect to find anything to comment on before 9 AM!
Here's the kick-off for the parade this year--a very funny, very clever piece from Wisconsin poet Bruce Dethlefsen:
| ||
To see the full posting, go here. Comments, anyone? |
I Teach, Therefore I Inspire
Don't you wish that were the motto of every instructor we encounter during the course of our and our children's lives? It's not, of course; I can name a lot more boring and mediocre teachers than I can inspiring ones in the nearly fifty years I've spent in my own and my sons' classrooms. Isn't that sad? On the other hand, the good ones are so life-changing that they almost make the dull teachers worth enduring.
This week on my Your Daily Poem website, I featured a poem by Edwin Romond, who taught English in Wisconsin and New Jersey for 32 years before retiring. The first time I read it, when Edwin submitted it to YDP for consideration along with several others, I cried. I cried because the impact and sweetness of his memory are so profound. I cried because this poem brought to mind my own life-changing moments in school--passing blips of activity or conversation, seemingly insignificant at the time, that nonetheless buried themselves in my brain and still resonate half a century later. I cried because I fear today's students are missing out on these moments because teachers are so burdened with covering what's on THE TEST (pick one; they seem to be endless) that they can't spare an unscripted, serendipitous hour to gush over the gossamer art of butterfly wings or discuss why a rainy day makes us feel so melancholy. They certainly wouldn't derail the day's syllabus to sing beautiful ethnic ballads; most schools don't even have music class anymore and if they're lucky enough to still have a music teacher, there's probably some law in place by now that says you can't sing ethnic songs because it might offend somebody. . .or if you sing one ethnic ballad, you have to sing them all. (But then, chances are, today's students don't know any ethnic ballads anyway because their music education is coming from iPods and "American Idol," but I think that's a blog for another day.)
In any case, I wanted to share Edwin's wonderful poem with you (see link below). And I want to encourage you to appreciate those teachers in your life who give inspiration along with information; if you have any pull with legislators, please remind them that the classroom should be a place for learning, not memorization, and certainly not simply for prepping to pass a test. Being well educated encompasses soooooo much more than being able to diagram a sentence, dissect an earthworm, or determine a square root. It's being able to identify and savor special moments in life, connect with and care for our fellow man, spawn new ideas and create works of art born of nothing more than ingenuity.
Here's a suggestion: next time you need to give a teacher a gift (and June is just around the corner), instead of the ubiquitous Starbucks gift card, give Edwin Romond's wonderful b
ook, Dream Teaching. Poetry book not your style? Here are some other wonderful books that recognize and celebrate extraordinary teachers:
This week on my Your Daily Poem website, I featured a poem by Edwin Romond, who taught English in Wisconsin and New Jersey for 32 years before retiring. The first time I read it, when Edwin submitted it to YDP for consideration along with several others, I cried. I cried because the impact and sweetness of his memory are so profound. I cried because this poem brought to mind my own life-changing moments in school--passing blips of activity or conversation, seemingly insignificant at the time, that nonetheless buried themselves in my brain and still resonate half a century later. I cried because I fear today's students are missing out on these moments because teachers are so burdened with covering what's on THE TEST (pick one; they seem to be endless) that they can't spare an unscripted, serendipitous hour to gush over the gossamer art of butterfly wings or discuss why a rainy day makes us feel so melancholy. They certainly wouldn't derail the day's syllabus to sing beautiful ethnic ballads; most schools don't even have music class anymore and if they're lucky enough to still have a music teacher, there's probably some law in place by now that says you can't sing ethnic songs because it might offend somebody. . .or if you sing one ethnic ballad, you have to sing them all. (But then, chances are, today's students don't know any ethnic ballads anyway because their music education is coming from iPods and "American Idol," but I think that's a blog for another day.)
In any case, I wanted to share Edwin's wonderful poem with you (see link below). And I want to encourage you to appreciate those teachers in your life who give inspiration along with information; if you have any pull with legislators, please remind them that the classroom should be a place for learning, not memorization, and certainly not simply for prepping to pass a test. Being well educated encompasses soooooo much more than being able to diagram a sentence, dissect an earthworm, or determine a square root. It's being able to identify and savor special moments in life, connect with and care for our fellow man, spawn new ideas and create works of art born of nothing more than ingenuity.
Here's a suggestion: next time you need to give a teacher a gift (and June is just around the corner), instead of the ubiquitous Starbucks gift card, give Edwin Romond's wonderful b
ook, Dream Teaching. Poetry book not your style? Here are some other wonderful books that recognize and celebrate extraordinary teachers:- Teacher Man, by Frank McCourt
- The Thread that Runs So True: A Mountain School Teacher Tells His Story, by Jesse Stuart
- The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher's Life, by Parker Palmer
- Mentors, Masters, and Mrs. McGregor, by Jane Bluestein
- Extraordinary Teachers, by Fred Stephenson, Jr.
It's important that we reward outstanding teachers--by buying their books, praising them to their superiors, giving them thoughtful gifts, thanking them--frequently--and recalling their magic long after their tenure has ended. And remember: it's never to late to tell a teacher how he or she made a difference in your life.
Here's a review of Edwin's book by George Mason University instructor Erica Jacobs, and here is Edwin's beautiful poem, "Everything About Egypt." (If you cry when you read it, it's okay; you're one of many!)
Saying Goodbye to Lucille Clifton
My heart, and that of many others, is aching today over the death of poet Lucille Clifton. I received a poem from Wisconsin poet Bruce Dethlefsen Saturday night that made me gasp and think, "No! Not Lucille!" but couldn't find any news headlines to validate my fears. Today, however, her death has been confirmed and I share Bruce's poem with you in tribute to this wonderful woman who gave birth to six children, twenty children's books, and eleven poetry collections during her lifetime.
me and you be sisters.
we be the same.
me and you
coming from the same place.
me and you
be greasing our legs
touching up our edges.
me and you
be scared of rats
be stepping on roaches.
me and you
come running high down purdy street one time
and mama laugh and shake her head at
me and you.
me and you
got babies
got thirty-five
got black
let our hair go back
be loving ourselves
be loving ourselves
be sisters.
only where you sing
i poet.
Tiptoes
(for Lucille Clifton)
by
Bruce Dethlefsen
I’m not here to speak louder
you’re here to listen harder
someone asks the windows open
so the overflow can hear
black faces white
stretched above the sills
brown heads rest
their cheeks along the ledge
she reads
I hear my mother speak
the church breathes in and out
each sound each word
a coo a hurricane inside my ear
a threat of rain
the father with the black umbrella bends
to kiss his daughter on the lips
the daughter slumps
her water breaks
when she hears her mother’s dead
she reads
my eyes are shut and with permission wet
we lean against the church
the soft applause
and then it’s done
I raise my head from my mother’s lap
I rise to stand
with the listeners on tiptoes at the windows
to stand until miss clifton passes
From Breather (Fireweed Press, 2009)
Used here with the author's permission. (Thank you, Bruce!)
Written after hearing Lucille read in the old church at
the Dodge Poetry Festival, on a very hot day)
(for Lucille Clifton)
by
Bruce Dethlefsen
I’m not here to speak louder
you’re here to listen harder
someone asks the windows open
so the overflow can hear
black faces white
stretched above the sills
brown heads rest
their cheeks along the ledge
she reads
I hear my mother speak
the church breathes in and out
each sound each word
a coo a hurricane inside my ear
a threat of rain
the father with the black umbrella bends
to kiss his daughter on the lips
the daughter slumps
her water breaks
when she hears her mother’s dead
she reads
my eyes are shut and with permission wet
we lean against the church
the soft applause
and then it’s done
I raise my head from my mother’s lap
I rise to stand
with the listeners on tiptoes at the windows
to stand until miss clifton passes
From Breather (Fireweed Press, 2009)
Used here with the author's permission. (Thank you, Bruce!)
Written after hearing Lucille read in the old church at
the Dodge Poetry Festival, on a very hot day)
I have two favorite Lucille Clifton poems. The first is "Homage to My Hips," which, to me, offers up a prime example of her wit and sass. The second, "Sisters," packs so much in its lines and flat out nails the sister relationship.
Homage to My Hips
by
Lucille Clifton
by
Lucille Clifton
these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
From Good Woman (BOA Editions, Ltd., 1987)
Sisters
by
Lucille Clifton
by
Lucille Clifton
me and you be sisters.
we be the same.
me and you
coming from the same place.
me and you
be greasing our legs
touching up our edges.
me and you
be scared of rats
be stepping on roaches.
me and you
come running high down purdy street one time
and mama laugh and shake her head at
me and you.
me and you
got babies
got thirty-five
got black
let our hair go back
be loving ourselves
be loving ourselves
be sisters.
only where you sing
i poet.
From Good Woman (BOA Editions, Ltd., 1987)
If you know Lucille's work, I leave you this to mourn her loss with a smile. And if you don't know her work, I hope it will inspire you to find to go find one of her books before this day ends!
gO Canada!
Kudos to Canada for including poetry in their celebration of the 2010 Olympic Games! Shane Koyczan did an outstanding job cataloging his country's sundry qualities in his poem, "We Are More," a piece he wrote for the Canadian Tourism Commission back in 2007. Not as dignified a performance as some might have liked, not as lofty a poem as others might have written (Canada abounds in excellent poets), but I thought the presentation was hip and from the heart and exactly right for the the occasion--which had more warmth than most of the opening ceremonies I've watched. Unlike a song, where the music gets in the way, and unlike visual art, which lacks the words to define the moment, poetry marks an occasion like no other art form. My hat is off to whoever deserves credit for making a noble occasion truly memorable.
In case you want to know more about Shane and his poetry--and I hope you do--check out his website.
In case you want to know more about Shane and his poetry--and I hope you do--check out his website.
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