Poetry Month

In honor of Poetry Month, I refer you to my daughter's current post, and to her recommendation of a site called Split This Rock Poetry Festival.

Once again, I am not staying on line too long these days because my computer is overheating. Although, since our weather has cooled, it isn't quite so bad. It still cuts out on me within a very short time. Sorry I can't visit too many of your posts.

A Busy Month

Today begins Poetry Month. Always a favorite of mine.


It is also, as most of us are aware, the month of Passover, and of Easter.


But it also begins National Autism Awareness Month. Autism is a much misunderstood and often feared thing, experienced by many thousands of people. This should be a good time for us to read and talk and learn more about something that effects so many wonderful people among us. - Our friend, Linda, has a post today in which she refers to it as "Autism Acceptance Month" I like that so much better.

Poetry

My youngest, Kitty, is having a full month in February. she is doing a poetry reading, and is also conducting a poetry workshop to benefit Isaac's pre-school. I had placed all the details on my blog earlier today, and it made her a bit nervous. Please forgive an over-enthusiastic mother. A few of you made nice comments, and I'll pass them on to her.

I'm still going to try to get her to let me print some of her poetry soon.


Another daughter, Rita, just informed me I missed Langston Hughes' birthday, February 1st.
Well, I can rectify that at least. Here is a poem by Langston Hughes.

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.


Poem: www.PoemHunter.com

ON THE MOUNTAIN

Just one more time, I promise. I really want to print my favorite of Ric Masten's poems. I hesitated because it is a long one, but I do love it. Then no more - at least for quite a while. I wonder if you remember the first of his poems that I printed. It was for Martin Luther King.
But first, because I've been asked, yes, there are several books available:
Ric Masten Speaking
I Know It Isn't Funny But.... I Love to Make You Laugh
Stark Naked
Voice of the Hive
Parallel Journeys (with Dr. Larry Lachman) concerning his cancer
Pacific Light (with photographer Douglas Steakley) Scenes from Monterey, CA
and more. 23 in all, two not yet published




ON THE MOUNTAIN

last summer whenever possible
my visiting granddaughter Cara
would worm her tiny hand into mine
and like Hansel and Gretel
we'd strike out from the house
up the "Barking dog trail"
to the "Creaky swings"
don't you love the labels
little children put on things?
and after a few "Sky flying"
"Watch me Grandpa!"s
it was on to the "Sneaky table"
where hidden in the shade
beneath a giant live oak tree
we would split
the forbidden can of Coke I brought
"Damn it Dad her teeth will rot!"

rested and refreshed
we then ascend the "Slidey steep"
to check the water level in the "Water keep"
to lift the lid and take a peek
then down the trail in single file we go
through the "Witchy woods"
all the way to Arizona which is what
my spouse has dubbed the shack
she uses as her dream shop and studio
Grandma it seems
also has a knack for naming things
"If anyone calls tell them I'm in Arizona."

next stop - the family memorial garden
where we solemnly commune
with the trees Kim and Emil have become
chanting softly as we pass
"From ashes to ashes to flowering plum."

then wending our way
along a stretch of "Dusty dirt"
we search for yesterday's footprints
covering them with today's
"Backward walking" sometimes
"To fool our enemies and friends."

and always during the final leg
of this backyard expedition
my companion lags behind
little Miss Slowpoke gathering specimens
repeating after me the name
of every trail side shrub and tree
eucalyptus - sticky monkey
lilac - sage - madrone
and "Don't touch that it's poison oak!"
then suddenly: "We're home!"

last summer Cara and I collected
and polished these moments
leaving them along the path like pebbles
to be used in the distant future
the way a whiff of cigar smoke
brings my grandfather back to poke about
in the garden with his walking stick
the way my grandmother's face
magically appears
at the taste of peppermint
her watchful presence close at hand
whenever I shake sand from something
that has been to the beach

I know that on some faraway tomorrow
a sip of Cola on a hot day -
a pinch of sage -
the creaking sound a rope swing makes
these things with Cara's help
will bring me back to life again
and thankful as I am
for such life extending crumbs

sadly I also know that the cigar smoke
and peppermint trick
can only be done by me -
in a couple of generations it all becomes
a banquet for the crows


You really should try to go to Ric's site, or read one of his books. After each poem, he also writes what he calls an AFTERWORD. They are worth reading. In the one after this poem he tells us that when he wrote it, Cara had graduated from college. He also did the illustrations that go with each - line drawings, done without lifting the pen from the paper. I'm sure that Cara, and all others of his family, have some wonderful memories of Ric, as do thousands of others all over the world.

THE ESCAPE ARTIST

I told you Blogger doesn't like me. No matter what I do to change the date on this post, it will not let me do it. I give up. Let it publish today.

---------------------------------------------------


You seem to like Ric Masten's poems. I do too. Now that he is no longer with us, I believe I will print a few more of them.



THE ESCAPE ARTIST

if freedom
is nothing more
than being able to chose
your own cage
as I suggest it is
then perhaps
the fun comes
in being
an escape artist

in recognizing
the cage you are in
deciding how long
you will settle for it
and then
when you want out
seeing how clever
you are at slipping
through a space
in the wire

perhaps
the good life
the full life
is nothing more
than every once
in a while
pulling yourself
through a hole
in the roof
standing triumphantly
looking down
with a "hot damn"
and then around
with a frustrated
"oh, no, not again!"

THE VANISHING SPECIES

One more Ric Masten poem.


THE VANISHING SPECIES

I was born on a planet
almost seventy seven light years from here

an idyllic world
where children grew up
without the threat of nuclear holocaust
or global warming
no instant messaging systems
no black revolutions
gay revolutions
drug revolutions
no woman's liberation
not even the choice
of taking or not taking the pill

true
the seed of all this was there
but had nothing to do
with my formative years

and now
I find myself come to this harsh place
a kind of space traveler
having close encounters
with my own children

like creatures
from different star systems
we stare at each other
across the void
even our words have different stems

we are aliens in each others midst

but damn it
I am the one saddled with the memory
of that other place
part of a colony
stranded on planet earth
at the beginning of the twenty first century
marooned
with no way to go back
and no time to go on

like a moon being eclipsed
my kind will soon be gone
and in light of the headlines today
the sooner the better

RIC MASTEN

We lost Ric Masten last week. He lost his long battle with cancer at last.

You may remember me mentioning Ric a couple of months ago. Some of you may have gone to his site at that time, and discovered his delightful poems and drawings. For those who did not, I am going to print here a very moving poem that he wrote about his wife.


DEMENTIA

when I was 19
my parents went around the world
leaving
from the San Francisco marina on a freighter
with passenger accommodations
back in those days
when the gang plank had been raised
and the ship was ready to depart
the passengers
would line up at the rail looking down
throwing serpentine
colorful paper streamers
to friends and family on the pier below
we would hold tight to one end
while those we hold dear
held on to their end
of these
slender fragile ribbons
then slowly
almost imperceptibly
the ship began to move away
the paper connections
snapping
one by one
as the steamer headed out into the bay

after fifty five years together
my cancer is incurable
and your memory is fading
which makes me acutely aware
of time circling the drain
running out of the clock
wondering whether
the love of my life
will slip over the horizon
before I am forced to leave the dock


Ric has gone. He is survived by the love of his life. If you go to his poetry site, you will find that he wrote more about her, following this poem. I think you will enjoy his poems, as well as the drawings he did to accompanying them. I have no idea how much longer the site will remain, but of course, his work can be found in the library or the book store.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

OK I said yesterday's was the last. But there's still this one day left of Poetry Month, and I can't resist just one more. And thanks to those of you who have encouraged me to include more poetry now and then.




The north central coast of California, Monterey County to be exact, is my favorite place in this country. It's so very beautiful! Mr. Longfellow thought so too. He spent a lot of his time there, and I understand that it was there that he wrote his epic poem, Evangeline. The love story told in this poem took place in Acadia, not in California. But he was inspired by the sea and the forests around him. If you visit Point Lobos you will understand. If you spend some time there, you can close your eyes and listen to the waves crashing on the rocks, and breathe in the scent of the forest. And you can recall the words in the first half of the Prologue to Evangeline.



This is the forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss and in garments green
Indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld,
With voices sad and prophetic;
Stand like harpers hoar,
With beards that rest on their bosoms,
While loud from its rocky caverns
The deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate
Answers the wail of the forest.













These pictures are both from webshots.com
I do not feel my own pictures from Point Lobos are descriptive enough to illustrate the poem.

CARL SANDBURG

Poetry Month is drawing to a close. I haven't really posted many of my favorites, and there are so many. Now that the month is closing, I am thinking of about a dozen I'd like to cover. Too late.


Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) is one of my favorites, and another that I'm going way back to remember. Now that I've settled on him, I have to decide which poem to choose. Again - there are just so many. The only way I can decide is to choose a favorite topic as well.



YOUNG SEA

The sea is never still.
It pounds on the shore
Restless as a young heart,
Hunting.

The sea speaks
And only the stormy hearts
Know what it says.
It is the face of a rough mother speaking.

The sea is young.
One storm cleans all the hoar
And loosens the age of it.
I hear it laughing, reckless.

They love the sea,
Men who ride on it
And know they will die
Under the salt of it.

Let only the young come,
Says the sea.

Let them kiss my face
And hear me.
I am the last word
And I tell
Where storms and stars come from.





The sea picture is not mine. It is from Webshots.com.

Another of his verses can be read if you click on his picture.

JABBERWOCKY And other stuff

Back in the 1870's, Lewis Carroll wrote two of my favorite poems, which were part of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There. The first was
Jabberwocky, which begins:

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

(That gave Spellcheck a workout!)


I recall one summer evening when I received a telephone call from a young man my girlfriend had been talking up to me for a while. During the conversation, out of the blue, he quoted the first two lines of that to me. I immediately came back with the next two lines. We knew right away that we had at least something in common, and we made a date. (We found out quickly enough afterwards that we didn't have much more, and never had a second date.)



The other one is Father William. It begins:

"You are old, father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."


It's a rather lengthy, silly poem. It amuses me.



I always loved to hear my sister read Alice to me. But when I was small, the illustrations in the book frightened me. I wanted to hear it, not look at it.

DAY AFTER

Yea! Some of you out there participated in Poem in Your Pocket day. It was fun, and I'm glad to see that you joined in.

So far I have found poems on two blogs: Shady Gardener at Does Everything Grow Better in My Neighbor's Yard, and Laura at Somewhere in New Jersey. I loved both poems. Take a look.

CHILDREN'S POETRY

Still thinking of Poetry Month



Poem in Your Pocket is coming up on April 17th. That's tomorrow!


Here's one for the young people in your life. I found it on the Poem in Your Pocket site.




THE EAGLE

She rides the sky like she owns the sun,
on a sea of air and light -
surfing, skimming, rising high,
then sweeping low and tight.

She swoops to catch a perfect wave,
her wings held straight and true.
You lift your chin and hold your breath
and wish you could do it too.


TODAY AT THE BLUEBIRD CAFE: A BRANCHFUL OF BIRDS By Deborah Ruddell Text
copyright @ 2007 Used with permission of Margaret K. McElderry, an imprint of Simon &^ Schuster Children's Publishing

MORE FOR POETRY MONTH

Ellen Bass is an award winning author and poet, residing in Santa Cruz, California. She has published six collections of her poetry. You may possibly have heard Garrison Keillor reading some of her work. If you would like to see and hear her reading some of her own poetry, you may do so on YouTube. Go to the bottom of page 3, continued on page 4. You may also read more about her at www.ellenbass.com.


The poem I would like to bring to you today is from her book, The Human Line, Copper Canyon Press.



Asking Directions in Paris

Ou est le boulevard Saint Michel?
You pronounce the question carefully,
And when the native stops,
shifting her narrow sack of wine and baguettes,
lifting her manicured hand,
you feel a flicker of accomplishment.
But beyond that, all clarity dissolves,
for the woman in the expensive shoes
and suit exactly the soft gray
of clouds above the cathedral does not say
to the right, to the left, straight ahead,
phrases you memorized from tapes
as you drove around your hometown
or mumbled into a pocket Berlitz on the plane,
but relays something wholly unintelligible,
some version of: On the corner
he is a shop of jewels in a fountain
when the hotel arrives on short feet.
You listen hard, nodding,
as though your pleasant disposition,
your willingness to go
wherever she tells you,
will make her next words pop up
from this ocean of sound,
somewhat the way a dog hears its name
and the coveted syllable walk.
If you're brave enough, or very nervous,
you may admit you don't understand.
And though evening's coming on and
her family's waiting, her husband lighting
another Gauloise, the children setting the table,
she repeats it again, another gesture
of her lovely hand, from which you glean
no more than you did the first time.
And as you thank her profusely
and set off full of groundless hope,
you think this must be how it is
with destiny: God explaining
and explaining what you must do,
and all you can make out is a few
unconnected phrases, a word or two, a wave
in what you pray is the right direction.

Poetry

This is an email I got from Kitty today:

"This is a local poet with some national notariety. Click on this week's link and you'll find another boasting grandparent. I thought you'd appreciate the company"

And the url she sent me is for Ric Masten.

I love it! I hope some of you will enjoy it too.'

Poetry

Poetry has always been part of my life. When I was very small, my father used to read terrible poetry to me in a sing-song voice. If I paid attention long enough to the words I didn't like them. But it was usually late in the evening, and I was a sleepy child, and the rhythm of his voice was pleasant. That's what I heard - the rhythm. As I grew older I listened harder and lost interest in the trite verses he read; but the idea of poetry, the feel of it, the fascination, was there. To be fair, he did sometimes read me good poetry. To him it was all the same I think, but I learned the distinction early on. At that time I did love A Child's Garden of Verses. Thank you Mr. Stevenson. Later my sister read to me, things like Alice in Wonderland. The Jaberwok and Father William delighted me and I learned that other types of poetry existed.

From there, I took off on my own, exploring a world my parents found puzzling. Why would a child want to sit and read books? Why would she want to spend Saturday afternoons in the library? I found A. A. Milne quite by accident at a friend's home and promptly fell in love. What a lucky child, Christopher Robin! (How sad for future generations of children that Mr. Disney robbed them of knowing the original version.)

I will be ever grateful to the librarian of our elementary school. I don't remember her name or even her face, but I am aware of the social stmosphere of the time and place, and am reasonably sure that she might have lost her job and books would have been burned if the Board of Education had been aware of how she stocked those shelves. In the fourth grade I discovered the poetry shelf. I found poets like Countee Cullen and James Weldon Johnson. I saved my allowance and bought myself On These I Stand and God's Trombones. My parents looked puzzled and shook their heads.

Of course I had to try my hand. In the fifth grade we were assigned the reading of Evangeline. I won't even try to describe the way in which my prissy, old-maid teacher presented it. But, too late! I'd already read ahead!. And immediately I sat myself down to pen an epic poem of my own. (It was pretty horrendous.) In the sixth grade our assignment was an ode for Memorial Day. I was rather proud of that one. I entitled it An Ode for Memorial Day. How clever was that? But it was printed in the school paper, and I was forced to read it in assembly for the whole school. I was pretty full of myself. I do believe that was the only time I was ever published, but I could have filled many tomes with my efforts. Still do it, occasionally. No more romantic epics, I assure you. Perhaps more an attempt at the style of Carl Sandburg.

My brother fancied himself a poet. When he returned from Europe at the end of World War II his duffle bag was full of his efforts. After his death some years ago, his daughter sent me some of his later work. He tried hard, bless him, but in my opinion his poetry was pretty bad - even worse than mine.

My youngest child makes my heart sing! She is, indeed, a poet.

Because it is Black History Month, I believe it might be appropriate to end with a favorite from
Countee Cullen:

Tableau

"Locked arm in arm, they cross the way,
The black boy and the white.
The golden splendor of the day,
The sable pride of night.

From lowered blinds the dark folk stare,
And here the fair folks talk,
Indignant that these two should dare
In unison to walk.

Oblivious to look and word
They pass, and see no wonder
That lightning brilliant as a sword
Should blaze the path of thunder."


Remembering that this was written back in the 20's, please, God, don't let these words describe attitudes today nor in our future.