Poetry Friday: "Four Directions to the Zoo" by Lizbeth, age 10

We hit the zoo yesterday. If you've never been to the Henry Doorly Zoo and Aquarium, you must — youmustyoumustyoumust — go if you're ever anywhere near Omaha. It is consistently ranked best, best, best. Their conservation efforts are admirable, and the zoo foundation's mission is to preserve and protect wildlife all over the world. I love our zoo. 

I went looking for a zoo poem and from Poets.org comes this delightful little piece:

Four Directions to the Zoo 

by Lizbeth, 10

826 NYC 

1. Take a big train

2. Stop at a smelly subway station

3. Take the stairs to the big zoo

4. Open the smelly door and see lots of animals 

Written in Response to "Five Directions to My House" by Juan Felipe Herrara 

~~~~~~~~~~

I hope Lizbeth had a marvelous day at the zoo. I love the idea of using "Five Directions to My House" as a prompt (need to file that idea and play with it) and love Lizbeth's take on it here. 

I didn't have to take a big train to get to the zoo, but one thing is universal: it's all happening at the zoo. 

P.S. 

I must disagree with my beloved Simon and Garfunkel. I've never met an insincere giraffe and elephants are kindly, but they are not dumb. Please, boys. 

Be sure to head over to Jane Whittingham's for the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Poetry Friday: "Great Things Have Happened" by Alden Nowlan

Do you need to take a beat? Are you longing to sink back in time to a snapshot — both tiny and enormous — of your past? 

Then I give you this lovely poem by Alden Nowlan. 

May you have a Friday of Great Things. 

Great Things Have Happened
by Alden Nowlan

We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, "Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time." But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn't mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I'm sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived

who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.

"Is that all?" I hear somebody ask.

....

(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Marcie Flinchum Atkins has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.  

Photo thanks to Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Fireflies" by Frank Ormsby

Do you call them lightning bugs or fireflies? 

Glow worms? 

Something else? 

Whatever you call them, they've probably provided you with a little wonder and a lot of enchantment. I've always been charmed and intrigued by these tiny summer lanterns. As poet Frank Ormsby asks, "What should we make of fireflies, their quick flare/of promise and disappointment, their throwaway style?" 

And just in case you want to know more than you ever thought you'd be able to learn about lightning bugs, I'll point you (just follow the glowing lights) to one of my favorite podcasts, Alie Ward's Ologies. This episode is all about lampyridology. As always happens when I listen to Ologies, I had no idea that I wanted to know this much about the subject at hand. I'm always completely sucked in by each episode and end up sharing fascinating factoids over dinner. ("You will not believe how disgusting baby lightning bugs are! They basically hunt in packs!"*)

* See page 7 of the transcript for the horrifying, funny, interesting conversation about these predatory babies. 

And now, back to something not disgusting and not horrifying: this week's poem. 

Fireflies
by Frank Ormsby

The lights come on and stay on under the trees.
Visibly a whole neighborhood inhabits the dusk,
so punctual and in place it seems to deny
dark its dominion. Nothing will go astray,
the porch lamps promise. Sudden, as though a match
failed to ignite at the foot of the garden, the first squibs
trouble the eye. Impossible not to share
that sportive, abortive, clumsy, where-are-we-now
dalliance with night, such soothing relentlessness.
What should we make of fireflies, their quick flare
of promise and disappointment, their throwaway style?
....
(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up can be found this week at Bookseed Studio. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: “Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant” by Billy Collins (and other thoughts on aging)

Last week, Tabatha, who happens to be the host of today’s Poetry Friday round-up, mentioned the poem she once wrote for me during a Summer Poem Swap. She touched and delighted me with “Imaginary Billy and I Discuss the Founding Documents.” And since I’m always delighted by the charming Mr. Collins, and since I’m working my way through one of his books for my morning poetry reading, it's only fitting that I share another bit of Billy for this week’s post. 

This one makes me think about how much we get wrong about “old people.” The older I get, the more I see (and experience for myself) the way we lump people of a certain age into a supposedly homogenous group. Elderly. Aged. Retired. Senior citizen. 

From my own experience of getting older, I know that “old people” are just people. People who have been on the planet for a particular amount of time. People who are funny, interesting, boring, grumpy, effervescent, insightful, ignorant, and all manner of wide-ranging personalities. They are people whose bodies keep surprising and betraying them, and believe me, they don’t like it anymore than anyone else does. (Not that I’d know this from personal experience, except, yes, I know this from personal experience.) In August of 2022, when we adopted our kitty, Maisy, the young woman at the animal shelter said, “And since you are over 60, you get the ‘elderly discount’ on the adoption fee.” This is me in 2022: 

And this was my expression when she told me I was elderly: 

I hadn’t felt that old since 2008, when Ramona was five years old and I shared this blog post: 

Anyway. 

I’ll grant you that my hair has gotten grayer in the last three years (what is with that hair at our temples?!) since that visit to the animal shelter, though I still don’t dye it as I’ve always thought coloring it would be too much trouble. But I still don’t feel elderly. I’m like the old man in the Chinese restaurant that Charming Billy introduces us to in this poem. For the most part, I’m livin’ my best life. 

Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant
by Billy Collins 

I am glad I resisted the temptation,
if it was a temptation when I was young,
to write a poem about an old man
eating alone at a corner table in a Chinese restaurant.

I would have gotten it all wrong
thinking: the poor bastard, not a friend in the world
and with only a book for a companion.
He'll probably pay the bill out of a change purse.

So glad I waited all these decades
to record how hot and sour the hot and sour
soup is here at Chang's this afternoon
and how cold the Chinese beer in a frosted glass.

….

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Visit Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference for the full round-up of poetic goodness this week. 

Poetry Friday: "There are No Kings in America" by Aileen Cassinetto

This week, Mary Lee Hahn, at A(nother) Year of Reading, is hosting an "Independence Day Roundup of Protest and Praise for This Complicated Country We Call Home." Mary Lee shares a powerful original piece entitled "America."

I didn't get any new writing done this week, but I'm sharing a powerful and timely poem from Aileen Cassinetto, "There are no kings in America," which was first published in 2020.* I've included some excerpts here but be sure to read the whole thing. (Link below.) 

There are no kings in America
by Aileen Cassinetto

we are not that kind of country.
We are sanctuary for the hungry,
the homeless, the huddled,
held together by an idea
our immigrant fathers believed in.

....

To be an American is to
recognize the sacrifice
of the widow and the orphan;
it is to understand the weft of tent
cities expecting caravans,
and the heft of a child in a camp
not meant for children, or sitting
before a judge awaiting judgement.
What do we say to the native
whose lands we now inhabit?
What do we say to our immigrant
fathers who held certain truths
to be self-evident?

.... 

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org.) 

* ETA: On Cassinetto's website, she notes that she first presented this poem publicly on July 9, 2019. She writes:

On July 9, 1776, General George Washington ordered the Declaration of Independence to be read aloud to members of the Continental Army in New York. This poem, written in 2019, is a commentary on immigration, and how our actions compare with the statement adopted by the Second Continental Congress.

~~~~~~~~~~

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: The Poetry Peeps are writing Raccontinos! (And so am I!)

The challenge: 

Last month, Tanita (who also happens to be this week's Poetry Friday host) said: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of June! Here’s the scoop: We’ll going to write a couple of couplets and make a Raccontino. Never heard of the form? No worries. If you can count to two, you can play with this delightful form. Of course, we’re turning our faces to the winds of ‘conversation,’ as always. Are you in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on June 27th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll join the fun!

I haven't joined in on a poetry challenge for a while. (Was it last October? Really?!) When I sat down today, waffling over what to post for Poetry Friday, I remembered the month-end challenges. 

"Didn't Tanita say something about couplets last month?" I said. 

"The Raccontino sounds so easy!" I said. 

"It'll be fun!" I said. 

(It was not easy.)

But it is always — in its twisted way — fun to write, even when writing is torture. (As Thomas Mann said, "A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.") 

So, the Raccontino. The poem must:

• be composed of any number of couplets 
• have even-numbered lines sharing the same end rhyme
• have the title and final words of odd-numbered lines telling a story

Because the Poetry Peeps are exploring the theme of being "in conversation," I chose conversations within marriage. The story I came up with was: 

"In Marriage, conversation is sometimes lively, sometimes sweetly silent." 

I started with that, and then had to work on the rhyming lines. Not easy, but pretty satisfyingly fun in the end. 

In Marriage

We're having another conversation
and this is how it goes. 

He, angry at the state of the world, is 

enumerating his (and my—he knows me so well) woes. 

We stop, we sigh, we know sometimes

that this is how it goes. 

We'll share the angst, trade lively 

plans for how to conquer foes. 

But other times, sometimes, 

(oftentimes, many) far more on the nose 

is the deftly perceived shared glance, the sweetly

invisible current that flows 

from him to me, me to him. Silent, 

more electric than life. This is how it goes. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~~~~~~

Visit Tanita for the Poetry Friday round-up, including links to all the Poetry Peeps 

who joined in the challenge. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "The Summer You Read Proust" by Philip Terman

Should this be the summer I finally read Proust? 

I must confess that this theater major-turned-English major (oh, and I threw a philosophy minor in there my senior year, just before I dropped out in existential misery, with no job prospects in sight) has — yikes! — never read Proust. I did, however, end up with several jobs through the years that admirably put my acting/writing/philosophical skills to work. So. There's that. Nothing is ever wasted, kids.

I can't remember when or how I stumbled across this short and as-perfect-as-a-well-baked-Madeleine poem by Philip Termin. I found it this week in my "Poetry Friday Possibilities" file and it really, really makes me want to read Proust. (Or maybe I just can't get Madeleines and/or Proust off my mind since reading Jama's last Poetry Friday post.) 

The trouble, of course, is that I also really, really want to get through my never-ending, already-teetering TBR stack. But the other trouble is that I read a piece in Lit Hub called "Six Reasons Why You Must Read Proust" and now I want to read Proust. (One of Lit Hub's reasons: "If you are or are considered a human, you must and you can read Proust." Well, then. I'm generally considered to be a human, so apparently Proust is going on my TBR list, if not yet on the literal, teetering stack.) 

But another trouble is that I'm such a mood reader! If I start Proust and I'm not in the mood for Proust all summer long, well, then what kind of catastrophe will befall me and my reading life? (Can you tell I was a theater major? I have to inject drama into everything. Imagine my painfully contorted face as I strive to convey the urgency of this dilemma to you, dear reader!) 

Are there any other problems? Honestly, it's probably nothing a Madeleine can't cure. I can tell you (with no drama) that there is not a single problem with this short and lovely poem. Read it, savor it as you would a buttery Madeleine, and then ponder with me your relationship with Proust. And please, please, please let me know what you've done about Marcel, or what you plan to do, won't you? 

The Summer You Read Proust
by Philip Terman

Remember the summer you read Proust?
In the hammock tied to the apple trees
your daughters climbed, their shadows
merging with the shadows of the leaves
spilling onto those long arduous sentences,
all afternoon and into the evening—robins,
jays, the distant dog, the occasional swaying,

....

(Read the rest here at The Writer's Almanac.) 

P.S. Atticus found our copy of Swann's Way for me, so I guess it is going on the literal, teetering stack. :) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is at The Apples in My Orchard. 

Photo thanks to Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Hayden Carruth, "I Could Take"

Last week I mentioned Wendell Berry's poetic tribute to Hayden Carruth, so this week I'm sharing some Carruth poetics. This one's for Atticus, because we are indeed "two imperfections that match." 

I Could Take
by Hayden Carruth

I could take
two leaves
    and give you one.
Would that not be
a kind of perfection?

But I prefer
one leaf
    torn to give you half
            showing

(after these years, simply)

....

(Read the last few lines here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by 

Buffy Silverman. 

Photo thanks to Nika Akin, Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: I'm Hosting!

This poem by Wendell Berry perfectly describes the way I feel when I read Wendell Berry, which is apparently the same way Wendell Berry feels when he reads Hayden Carruth. 

Who is your Berry, your Carruth? Oh, so many I could name! But that's a list (or possibly a list poem) for another time. For now, enjoy this perfect little piece. 

To Hayden Carruth
by Wendell Berry

Dear Hayden, when I read your book I was aching

in head, back, heart, and mind, and aching

with your aches added to my own, and yet for joy

I read on without stopping, made eager

by your true mastery, wit, sorrow, and joy,

each made true by the others. My reading done,

....

(Read the rest here.) 

ETA: Here's the list of the poets you've mentioned so far: 

Nancy Willard

John O'Donohue  

Naomi Shihab Nye  

Shakespeare

Emily Dickinson  

Mary Oliver

e.e. cummings

Billy Collins

Khalil Gibran 

Rumi

J. Patrick Lewis

Joyce Sidman

Jane Kenyon

Irene Latham

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Marilyn Singer

Rebecca Kai Dotlich

Ursula K. LeGuin

Denise Levertov 

Margaret Atwood 

Ted Kooser 

Ada Limon 

Robert Frost 

Janet Wong 

Paul Janezcko

Gerard Manley Hopkins and 

Ross Gay

Aimee Nezhukumatathil 

Jubi Arriola-Headley

Patricia Smith

~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. Linky is rounding up this week's contributions for us. 

Drop your link, visit your friends, and share your "mastery, wit, sorrow, and joy, 

each made true by the others." 

Happy Poetry Friday! 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Anne-with-an-e got married!

The bride at age ten. 

We haven't had a wedding in the family since the pandemic, when our beautiful "Betsy Ray" (Lizzy) got married. That was a magical weekend and it was time for another. Now our eldest daughter, "Anne-with-an-e" (Emily) has tied the knot too. 

We didn't have to wear masks for the dress shopping this time: 

This one was a top choice from the first try-on
last autumn (though she did go with a different veil.) 

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, our beautiful Ramona Quimby (Katy) was busy with a delightful community theater production in which she played three roles: 

She and I both thought we were struggling with terrible tree pollen allergies the whole week before her opening night (and maybe that's what it was?) but she persevered through all four performances without a single cough onstage. Brava! Brava!  👏👏👏  The show must go on, and it did! (This once-upon-a-time  theater major was beyond proud.) 

I can't say that I, as a four-time-attending audience member, was able to stifle as many coughs as Katy did. To my fellow attendees, I'm so sorry. I went through multiple cough drops that Saturday night. Yes, that was me. 

Meanwhile, back at Wedding Planning Central, that show was also going on: 

The wedding day was a few days after Katy's play wrapped. Emily and Rich planned just about everything in the months leading up to their big day and we pitched in wherever/whenever/as needed. 

We played around with making table decorations for the reception: 

                                                                                            

          

Katy shopped for the Jenga-style blocks they wanted to use as their guest book and made the sign:

      

Katy and I also handled the gluten-free/dairy-free cupcakes: 

    

And everything else is a blur. (Thanks, tree-pollen-turned-bronchitis.) 

Over the wedding weekend, several people asked how I was doing and I kept saying, "I'm fine, I'm upright — like a shark, or Dori — just keep swimming." I didn't give in to Atticus's plea to check in with the doctor until the Tuesday after the wedding but none of that matters now, because the day was all about these two gloriously happy people: 

It was a beautiful day for two beautiful people. A gorgeous wedding, a joyous reception, and the next step in the story of Emily and Richard. 

And speaking of stories, just one more thing to add: 

while on their honeymoon, my Anne-with-an-e had the chance to hug Ramona Quimby in Portland: 

Maybe Anne-with-an-e and her husband's next trip will be to Prince Edward Island? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I almost forgot: it's Poetry Friday! Time to reshare the poem I shared after Lizzy's wedding. 

For a Daughter Who Leaves

by Janice Mirikitani 

More than gems in my comb box shaped by the

God of the Sea, I prize you, my daughter. . .

 ~ Lady Otomo, 8th century, Japan

A woman weaves 

her daughter's wedding 

slippers that will carry 

her steps into a new life. 

... 

[Skipping to the end of the poem again, but do read the whole thing. It's short and enormously moving.] 

... 

Now she captures all eyes 

with her hair combed smooth 

and her hips gently 

swaying like bamboo. 

The woman

spins her thread 

from the spool of her heart, 

knotted to her daughter's 

departing

wedding slippers.

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Michelle Kogan is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week. Be sure to visit her for loads of poetic goodness. 

P.S. If you're new to my blog, a quick explanation: 

Anne-with-an-e, Betsy Ray, and Ramona were the "blog names" I gave my (then-very-young) kids when I first started blogging ALMOST TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

Poetry Friday: "I Am From"

I'm still bouncing back here, so next week I'll have the whole account of a recent joyful event in our lives. The last time I reported on something like this was in 2021. (Subtle, eh?) 

Ramona Behnke has the round-up this week and she's playing with Georgia Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From" form so I'm tossing in a couple of my own incarnations of the form. 

Happy Poetry Friday, and be sure to visit Ramona for the round-up at Pleasures from the Page. 

I Am From

Karen Edmisten 

I am from knee socks, Hostess cupcakes, and patent leather Mary Janes worn home from the store. From hollyhock dolls*, dandelion bouquets, and lightning bugs in the backyard at dusk. 

I am from Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, and a squishy pillow at the drive-in, a six-year-old’s safety in the cocoon of a dark car.

I am from “I’m rubber, you’re glue,” and “Nuh-uh is not a word, Karen.” (“Nuh-uh,” I’d retort, “I can make it a word if I want to.”) 

I am from Alaskan glaciers, the sunrise on the Florida coast, road trips, and airplanes. I am from everywhere and nowhere, the child of a pilot and his bride.

I am from Air Force brats bonding through a shared, strange life, from always being the new kid in school, from learning how cruel and how kind children can be. 

I am from laughing with my sister so hard it makes my stomach hurt. 

I am from the shock of having life turned inside out and upside down, from learning that sometimes things must be torn down before they can be rebuilt. 

I am from celebrating rebuilding, from being remade again and again. 

I am from Tom, I am from Emily, Lizzy, and Kate. I am from five other babies I never met (but who I feel cheering me on daily.) 

I am from bewilderment at the concept that marriage and motherhood could make me happy.

I am from that happiness. 

I am from my discovery of home education. 

I am from Anne-with-an-e, Betsy-Tacy, and Ramona Quimby. From George Eliot, Madeleine L’Engle, and Rumer Godden, from Wendell Berry, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Richard Wilbur, Louisa May Alcott, Anne Tyler, and Nora Ephron. I am from endless authors and perennial poets, from read-alouds, and verse, and from the joy of the book log. 

I am from the simplest pleasures: dark chocolate, steaming coffee, walking, friends, talking, iced coffee, theater, autumn and spring, and letters. Still letters. 

I am from words, paper, typewriters, desktops, laptops, manuscripts, books, and the Oxford comma. 

I am from nomads, from possibilities, from imagination.

I am from a longing for roots, found finally in the knowledge that this earth is not a nomad's home. 

And here's another past version: 

I Am From

I am from knee socks, Hostess cupcakes

and black patent leather shoes worn home from the store.

I am from coast to coast, from everywhere and nowhere,

the child of a pilot and his bride. I am from base housing,

plain vanilla walls and Barbie clothes sewn from Thailand’s silk.

I am from holly hock dolls and walking to school,

from dandelion bouquets, from Alaskan glaciers and the sun

rising over the Atlantic on a Florida coast.

I am from summer car trips to Grandma and Grandpa's,

with stops to see Lookout Mountain and the Truman Museum

along the way.

I am from staid New England stock, from Indiana folks,

from John and Norma, Madeline and Jim.

I am from lightning bugs in the backyard

and the comforting scent of Grandma's Noxzema.

I am from “Be polite” and “Do your best,”

and “Goodnight, John-boy” at bedtime,

from “I’m rubber, you’re glue,”

and from “Nuh-uh is not a word.”

I am from my squishy pillow at the drive-in,

from a six-year-old’s delight in the

dark, safe cocoon of the family car.

I am from Santa Claus and Easter eggs, dinnertime grace,

and from bedtime prayers that faded away.

I am from Germany and Wales, from homecooked meals,

decorated doll cakes** on my birthday,

and home-sewn clothes

that made me proud of my mother’s skill.

From Grandma, who thought I loved peas

because I gobbled them up (just to get rid of them),

and from Grandpa, who convinced me

that a signal tower was his own private Christmas tree.

I am from my grandmother’s habit of smearing butter

on a scraped knee, and taking me to “the grocery”

no matter what store it was.

I am from Mom, who decorated the house for every holiday,

and took us blueberry hunting by the creek;

from Dad, who told me that thunder

was the giants bowling in the sky,

and whose hand holding mine is the only thing I remember seeing

when he returned from a year in Korea.

I am from Air Force brats bonding through a shared, strange life,

from a family who taught me without words that "skin color" 

meant nothing and “human being” meant everything.

I am from nomads, from possibilities and from imagination.

I am from a longing for roots, found finally, and only, in God.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  * Hollyhock dolls

** Barbie doll cake (My mom made the best cakes!) 

Poetry Friday: "The Bookstall" by Linda Pastan

We've been so busy here! And now I've got bronchitis, so I'm too tired to be interesting. I plan to fill you in on everything next week, but for now I'm dropping this glorious Linda Pastan poem about books. ❤️ 

The Bookstall
by Linda Pastan

Just looking at them
I grow greedy, as if they were
freshly baked loaves
waiting on their shelves
to be broken open—that one
and that—and I make my choice
in a mood of exalted luck,
browsing among them
like a cow in sweetest pasture.

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is hosted by Sarah Grace Tuttle. 

Photo courtesy of Engin Akyurt at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Be Kind" by Michael Blumenthal (and a story about peanut butter toast)

Sometimes it's hard to feel kind these days. But I keep reminding myself that even in our tumultuous country and climate, kindness is worth holding onto. 

I remember when Atticus was in the hospital a few years ago for his cancer surgery. A couple of days after the surgery, I ordered his breakfast. A few minutes later, the kitchen called his room. 

"You ordered the peanut butter toast for your husband, right?" She sounded young. And kind. 

"Yes, that's right." 

"Okay, I wanted to ask you a question. Does he like the peanut butter on the side, to put on the toast later? Or does he like it on the toast right away? Because, you know, some people like the peanut butter to get all melty, and I just want to make sure it's the way he likes it." 

I had to sit down. "He likes the peanut butter melty," I said. I took a breath. "He, um — thank you. Thank you for thinking of that." 

"Oh, it's no problem! Like I said, I just wanna make sure I fix it the way he likes it!" I could hear her smile. 

I hung up. I looked at the phone. I looked at my husband. He was asleep, recovering, moving forward one step at a time. I thought about a young woman in the kitchen, just doing her job, but doing it to perfection. Caring enough about a stranger to pick up the phone and ask about toast. 

There are such people in the world. Oh, such people!

The Peanut Butter Toast Girl, who still makes me cry.

Be Kind

by Michael Blumenthal

Not merely because Henry James said
there were but four rules of life—
be kind be kind be kind be kind—but
because it's good for the soul, and,
what's more, for others, it may be
that kindness is our best audition
for a worthier world, and, despite
the vagueness and uncertainty of
its recompense, a bird may yet wander
into a bush before our very houses,

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has the Poetry Friday round-up this week at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Photo courtesy of Shutterbug75 at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Ode to Chocolate" by Barbara Crooker

Each morning, before I let in emails, peek at texts, hold my breath for the news, or face the general insanity of our current world, I let in poetry. 

Sip of black coffee, a poem. Another sip, and another. Two more poems. I sip my way through a collection, savoring, rereading, soaking in language, reflection, truth. Poems steep me in laughter, angst, recognition, melancholy, nostalgia, determination, resolve, appreciation. Humanity. 

Through poetry, I am steeped in humanity. 

I just finished Naomi Shihab Nye's Grace Notes and now I'm revisiting Barbara Crooker's Some Glad Morning. It's packed with goodness, so do buy it. (It's National Poetry Month — buy all the poetry you can.) The poem I'm sharing today isn't in this particular collection but odes to chocolate are evergreen, universal, and as necessary as air. ("Ode to Chocolate" appears in Crooker's book More.) Swoon with me, won't you? 

Ode to Chocolate
by Barbara Crooker

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,

....

(Read the rest here.) 

You might also like this conversation between Crooker and Elizabeth Berg, from 2021: 

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is hosted by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem. 

Photo courtesy of StockSnap at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "On Gathering Artists" by Alberto Ríos

It's National Poetry Month! 

Fittingly, Alberto Rios is gathering artists: 

On Gathering Artists
Alberto Ríos

Who does a job well, and very well—
These are the artists, those curious
Lights.


We are cobblers of the song
And barkers of the carnival word,
We are tailors of the light
And framers of the earth.
We fish among the elements
And hunt the elusive green in gray and blue.
We drink forbidden waters
And eat an invisible food.
In this time of electronic-mail and facsimile
Conversation, we send as our voice
The poem, the bridge, the circuit, the cure

Whose electricity is made from dreams,

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org and more about Alberto Rios here.) 

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National Poetry Month "Did you know?" stuff: 

• You can find out more about NPM here. 

• April 10 is Poem in Your Pocket Day. 

• If you haven't already, find the National Poetry Month poster here and consider a donation to the Academy of American Poets to send the poster to more classrooms and libraries. 

• Did you know there is a Poetry Foundation Library in Chicago? 

• Jama Rattigan, picture book author and blogger extraordinaire, has a round-up of all the National Poetry Month goings-on in the kidlitosphere. 

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Matt Forrest Essenwine has this week's Poetry Friday round up at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme.