The Orange
by Wendy Cope
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| and now I want the pin. |
The woman I love is typing in a nearby room.Clippity clippity clippity clippity, then silence.
I didn't get a poetry post done this week, so how about a few words on writing?
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ― William Wordsworth
“Tears are words that need to be written.” ― Paulo Coelho
“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”
― Toni Morrison
“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”
― Madeleine L'Engle
“Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.” ― Picasso
“Write what should not be forgotten.” ― Isabel Allende
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Visit Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise for the Poetry Friday round-up this week.
Photo courtesy of Tama66 at Pixabay.
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| Photo courtesy of Tati Hilabi, Pixabay. |
Monday morning, while walking and listening to Sad Boy Noah Kahan, I met the handsomest boy, who wasn't sad at all. I asked his person what his name was. Jake! It was Jake. A perfect name for a lumbering, retriever-y, labradorian-kinda guy with a thick, coppery coat and sprays of gray on his aging, distinguished cheeks. Jake and I immediately became best friends. I'd invite Jake over to spend some time together, but I didn't catch his last name, and it would be awkward to invite him and ignore his person (which I would totally do.)
Who was walking Jake anyway? A man, a woman? A robot? Who knows, who cares? My relationship is solely with Jake, who made me think of "Dharma" by Billy Collins. I think Jake would like this poem, good, handsome, not-sad boy that he is.
{Postscript: Do I need to get another dog?}
{{Post-postscript: Maisy would say no, no. Most definitely, decidedly not. Do not mess around with her current lifestyle.}}
(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)
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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Mona Voelkel.
It’s been a busy week and although I did write a handful of new poems (thanks, April Halprin Wayland, for a delightfully productive class on Wednesday!), they aren’t ready to see the light of day. So, instead, I give you …
… Another spring poem!
This one is from the incomparably weird and sometimes wonderful e.e. cummings:
Spring is like a perhaps hand
by e.e. cummings
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
…. (Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)
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Last month, Tanita Davis shared the latest challenge from the Poetry Pals:
Here’s the scoop: we’re writing ekphrastic poems, which might pair beautifully with your plans for National Poetry Month (I’m attempting poetry comics). Ekphrasis is a Greek word which means “description,” and you’re invited to choose your own image from anywhere – personal pictures or otherwise. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it April 24th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll play along!
There has been scholarly debate as to why Seurat included certain motifs in the painting, possibly alluding to prostitution that took place on the island, where clients would meet. Two notable motifs include the woman to the left with the fishing rod and the woman to the right with the monkey.The fishing rod could be suggestive of the idea of “fishing” for a possible desirable woman or that the prostitutes fished for prospective clients. The female monkey’s name in French was singesse, which was also a term utilized for prostitutes. The woman on the right could be with a client.
— from Art in Context
Who knew?
On the other hand, given that women are routinely misjudged, unfairly labeled, frequently stereotyped, presumed upon, lied about, and otherwise wronged and maligned, the idea/poem/twist that came to me was this:
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| "The Land of Poetry" — created by Tabatha Yeatts (place names added by Donna and Heidi) |
It's my first year participating in the Progressive Poem, and I'm happy to add Line 22 to this delightful work in progress.
What's the Progressive Poem? Thanks to Linda Baie at TeacherDance, we have this succinct summary:
It began with Irene Latham, who hosted it from 2012-2019. Those archives of the poem can be found HERE! Margaret Simon took over in 2020, and those archives are HERE!
Here are the rules:
The poem passes from blog to blog.
Each poet/blogger adds a line.
The poem is for children.
Each blogger copies the previous line exactly as written, unless permission from that poet has been given. They then add their own line, offering an introduction if they wish.
And here’s a full list of this year’s contributors. Tabatha launched us into the Land of Poetry with Line 1, and she’ll bring us full circle on April 28:
April 1 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
April 2 Cathy Stenquist at A Little Bit of This and That
April 3 Patricia Franz at Reverie
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 6 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
April 7 Ruth Hersey at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town
April 8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities
April 9 Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
April 10 Janet Clare Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
April 11 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry
April 12 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 13 Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise
April 14 Jone MacCulloch at
April 15 Joyce Uglow at Storied Ink
April 16 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
April 17 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 18 Michele Kogan at More Art for All
April 19 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 20 Buffy Silverman
April 21 Irene Latham at Live Your Poem
April 22 Karen Edmisten
April 23 Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe
April 24 Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 25 Tanita Davis at Fiction, instead of Lies
April 26 Sharon Roy at Pedaling Poet
April 27 Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles and Tails
April 28 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
We're halfway through National Poetry Month, and all I've managed to do so far is rant about the news.
I know, I know — I'm allowed, given the state of things, but let's take a break from all that, shall we?
First of all, be sure to visit the inimitable Jama Rattigan for a comprehensive round-up of the Kidlitosphere's NPM poetry projects. So many luscious plans! Thank you, Jama, for all the work that went into that post! It's brimming with places to go, people to visit, and poems to read.
Secondly, birds. I wrote about birds last month and this morning, just after a walk during which I heard meadowlarks, killdeer, mourning doves, robins, and red-winged blackbirds, I was telling my sister about how much she'll love the Merlin app.
Birdsong. Is there anything better? When you hear birds — a symphony of birds — tweeting their joyful, ridiculous, miraculous little heads off, it's as if you're part of something both immense and beyond your grasp, but also innate, somehow within you.
I love them so much.
Birds = Hope.
Therefore, I bring you "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn." Of his poem, Kim Stafford said:
“Many times in my life I’ve been told by serious people that I must be very naïve to be happy, to have hope, to celebrate this little life I’ve been given when, actually, they say, everything is pretty dire. There’s war, poverty, crushing injustice all over—what right do I have to talk back to all that with flimsy little poems about the good? What can I say? The birds are my teachers, my elders, my guides. Every day before dawn, in silence and darkness, I’m at my desk making poems on the page. And then, before light, I hear the first bird outside begin to sing.”
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| Oh, little plover, I want to hug you. |
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Wishing you morsels — nay, a feast! — of joy as well as the company of birds, who are their own kind of poetry, during this National Poetry Month.
Heidi Mordhorst has this week's Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe.
Nothing says “America in 2026” like calling my reps today, being put on hold, and hearing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blare in my ear while waiting to register my objections to war crimes.
Call your reps. Even when you want to scream.
Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.
And be sure to check out the 2026 Progressive Poem. Nine poets have contributed thus far. Margaret Simon has today's line, as well as the rest of the work-in-progess. I'll be contributing a line on April 22, and Margaret has the whole schedule at this link.
Photo courtesy of Eliens at Pixabay.
Here’s the scoop: we’re writing tight little bundles of poetry called Ovillejos! That’s exactly what the word means – a bundle of yarn. This Spanish form bundles together ten lines, made up of 3 rhyming couplets interspersed with three verrrry short lines, and a quatrain. The last line is a “redondilla,” a “little round” that collects all three of the short lines and casts off the poem, as it were.
I wrote my ovillejo about a concert we — Atticus, me, Ramona, her boyfriend — went to last weekend. My Christmas gift to Atticus was tickets for Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways tour. We'd never seen him live before, but know this: the man is determined not to be photographed or recorded. (A few years ago he blew up at an audience over their phone use and asked if they wanted him to play or to pose. The subject of phones in public spaces is a big one and I have so many thoughts but that’s a post for another time.) Phones were locked up in Yondr pouches as soon as we entered the venue. Low lighting, a permanent perch behind his keyboard, and a hoodie pulled far down over his head (practically over his face) helped Bob keep his distance from us.
The night before the concert I had the funniest dream: we arrived at the theater and almost no one was there. Bob looked over all the empty seats, sighed, sat down a couple of rows ahead of us, and pouted. I woke up wondering what had prompted that, but maybe it was a premonition? Because, while in real life the theater was full, Bob did seem a tad pouty. Microphone malfunctions didn’t help. Dylan kept picking the mic up and plopping it down in different positions, prompting reverberative booms every time. (Is the mic person still employed? I have my doubts.) Despite Bob’s aloof performance, we had a good time, and I think Ramona and her boyfriend did too. As we talked about him the next day, I said, “Dylan’s such a … character? Distinct ... personality?” and Ramona said, “Weirdo?” He is, indeed, all the things, daughter.
Yes, it’s all true. I have a love/hate relationship with that weirdo-genius-pouty-bratty-talented-rebellious-creative-Nobel-prize-winner who likes his hoodies more than he likes us.
But hey, now that I ponder it, I think the best Dylan concert I’ve ever been to was a couple of years ago in our living room. Ramona taught herself three songs (“It Ain’t Me, Babe,” “The Times They Are a-Changing,” and “Don’t Think Twice”) on the guitar she inherited from my father, then she played and sang them for Atticus on his birthday. And she didn’t even wear a hoodie or turn off the lights! What an un-aloof performer!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, leads us to my Ovillejo, which actually came to me surprisingly quickly.
I understood how poets from all over the world
had come for peace, solidarity, justice—
and when my host, and reader of my poems
in Spanish, invited me into his home, I saw
one way to live during our residencia en la tierra.
