Poetry Friday: Billy Collins, W.B. Yeats, MRIs, and Knowing Poems by Heart

I picked up Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process last night and skipped straight to the Billy Collins contribution, "Into the Deep Heart's Core." I decided on the spot that I must (yes, must, because what if I need an MRI someday?) memorize "The Lake Isle of Innisfree."

Don't fret. This isn't a medical post, and I don't need an MRI —you'll get the MRI reference when you read the piece. And, happily, I can send you directly to that piece, because the book grew out of Joe Fassler's "By Heart" series in The Atlantic, and you can find the Billy Collins piece here.

A few shimmering gems:

It’s a powerful, unexpected statement of a simple sentiment: I want to go somewhere better than where I am.

Poetry’s kind of a mixture of the clear and the mysterious. It’s very important to know when to be which: what to be clear about and what to leave mysterious.

And yet I think poetry is as important today as it’s ever been, despite its diminished public stature. Its uses become obvious when you read it. Poetry privileges subjectivity. It foregrounds the interior life of the writer, who is trying to draw in a reader. And it gets readers into contact with their own subjective life. This is valuable, especially now.

And of course, listen to Yeats read "The Lake Isle of Innisfree."


Arise and go now, and read Billy Collins on the joy of memorization.

And memorize something. Because you never know when you're going to be in a "very high-tech coffin," in need of a beautiful and useful distraction.


The Lake Isle of Innisfree
William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

~~~~~~~~~~

The inimitable and amazing Jama Rattigan has the round-up this week at Alphabet Soup. 

Poetry Friday: Evening, by G.K. Chesterton

I couldn't have said it better myself: 

Evening

by G.K. Chesterton

Here dies another day

During which I have had eyes, ears, hands

And the great world round me;

And with tomorrow begins another.

Why am I allowed two?

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up this week is being hosted by Kay at A Journey Through the Pages. 

Poetry Friday: James Weldon Johnson's "Sonnet"

After a lot of dispiriting news this week and the feeling that women and their truths don't seem to matter to a great many people, I found James Weldon Johnson's "Sonnet" to be a welcome antidote.

Sonnet
by James Weldon Johnson

My heart be brave, and do not falter so,
Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail.
Thy way is very dark and drear I know,
But do not let thy strength and courage fail;
For certain as the raven-winged night
Is followed by the bright and blushing morn,
Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright;
’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn.
Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds,
And do not in thine own gross darkness grope,
Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds,
Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope:
Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight,
There is a power making for the right.

~~~~~

Tabatha Yeatts has the roundup this week at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Poetry Friday: Hours

I have known hours of such varying intensity this week ... lovely hours, wrenching hours, calm hours, hours of laughter, anxious hours. Hazel Hall knows.


Hours
Hazel Hall

I have known hours built like cities,
House on grey house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off,
Forgotten in a field of green;

Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain,
And woven of forbidden music—
Hours eternal in their pain.

Life is a tapestry of hours
Forever mellowing in tone,
Where all things blend, even the longing
For hours I have never known.

(Found here, on Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Jone Rush MacCulloch has the roundup today.  

Poetry Friday: Credo, by Alfred Kreymborg

From one of the (new poet to me -- do you know him?) earlier adopters of free verse, Alfred Kreymborg (1883 - 1966). This one really spoke to me this week!


Credo
  by Alfred Kreymborg

I sing the will to love:
the will that carves the will to live,
the will that saps the will to hurt,
the will that kills the will to die;
the will that made and keeps you warm,
the will that points your eyes ahead,
the will that makes you give, not get,
a give and get that tell us what you are:
how much a god, how much a human.
I call on you to live the will to love.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The Poetry Friday roundup is at Carol Varsalona's Beyond LiteracyLink.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days: A Good Rainy Morning

 

This isn't my actual window (I'm a mediocre photographer so I'm thankful for Pexels) but it could be. This is the drizzle of our day. 

It will be punctuated by the sunshine of hot coffee and breakfast-out somewhere, to kick off the school year for Ramona and me. Anne-with-an-e and Betsy are free from work/school today and can join us, which is a delight. 

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Work, as always, is keeping me busy. I'll be teaching two six-week sessions of The Writer's Jungle Online for Brave Writer this fall. (There are still spaces open in the Oct. 29-Dec. 7 class, but the Sept. 10th class is full.) I've also been getting to tinker with just a wee bit of behind-the-scenes writing for Brave Writer, and that's a lot of fun. 

I might have a new book in the works; I'll keep you posted as things develop.

~~~~~~~~~~

I've mentioned our swallows before and wrote here about our resignation to their stubborn beauty.
And of course, you've heard of swallows returning every year to San Juan Capistrano?
What I may not have mentioned recently is our fear that the Edmisten home is turning into Edmistrano.

I give you Exhibit A:

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One night in mid-August, about 11 pm I think, at the height of the Perseid meteor showers, we drove out into the country to get a better look. It was worth the drive, but we actually ended up seeing the most spectacular shooting star after we got home. We were lying on blankets in the backyard when we saw one that looked like an amazing special effect. 

Again, not my photo. Again, thanks, Pexels.com. 

It was a needed bit of beauty in a rather hard month. 

There are a number of health things happening at Edmistrano, but one that's currently front and center is Betsy's autoimmune disease. 

In December, I shared that she'd been diagnosed with a chronic illness, but I don't think I ever shared the details. Betsy has Crohn's disease (I have her permission to talk about it -- oh, for the days of thinking only about cute kid quotes!) We thought it was being well controlled with a biologic that she's received every 8 weeks, since December, through an IV infusion. Although she'd had to leave school in the fall semester of 2017, she was back at it last semester, and went into the summer feeling good. She was in clinical remission, but testing in early August showed that she's not in endoscopic remission and symptoms were beginning to flare. So, after too much waiting and some stressful phone calls with the insurance company, she started a new biologic, which we hope will work. The girl who a year ago was deathly afraid of needles not only learned to deal with regular IVs, but now will learn to give herself injections. 

My daughters repeatedly teach me what real bravery looks like. 

Which brings me to the kitchen. 

I'm helping Betsy investigate an autoimmune protocol (AIP) diet, and these ladies are fast becoming my new best friends: Mickey and Angie, at Autoimmune Wellness, are a wealth of information and recipes. (Many thanks to my dear friend who steered me their way.) I've been listening to their podcast, too, which is super-helpful. I've been talking about Mickey and Angie so much that Atticus suggested I just refer to them as McAngie. 

For a vegetarian who was leaning toward veganism, learning to cook with high-quality proteins is a challenge, so wish us luck. And if you have any AIP diet stories to share, hit me up. 

In short, if I've been really quiet on the blog, it's at least in part because I've been so busy in the kitchen. 😮

Poetry Friday: The "I Am From" Project

I couldn't decide what to post this week. Yeats? Billy Collins? The always amazing Richard Wilbur?

I was dithering, so I started flitting around the Kidlitosphere and saw that Tabatha had posted a "Where I'm From" poem. (Hey, I remember those! I wrote one ages ago. Thank you, Tabatha, for this week's inspiration! W.B., Billy, and Richard will have to wait. Also? I'm stealing your idea to include a picture, Tabatha. I'm all about stolen ideas this week.)

Tabatha's post led me back to Heidi Mordhorst's blog, and this explanation of George Ella Lyon and Julie Landsman's beautiful project. Be sure to go here to check out the details of the I Am From Project, and consider writing one yourself.

In the meantime, here's where I'm from.

Me, age 7

I Am From 
Karen Edmisten

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 Air Force base housing,
plain vanilla walls
and Barbie clothes sewn from Thailand’s silk.

I am from hollyhock dolls and walking to school,
from dandelion bouquets,
from Alaskan glaciers
and from the sun rising on a Florida coast.

I am from summer car trips
to Grandma and Grandpa's,
with stops at Lookout Mountain
and the Truman Museum.
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 sleepy scent of 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 a squishy pillow at the drive-in,
and a six-year-old’s delight in the
dark, safe cocoon of the car.

I am from Santa Claus
and Easter eggs,
dinnertime grace,
and prayers
that faded away.

I am from Germany,
Scotland,
from home cooked meals,
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
(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 way
of smearing butter on a scraped knee,
and taking me to “the groc'ry”
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 giants bowling in the sky,
and whose hand holding mine
was all I could see at the airport
when he came home from a year in Korea.

I am from Air Force brats bonding
through a shared, strange life,
from a 1960s 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.

~~~~~

Margaret has the round up this week at Reflections on the Teche. 

Poetry Friday: Birthdays in July

Birthdays in July 

One is sixteen. 

Sixty-one is another. 

One is my daughter. 

My husband's the other. 

© Karen Edmisten 

Ramona was, Atticus always says, his 45th birthday present. 

Happy birthday to my old man and my youngest daughter! 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Reading to the Core.

Poetry Friday and Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Eeeek! Has it really been a month since I posted?

Summertime and the livin' is easy? Or summertime and we're-so-busy-I-don't-have-time-to-post?

That depends on the week.

Ramona did two theater camps in June, so those weeks flew by. Atticus bought our thespian some lovely flowers, and they lasted for ages:

What is the purple flower? Some kind of ornamental cabbage?

~~~~~~~~~~

Ramona and I experimented with baking vegan chocolate chip cookies and we discovered that aqua faba (translation: chickpea liquid) is an excellent substitute for eggs. (These were as good or better than my usual recipe.) Yum.

Speaking of all things vegan, how did Omaha get so lucky as to be the landing spot for Isa Chandra Moskowitz's incredible vegan restaurant, Modern Love? Atticus and I recently tried it for the first time and the food was crazy-good. I could eat their gnocchi carbonara all day, every day.

~~~~~~~~~~

In pet news, we decided to try a thunder shirt for our poor, anxious doggo:

"Okay, it's kind of helping. Do you have it in another color?"

And we're all truly, madly, deeply happy that fireworks season has passed.

~~~~~~~~~~

We did an overnight at our favorite state park. I like to call this kind of getaway "camping" because the trip requires that I pack insect repellent, no make-up, and we must all be on constant alert for ticks. Combine these factors and I can pretend, in casual conversation with other midwesterners, that I enjoy camping. But in reality, I am deeply appreciative of cabins that are equipped with air conditioning and coffee makers. 

~~~~~~~~~~

And now, for the point of this post -- Poetry Friday! 

I shared this poem a few years back, along with a story about the swallows that nest on our front and back porches. We love them, despite the mess they create. They've made their peace with us (almost no divebombing to speak of these days) and we happily accept their messes in exchange for the joy they provide.

Happy midsummer, and here's to further mash-ups of easy livin' and too-busyness!

~~~~~~~~~~

Swallows
by Leonora Speyer

They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision,
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.

They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth’s nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening sky
And swirl into its depth.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Poetry for Children. 

The Poetry Friday Round-up is Here This Week!

Welcome to Poetry Friday! 

(I'm posting early because I know how you guys are. I'm the same way, so welcome, kindred spirits.) 

I was waffling about what to post today. Atticus gave me a couple of ideas and they were lovely and heady but I was in the mood for something about marriage. ("Sorry, honey, I don't want your ideas. I want something about marriage," I said to my spouse. Hmmm. Perhaps there's something wrong with that but there you have it.)

Then something whispered in my ear: Barbara Crooker.  Crooker's poems are so real and rich. Deep currents run through her deceptively simple work -- currents we all swim and sometimes struggle through: love, nature, grief, food, dreams, marriage. Life.

So, I went wading through Crooker's website and came upon this one, which is lovely and new to me:

Sustenance
by Barbara Crooker

The sky hangs up its starry pictures: a swan,
a crab, a horse. And even though you’re
three hundred miles away, I know you see
them, too. Right now, my side
of the bed is empty, a clear blue lake
of flannel. The distance yawns and stretches.

(Read the whole poem here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

After I chose that one, I remembered a poem I wrote about eight years ago, also titled "Sustenance." I decided to share that one today, too.

Sustenance
by Karen Edmisten 

Bread,
like marriage,
requires the promise
of leavening.

There is flour and water —
foundation — yes,
but it begs
something more:
fermentation, lather,
messiness
and growth.
It must take on life,
risk failure,
swell in size,
though never
sloppily escape
its necessary confines.

My husband
mixes flour
and water,
baking bread for me.
It is nothing,
he says.

It is everything,
I counter,
as I watch him
measure, stir yeast
and add salt,
carefully constructing a promise.

~~~~~~~~~~

For your weekly poetic sustenance, leave your link below, and then go devour some goodness.

Thanks for stopping by!

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Poetry Friday: Driving Lessons

Driving Lessons

Child #1:
My right foot
is pressing
desperately on an
invisible brake pedal.
My voice: tense.
Body: rigid.
Knuckles: white.
Mortality: powerfully aware.

Child #2:
Her tranquilizing
confidence becomes
my confidence.
She says the wheel
in her hands feels
just as it did
in her dreams.
What a second-y second child
this girl is.

Child #3:
Six years younger
than her closest sister.
(A final round, then
I'll retire from this gig.)
She has been watching
road signs, listening,
absorbing.

We are both grateful
for those who
came before, for the girls
who have been
helping both of us
to grow up.

© Karen Edmisten

~~~~~

Poems are being rounded up this week at Whispers on the Ridge. 

Poetry Friday: A Haiku for the First of June

June. Liquid sunlight. 

Cardinal calls the cat but

he, solemn, is still.
    
© Karen Edmisten 

(Photo credit: Ramona) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Buffy's Blog. 

Ending the School Year With Beautiful, Heartbreaking Literature (and some poetry)

It is (I say without hyperbole) a perfect novel.

I love it so.

Ramona and I finished reading it aloud today and I'm so glad we lived it together instead of my having "assigned" it. This was, after all, my last opportunity to experience Mockingbird for the first time with one of my daughters.

Betsy told Ramona, before we started the book, "You can't really know how good it is until you finish it."

Today Ramona concurred.

~~~~~~~~~~

Our other read for May was Thornton Wilder's Our Town. This, too, is a book I thrust into my children's hands and say, "I loved this play desperately when I first read it. Forty years later, I still love it. I hope you will, too." Then I add, "But ... umm ... no pressure, y'know?"

I am a lucky, lucky woman though because all three of my daughters willingly clasp these books to their hearts and look back into my eyes, happily, and with tears.

Emily: "Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover's Corners ... Mama and Papa. good-by to clocks ticking and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths ... and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you. (She looks toward the Stage Manager and asks abruptly through her tears):  

Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? -- every, every minute?"

Stage Manager: "No. (Pause.) The saints and poets, maybe -- they do, some."

Our Town was inspired by Edgar Lee Masters' "Lucinda Matlock" and the works share a common theme: life is mundane and profound; it is nothing and it is everything. It is the stuff of saints and poets.

Lucinda Matlock
by Edgar Lee Masters

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed—
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you—
It takes life to love Life.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Reflections on the Teche this week. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Spring is finally here, so naturally I have to post pictures of lilacs. It's a law. 

Or a guideline, at the very least. 

~~~~~

 Where has Maggie O'Farrell been all my life? 

I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes With Death is a gorgeous memoir. I went straight from that to one of her novels, This Must Be the Place and I will assuredly be reading more of her lovely work. 

~~~~~

 Ramona's writing group! 

I gathered this collection of objects and we each did a freewrite based on the items here. Our local library recently did this and called the workshop "Chopped: The Writing Edition." It was such a fun idea that I had to steal it. 

For other freewriting ideas, you can always visit the Brave Writer blog. Loads of freewriting prompts! 

Speaking of Brave Writer, I absolutely love being a part of the Brave Writer team and teaching The Writer's Jungle Online. I'm on a little break right now, but I'll be teaching again in the fall, with classes starting on September 10th and October 29th. 

Brave Writer is developing new classes all the time. Check out the amazing array of what's available. 

~~~~~

A new book! A new book! 

Oh, how the Edmistens love the Penderwicks! 

~~~~~

This was one of my Mother's Day gifts from Atticus. 

As a middle child, I must say, it was deeply appreciated. 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins Thanks My Mom For Me

Billy Collins, reading "The Lanyard": 

(Yeah. For me, it was a potholder.) 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. 

~~~~~

The Ever Amazing Jama Rattigan is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup at Jama's Alphabet Soup. 

Poetry Friday: Poetry Month Blues

Poetry Month Blues 

Karen Edmisten 

Another April -- Poetry Month! --
has slipped through my fingers.
Failed plans, lack of sharing ...
The guilt in me lingers.

"Next year will be different!"
I shout with conviction.
Really? Inner Me sneers,
A doubtful prediction. 

Who knows? Should I worry?
I think not. You see,
every Friday's poetry day.
That's just Weekly Me.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is hosted today by the amazing Irene Latham, at Live Your Poem.

Poetry Friday: World Make Way, edited by Lee Bennett Hopkins (and pssst: Happy Birthday!)

Could you resist this book? 

I couldn't. I ordered it the second I saw it. 

World Make Way: New Poems Inspired by Art from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, edited by Lee Bennett Hopkins, is precisely what the title says it is. This lovely book begins with this splendid quote from Leonardo da Vinci: 

"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, 

and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen."

(Pardon me while I pause and nod in appreciation.) 

The poets are delightful, the selections delicious. Here's a snapshot (from the backcover) of the featured artists and poets: 

I'm sure I need not say more? 

(I'll get out of your way as you race to your local indie bookstore....) 

~~~~~

Oh, one more thing: 

Happy 80th birthday to Lee Bennett Hopkins, 

Poetry Advocate Extraordinaire! 

Thank you, Sir Hopkins, for all that you do 

to champion the beauty of language and share it with children the world over. 

~~~~~

Robyn Hood Black has the Poetry Friday round-up 

(and a bunch more birthday wishes for Lee) 

at Life on the Deckle Edge.  

Meeting Ally Carter

About eight years ago (Seven? Nine? Something like that -- whenever she was at that junior high-ish age), Betsy started reading Ally Carter's Gallagher Girls series. Then she went through the Heist Society books, devoured all of Embassy Row, and somewhere along the way, introduced her little sister to Ally Carter too. Ramona promptly inhaled every Ally Carter book she could get her hands on (which wasn't too hard -- Betsy owned most of them.)

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. The girls discovered they could get their hands on a signed copy of Carter's brand new book, Not If I Save You First from an indie bookseller in another state. They promptly ordered it, and just a day or two after it arrived, Ramona spotted big news on Twitter: Ally Carter was coming to an indie bookstore just a short distance from us. (Ahem ... when you live in a small town in the midwest, everything worth doing that is under 2-3 hours away is "a short distance.")

So it went on the calendar!
We counted down!
Monday, April 9th arrived!

Ramona was sickish, but it would've taken a coma to keep her away from this book signing. Anne-with-an-e had never gotten in on the CarterMania, but she came along just because, hey, it's a bookstore, and hey, the rest of us are sparkling company.

Betsy and Ramona talked about what to say to Ally Carter when they met her. They speculated that the fangirling could spiral out of control -- what if they sputtered, spewed, misspoke, and embarrassed themselves with things like, "We loved the Grungy Goblin series ... umm, I mean Gallagher Girls! And Horse Solemnity -- No! Heist Society! And of course we loved Eatery Rowboat. Doh! Embassy Row!"

In the end, they slaughtered nary a title, remained composed while asking questions ("What book or writer inspired you to want to be a writer?" and "What advice do you have for someone who loves writing and would like to get her writing published?"), we bought a couple more books, and we all survived the long book-signing line. When it was our turn, we all fangirled, truth be told. And Ally Carter could not have been kinder or more gracious. She was truly lovely, and gave so much of her self and her time to each and every girl (and mom) there.

The next day we had a fun little exchange with her on Twitter and today Ramona said, "Do people still say 'shook'? Because I'm still shook."

Some of my fondest mom/daughter/road trip memories involve book signings and being shook in the company of my daughters. (Remember Ramona and Jim Arnosky? Sigh.) And sometimes, writers you originally met online become the dearest of friends.

Finally, it just has to be said: indie bookstores are the best. Thanks, Bookworm.

Poetry Friday: Magdelen Walks, by Oscar Wilde

Magdalen Walks
Oscar Wilde

The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of leaves, and of grass, and of newly upturned earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

(This poem is in the public domain.) 

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is at The Poem Farm, hosted by the ever-wonderful Amy Ludwig VanDerwater.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Happy spring from my backyard to yours. 

Bleh. 

~~~~~

Despite the fact that spring hasn't fully arrived, Atticus has been out running (of course.) 

Last week he ran in a ten-mile race with 1,999 other people, came in 326th overall, and 2nd place in his age division. (I think they categorize our age as something like, "Old Enough to Be Called a Senior Citizen But Not Old Enough to Retire. Congratulations.") 

Anyway. I'm proud of him. The girls and I stayed with old friends and drank lots of coffee and ate scones. I was proud of us. We came in first in our division, too. We are the champions. 

~~~~~

Ramona has been drawing the imagined adventures of Kylo Ren and Rey. She calls them Kylo-Rey Doodles, and here are a couple of recent ones. The first one is called "Makeover Night": 

Porgs! 

~~~~~

On a serious note, Ramona finished reading The Diary of Anne Frank yesterday and we had to just sit down and cry for awhile together. 

~~~~~

Anne-with-an-e is truly, officially a librarian with true, official Librarian Superpowers. She told me that the other night at work, she was keeping an eye on some kids who seemed to be unattended and were starting to get just a little bit rowdy. As she pushed a book cart nearer to where the kids were, she overheard one of them say, "You guys! Is she a librarian?" The kids got quieter. A minute later, she heard, "You guys! There's a librarian coming!" and suddenly ... the Kid Noise was no more. 

~~~~~

Betsy is participating in April Camp NaNoWriMo. She's writing novel #8, I think. Or is it #9? I just asked her and she can't remember either. Lotsa novels. One of them is gonna get published one day. Perhaps it will be the one she's currently revising? She wrote it for Camp NaNoWriMo in July of 2016 and is on her third draft. I get excited for her every time I read it. It's a fantasy adventure called ... oooh, sorry! You'll have to wait till it's published to find out the title. 

~~~~~

It's April already, people! April! 

I blinked four times and March was gone. Of course, an hour was stolen from me via the inhumanity that is known as Daylight Saving Time, but still ... months shouldn't be allowed to careen out of control like that. 

And yet they keep doing it. 

~~~~~

Happy April, Happy Octave of Easter! 

Good Friday, Poetry Friday, Merton Friday

Fr. Louis (Thomas Merton) was such a prolific and moving poet that it's hard to decide which poem to share today. "Death" is a piercing one -- it jolts us (Take time to tremble lest you come without reflection / To feel the furious mercies of my friendship, / (Says death) because I come as quick as intuition)  but ends with the infinite hope of a tiny act of faith.

Read the whole poem here.

~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has the round up this week at My Juicy Little Universe. She's also sharing details about her kick-off of Irene Latham's annual Progressive Poem

~~~~~

April is National Poetry Month. For a jam-packed post full of every Kidlitosphere event you can imagine, visit Jama Rattigan at Jama's Alphabet Soup. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days (The Picture Edition)

Ramona's been drawing again:

Howl and Sophie from Howl's Moving Castle

Wonder Woman! 

~~~~~

Speaking of art, she and I have been using the lovely and whimsical art from this page-a-day calendar as inspiration for our own doodles, too.  The calendar was a gift from dear old pal Lissa, and we look forward every day to the next thing in A Year of Tiny Pleasures. 

This one happened to fall on the same day we had a blizzard. 

~~~~~

Atticus has the best kids on his speech team. They gave him a Dundie!

~~~~~

Doggo is looking forward to spring, and to shedding her winter coat: 

~~~~~

Me, too. 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins Again, Because I Need Him Today

In "Today," Billy Collins splendiferously evokes the unadulterated joy of that day -- that moment -- when the heart and mind and soul know and believe that Spring has truly landed.

In Nebraska?

Today is not that day.

But I know that day is on the way. So, for today, I give you "Today."


Today
by Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
....

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

~~~~~

Linda Baie, at Teacher Dance, is hosting a springy Poetry Friday roundup today. Visit, savor, leave your link. 

~~~~~

P.S. 

And just because I love Simon and Garfunkel, I'm also sending you directly to Jama Rattigan's Alphabet Soup, for a review (and giveaway!) of a perfectly delicious picture book bio of the duo. 

Long before Spotify and other diabolically convenient methods of indulging musical obsessions were a thing, I used to tell Atticus that balance in the universe could be achieved by a radio station that played All-Simon-and-Garfunkel-All-The-Time. 

So. That's that. 

Happy Poetry Friday. 

Happy Dreaming of Spring. 

Happy Sounds of Silence. 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins, "Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant"

Given my recent account of being jettisoned from a Chinese restaurant, I thought this poem by Billy Collins would work well today. (Alternatively, in my case, it could be called, "In Happier Times"....)



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.

(Read the whole thing here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~

Elizabeth Steinglass has the round up this week.

From the "How My Lent is Going" Files: We Got Kicked Out of a Chinese Restaurant

Dear Lent,

Every year, you bring it. Something unexpected. I've written to you before, talked to you about how you predictably surprise me with the unpredictable. You're always good for me. I just can't always figure out, in the moment, just how you're going to be good for me. I've come to expect all this.

I generally do not, however, expect to be told to leave a restaurant. Not even during Lent.

On Saturday, while Atticus was enduring a long, exhausting day at a speech tournament, my girls and I decided to go to 5:30 Mass, and then out for Chinese food. I was thrilled to be feeling well enough to go out for Chinese food, because earlier in the day, I'd had some stomach upset. But now I felt good! The plans were on! We were celebrating a couple of things, and some health milestones (ironically, given the stomach upset). We all needed a night out, and were looking forward to lingering over a delicious meal together.

As we left Mass, we confessed to one another that our minds had wandered during the homily. Hunger repeatedly led me to stray ... thoughts of crab rangoon were more compelling than Father's thoughts on covenant; I was preoccupied with shrimp. When we got to the restaurant, we saw a sign on the door:

We are understaffed tonight. Accepting take-out orders, but service in the dining room will be slow. Sorry for the inconvenience. 

"Eh," we shrugged to each other, "so what? We aren't in a hurry! No problem!"

We walked into the restaurant, and saw that just a couple of tables were occupied.

Suddenly a blur that I quickly identified as a waiter stopped short, locked eyes with me and barked, "No more diners! No one else in the dining room!"

For a split second, I thought he was joking. He's going to break into a smile, said my hunger-addled brain, and say, "Just kidding! It'll be slow, but have a seat!" Then he would beam at us, the way that one-favorite-waiter-of-ours-at-this-restaurant used to do when my girls were little and ordered wonton soup. (Whatever happened to that guy? He never barked at us.)

But, ummmn, no. He didn't. There was no smile on the horizon, not for a million miles. I took a closer look at his harried self, his eyes boring into me, and despite all evidence that he was completely serious, I said, "Seriously?"

"Yes!" he snapped. "No more! There's only one of me!"

And with that, he marched off and disappeared into the kitchen.

Dazed, the girls and I looked at each other. "Do we ... want take-out?" ventured one of them. (I don't remember which one of them said it; I was in shock. Maybe I said it. Trauma messes with  memory.)

"Not after that," I replied. "Let's go somewhere else."

Dejected, and keenly feeling the loss of rangoon, we trudged out of the restaurant. Still processing, we asked one another where we wanted to go. We wanly discussed options, drove to another place. We didn't even park -- the crowd was spilling out the front door, and we were getting really hungry. We drove to another restaurant (one that's famous for being slow at the best of times) and saw another crowd. Now we were hangry. Someone suggested we just grab take-out Chinese from the grocery store. Yes! I agreed to this because, as I told the girls, "At least we know we can walk in, tell them what we want, and walk out with it in two minutes."

But -- for the first time ever -- we had to wait. For grocery store Chinese food.

"Ho-kay," sighed the kid behind the counter, "lemme go tell him we need more lo mein."

"Thank you," I said, trying for a tone that was somewhere between I know your job sucks on a Saturday night, kid and But they do, after all, pay you to do this.

"And, um, we want six egg rolls," I added, tapping the glass. "Do you have more egg rolls?" I looked worriedly at the three lonely egg rolls in the warming tray.

He heaved a deep sigh (clearly he was in existential pain) and looked over his shoulder in the general direction of the Keeper of the Egg Rolls. He looked back at me.

Do you really have to have egg rolls tonight? his eyes said. "I'll go see," his mouth said.

Eventually, after about 367 minutes (or maybe only six), we got the egg rolls, the lo mein, the rangoon, the spicy chicken. We left.

We went home and found Atticus. On his way home from the speech meet, he had stopped at our third-choice, basically fast-food restaurant, waited 30 minutes for his order, and wolfed it down before we arrived. We recounted our equally sad tale of woe but by this time, of course we all couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Lent, dear, what are you teaching me this year?

Does it have something to do with instant gratification? With patience? With my Chinese food obsession?

Or was this just about flu, and restaurant employees dropping like flies, and Saturday night crowds, which are present no matter what liturgical season I'm trying to dissect?

I don't know yet. I'm in a bit of existential pain over it all, dear Lent, so you'd better make yourself a little more clear.

Yours in patient waiting,

Karen