Poetry Friday: February 29 by Jane Hirshfield

Last week I was quite insensitive to poor February, complaining and griping and generally being indifferent to its potential charms. So, this week I'm making it up to the month that so many of us love to hate.

My peace offering is this lovely poem from Jane Hirshfield, "February 29." There is, after all, something magical about the gift of an extra day every four years. February 29th is the Brigadoon of days, and even I, with my callous disrespect for a month that can't help being what it is, can appreciate what is ephemeral about it.

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An excerpt from

February 29
by Jane Hirshfield

...

An extra day—

With a second cup of black coffee.
A friendly but businesslike phone call.
A mailed-back package.
Some extra work, but not too much—
just one day’s worth, exactly.

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

If you'd like to know more about Poetry Friday, here's the scoop. 

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I'm hosting this week!
Mr. Linky awaits your poetic offerings.
And unlike Brigadoon, he won't disappear after 24 hours.

Poetry Friday: Oh, February

Oh, February.

You have a terrible but well-deserved reputation. You are the longest shortest month; we all complain about you. You're the insufferable supervisor who constantly calls unnecessary meetings that drag on hours after everything that needed to be said was said. We can't wait for you to adjourn.

If you're having that kind of February, check out Jill Osier's "February."  It captures the essence of the month perfectly. My favorite lines:

Oh, I am sick. I fade, I fall, 
I curse this month, all it wants 

to be. Its lot is the same 
each time, unthawed.

Honestly, though, I can't complain much about our February this year. (And yet I do.) February 2020 is, overall, warmer than normal (if you don't count that -4 degree reading yesterday morning, and you ignore averaging.) There's only a week and a day of it left (not that I'm counting.) And at least Ash Wednesday didn't fall on Valentine's Day this year. (There's always something to be said for that.)

Still.

It's almost over, thank goodness, other than that tricky extra day next weekend. (It seems a cruelty to tack an extra day onto February, of all months, doesn't it? Whose warped idea was that anyway? Why don't we get an extra day in June??)

I'm reminded of a February haiku I wrote years ago:

February fades,
Like a guest who stayed too long.
Shut the door, and sigh.

Just one more week! (And a day.)

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The Poetry Friday round-up is at Library Matters this week. 

Poetry Friday: Blackout Poetry

I haven't written about our Friday writing group for such a long time. Ramona and I, and two of her friends are still meeting every week; I guess I just haven't been writing about writing. (Let's face it, "writing" here at the blog has suffered immeasurably in the last couple of years. I'd love to remedy that and occasionally share something other than a Poetry Friday post, though I'm grateful for the way Poetry Friday keeps me hanging in there, blog-wise.)

Anyway.

A couple of weeks ago, I gave the girls a Blackout Poetry assignment. What is Blackout Poetry? Here are loads of great examples from Austin Kleon. He used newspaper articles, but you can use any text.


For our project, I pulled an idea from this Pinterest page (thank you, Racheal.) We used this passage:

(and here's what someone else did with it) from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Of course, it's always a good idea to credit the source of your blackout poem. Copyright, copyright, copyright, people!

We drew an idea from our aptly named Idea Jar:

Our inspiration: Springtime. (And oh, am I feeling inspired about spring after the frigid temps of the last couple of days!)

Here's what I came up with for my "illustrated" blackout poem:

Here's the text I highlighted/kept: 

Feel it. 

Something soft, 

branches of trees. 

A light ahead, 

but a long way off. 

A moment. 

A wood at night, 

the air. 

Dark tree-trunks, 

open doorway. 

Daylight. 

Walk forward

through the wood, 

towards the other light. 

A pitter-patter, 

coming 

among the trees

soon after. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

If I get permission from the girls, I'll share their creations here, too. (It's just not as simple as it was when they were eight years old and every smashingly cute word out of their mouths was blog fodder. Sigh.) 

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The lovely Linda B. has the Poetry Friday round-up today at Teacher Dance. 

For more about Poetry Friday, go here. 

Poetry Friday: Groundhog Day

Groundhog Day, which was February 2nd, has been on my mind. 

Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow (not that I really trust a rodent to predict or plan my seasons for me, but an early spring is ever the stuff of dreams in the midwest, so thanks, little rodent.)

Bill Murray reprised his role as Phil Connor in a Super Bowl commercial (I never watch the Super Bowl, but I catch up on the commercials the next day), prompting a yen to rewatch one of my favorite movies.

And the movie always makes me think of this Shrinklit I wrote years ago. The last time I shared this poem on the blog, an awesome friend told me that only I could find a place for God in this movie. I love that she sees me as an original thinker, but the truth is, I simply stumbled onto ideas that others had been writing about since the movie's release in 1993. Harold Ramis's Groundhog Day ignited lots of pondering in lots of people, some serious, some fanciful. Here are a few examples:

How to Understand the Philosophy of Groundhog Day and Live by Its Message, NPR
8 Fascinating Interpretations of Groundhog Day, Mental Floss
Roger Ebert's insightful 2005/2nd look at Groundhog Day

So without further ado, here's my input, here's to trying to become a better person, and here's to an early springtime!

My Groundhog Day Shrinklit
by Karen Edmisten

Phil: at first, a selfish jerk
Focused on his fun and work.
Women were a toy or game
Till every day became the same.

Quite suddenly, no rules apply
Steal some money, tell a lie.
Nihilism's worth a spin,
Then despair comes crashing in

Suicide just didn't take.
Surely something is at stake?
Could it be he'll find it's worth
Striving for a true rebirth?

Self-improvement: worth a try,
Though all past ways it does defy?
Selflessness for its own sake?
Turn away from all that's fake?

Helping, saving, giving, tears.
Authentic feelings, first in years.
Abandoning the ways of old
Lets in truth, releases cold.

Something genuine and kind
Allows this man his best to find.
Is this conversion? God at work?
Or one colossal cosmic quirk?

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Laura Purdie Salas has the Poetry Friday round-up today at Writing the World for Kids.

For more about Poetry Friday, go here.