Poetry Friday: "On Days Like This" by Rudy Francisco

from Button Poetry 

My youngest daughter introduced me to Rudy Francisco.
And I ask you: What would we do without daughters? 
Without poets?
Without the beauty of the spoken word? 

"Being human is difficult. 

Being a good human is even harder. 

But it's still something I would like to accomplish." 

~ Rudy Francisco 

Here's Rudy Francisco, sharing "On Days Like This":   

~~~~~~~~~~

Jill Dailey has the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Poetry Friday: It Ain't Me, Bob (a found poem)

Photo: Wikimedia Commons

Poetry Friday crept up on me this week, so I jumped into my archives and pulled this one out. I wrote this (well, found it — it's a found poem made up of Bob Dylan song titles) in 2008, for Jama Rattigan, who was celebrating (as she is often wont to do) the freewheelin' Dylan. 

Have you seen A Complete Unknown? Atticus, Ramona, and I saw it earlier this month. Timothée Chalamet was marvelous as Dylan, of course, but if Edward Norton doesn't get the supporting actor Oscar for his uncanny portrayal of Pete Seeger, I'll storm out of the ceremony. (Oh, wait. I won't be there. But I'll rail like a cranky old man from the comfort of my living room because I loved Pete Seeger and I love Edward Norton for playing him.) 

Admittedly I didn't give this bit of found poetry extensive thought back in 2008 — I just strung a few titles together and hit "Publish" because I thought it would give Jama a smile. But, as I consider how many songs Dylan has written (you can find the staggering list here), I think it would be great fun to give it another go. 

It Ain't Me, Bob

Karen Edmisten 

Just like a woman,
the times they are a-changin'
and like a rolling stone
the answer's blowin'
in the wind.
A hard rain's a'gonna fall
but don't think twice,
it's alright.

It's not dark yet.
Mr. Tambourine Man

is knockin' on heaven's door. 
I've got the Highway 51 blues
but all I really wanna do 
is have
one more cup of coffee
and shelter from the storm.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the marvelous Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Poetry Friday: Rudy Francisco, "A Series of Gentle Reminders"

My youngest daughter ("Ramona," the artist and poet) introduced me to Rudy Francisco, and if I haven't shared his stuff on Poetry Friday yet, I've been terribly remiss. He's marvelous, and this one is so good: 

Learn more about Francisco here, and on his Instagram. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Ruth has the Poetry Friday round-up at 

There is no such thing as a Godforsaken town. 

Poetry Friday: Laura Shovan and Michael Rothenberg's *Welcome to Monsterville*

Welcome to Monsterville, by Laura Shovan, with illustrations by Michael Rothenberg is a sweet, sometimes silly, moving, always charming collection of art and poetry that brings a variety of monstrous (in the best of ways) emotions to life. 

The story behind this book is immensely touching. The seeds for the book were planted in early 2020, as Laura first mentions here. How did the book grow? Check out this post, "When I Cry," which is an explanation of the book's growth, a tribute to a beloved friend, and a farewell to that same dear friend who passed away much too soon (and before his collaboration with Laura was published.) 

In the Author's Note, Laura tells us more about the spirit of the monsters that Michael drew and Laura brought even more fully to life through poetry: 

We didn't know then, in January 2020, that the dark shadow of Covid-19 pandemic was about to overtake us. Michael and I sat talking at a wooden picnic table outside Wakulla Springs State Park. Decades ago, the classic monster movie Creature from the Black Lagoon filmed scenes in the springs' pristine water. But we had our own shadows and monsters to deal with. Michael had recently lost his only son, Cosmos, to addiction. My own college-aged son was clawing his way out of a years-long depression. 

Michael began doing art therapy and one day sent Laura the first of many monsters: 

Laura's response, a poem called "Neighbor," is playful and inviting, but also hints at the depth of what's to come in this collection: 

...when it moved in, I wasn't sure 

how this strange being, round and tall, 

would squeeze in through a door so small. 

Emotions are like that — surprising us when they move in, sometimes feeling strange and too big for the space we think they should occupy. That's the beautiful and subtle theme that's woven through this work. 

Hunger is an "Eleven-eyed monster/banging on my door." A monster has a birthday ("They laughed and hugged each friend/and said, 'I never knew you cared.'") A "strange new breed of rooster" finds a way to break free, and a root monster "hums a sweet song/during long lonely hours/of purple-blue moonlight/and dancing with flowers." 

One of my favorite poems from the book is "Green Cave," in which the speaker, wrestling with anger, seeks refuge in the comforting cave of a forsythia bush. The speaker is joined by a "monstrous bird" with blue feet:

The monster sang about being so angry
that it feels like a million arrows are prickling your skin.

Its wings beat to the song's rhythm like a soft, calm breath.

Ever since then, when I'm so mad I can't stay inside,
I go to the green cave and listen for the monster's song.

Michael's perfectly paired drawing: 

I love that both this drawing and the poem present anger as something that we can spend time with, even cozy up to — it's a necessary emotion that demands acknowledgment and company. If we don't spend time with the songs of anger (and anger's cousins — grief, sadness, bewilderment), we'll never move forward. The monster's song, the safety of the green cave, the "rhythm like a soft, calm breath" ... we need them all. 

Welcome to Monsterville is a book for children and a book for everyone. We've all felt the monsters, been the monsters, run from the monsters, and befriended the monsters. This book is a beautiful hat-tip to our human complexity. 

An educator's guide can be downloaded at Laura's website and you can buy this delightful creation wherever you love to buy your favorite delightful creations. 

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

Speaking of delightful, the Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and gracious Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise. She's not only welcoming us for Poetry Friday, but she's also hosting her annual Clunker Exchange. Details are in this post. 

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

Next week, Irene Latham has invited everyone to a "Moon in June" themed roundup. She's creating educator resources for her upcoming book, The Museum on the Moon. 

Irene says, "You're invited to share a favorite moon poem (yours or someone else's), a moon story, a moon memory, a moon dream...or whatever your moon-heart desires!" 

More details are here. 

Poetry Friday: Things to Do by Elaine Magliaro and Catia Chien

Just look at that cover. 

Isn't it delightful? 

Now, open the book. 

(What? You don't have it? Go get it now! 

In the meantime, you can take a peek inside 

by visiting this post on Elaine's blog.) 

~~~~~

In Things to Do, Elaine Magliaro (the poet) and Catia Chien (the artist) have created a thing of beauty. The poems are whimsical, the illustrations are both simple and rich, and the combination makes for a thoroughly satisfying read-aloud experience.

Today I'm sharing one of my favorites from Things to Do, along with its gorgeous illustration:

Things to do if you are the Moon
by Elaine Magliaro

Live in the sky.
     Be bold...
         OR
     be shy.

Wax and wane 
     in your starry terrain.

Be a circle of light,
just a sliver of white,
         or hide in the shadows
         and vanish from sight.

Look like a pearl
          when you're brim-full
           and bright.

Hang in the darkness.

             Dazzle the night.

~~~~~

Things to Do was published by Chronicle Books in February. After reading about it on Jama's Alphabet Soup (how I love Jama and her Alphabet Soup!) I put it on my "must get" list. Then I was lucky enough to win the drawing Jama held. Huzzah! 

~~~~~

Irene Latham has the Poetry Friday round up this week at Live Your Poem.

And be sure to visit Jama Rattigan's 2017 National Poetry Month Kidlitosphere Events Roundup for a list of all the poetic goodness going around the blogosphere. 

Poetry Friday: Before a Painting

For everyone who has ever been overcome by ineffable beauty:

Before a Painting
James Weldon Johnson

I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine
What I beheld; nor by what laws of art
He had created life and love and heart
On canvas, from mere color, curve and line.
Silent I stood and made no move or sign;
Not with the crowd, but reverently apart;
Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start,
But mutely gazed upon that face divine.

And over me the sense of beauty fell,
As music over a raptured listener to
The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;
Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell,
There falls the aureate glory filtered through
The windows in some old cathedral dim.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~

James Weldon Johnson gets me, every time. Read more of his work here.

The round up is at The Logonauts today.

Poetry Friday: Coffee, How Do I Love Thee?

I've been sick with a cold all week. That means, yes, you can feel sorry for me, and yes, I've been operating on partial-fuzz-brain, so I've relied heavily on coffee. (Oh, let's be honest...when do I not rely heavily on coffee? This week was no different than any other week, except that it involved a larger number of Kleenex boxes and lot of coughing.)

At any rate, my coffee dependency made me think of this poem I wrote way back in 2007.

Happy Poetry Friday, happy coffee drinking, and here's to health!


How Do I Love Thee, Coffee? Let Me Count the Ways 
by Karen Edmisten
(with sincere apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My cup can reach.

I love thee to the level of everyday's
most quiet need (which is to start the day with you.)

I love thee freely (as I strive to awaken.)
I love thee purely (as one who is addicted.)
I love thee with a passion (which is embarrassing.)

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
when I was pregnant
(and had morning-noon-and-night sickness)
but my love is so strong
it was reclaimed when all sickness had passed.

I love thee with the breath (though coffee breath be not pleasant)
with the Smiles, tears, of all my life!

and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death,
for surely there is coffee in Heaven.

~~~~~

Carol Varsalona has the round up this week at Beyond Literacy Link. 

Poetry Friday

I'm focusing on gratitude--today, tonight, this month, this year, this life. 

Keep me honest, God, and don't let me stray from thanking you for everything. 

Winter: Tonight: Sunset

by David Budbill

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,

my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields

....

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

~~~~~

The round up this week is at Keri Recommends. 

Photo credit: FreeImages.com

Poetry Friday: A Ramona Original

We got back yesterday from an overnight in a cabin at a beautiful state park, and I was reminded of the first time we "camped" (it's not really camping when the cabin is like a hotel room, is it? But that's the only way I camp) at this spot:

Ramona was almost five on that trip. Back then, she brought Mr. Potato Head along and looked like this: 

After hearing a whipporwhill, she was enchanted, and composed this poem, which I love as much today as I did nine years ago: 

It's so beautiful here.

If only insane, 

I could be a whip-poor-will.

So much has happened in nine years. My family has grown up, our vistas have expanded, scenic views have changed. But one thing will never change, and that is the sheer, utter joy I take in spending time away from the world with Atticus and my three girls. 

~~~~~

The round up is at Reflections on the Teche.

Father's Song by Gregory Orr

Father’s Song
Gregory Orr

Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.

Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
....

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

Happy Father's Day, Atticus! 

Poetry Friday: Some Glad Morning

Photo thanks to Free Images. 

Speaks for itself. 

Some Glad Morning
by Joyce Sutphen

One day, something very old
happened again. The green
came back to the branches,
settling like leafy birds
on the highest twigs;
the ground broke open
as dark as coffee beans.
....

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

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Carol's Corner. 

Poetry Friday: 10 Facts About Poets Laureate

Photo credit: Matt Willmann

As National Poetry Month draws to a close, I'm sharing 10 Facts About Poets Laureate. They're all interesting, but here's a fun little factoid:

In olden times in England, the Laureate’s salary used to include an allotment of wine...The UK revived the tradition in 1972, and their poet laureate receives a barrel of sherry. 

The current U.S. Poet Laureate, Juan Felipe Herrera, was just appointed to a second term.

Here's a list of all past Poets Laureate.

And here are a few more facts.

And while National Poetry Month is wrapping up, Poetry Friday will always be a part of the blog with the shockingly clever title.

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur

I haven't shared Wilbur's "The Writer" for nearly a year and a half. That's practically criminal. It's time.

Time, especially, since Betsy completed her fifth NaNoWriMo novel last month, and Ramona finished the longest story, at 7,000 words, she's ever written. (7k was her goal, actually, but I've been informed that the story itself is not finished yet. Go, Ramona!)

For my daughters. The writers.


The Writer 
by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
....

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org, or listen to it here, at The Internet Poetry Archive.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up today is at Random Noodling. 

Poetry Friday: Cheerfulness Taught by Reason

On what could be a dreary, snowy day on which I am captive at home while I wait for a plumber, I am, in the spirit of Hygge, choosing cheerfulness. 

(Hygge is everywhere!) 

Cheerfulness Taught by Reason
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I think we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God’s. Had we no hope
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope
Of yon gray blank of sky, we might be faint
To muse upon eternity’s constraint
Round our aspirant souls. But since the scope
Must widen early, is it well to droop,
For a few days consumed in loss and taint?
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted,—
And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road—
Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread
Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints?—At least it may be said,
“Because the way is short, I thank thee, God!”

~~~~~

Tricia has the round up at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

~~~~~

Speaking of cheerfulness, if you missed my post yesterday about Lesley Austin's swoony, papery goodness, be sure to check it out. 

Poetry Friday: The Land of Story-books

I'll be at the Filled With Joy conference this weekend, talking about read-alouds, among other things. And although this Stevenson poem isn't specifically about being read to, it is about books and imagination and the joyful marriage of those two. Happy Poetry Friday! 

The Land of Story-books*
Robert Louis Stevenson

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.

~~~~~


The round up is at The Logonauts.


*In the public domain.

Poetry Friday: How the Stars Came Down

I am just getting to know Pat Schneider, but, oh, is she worth getting to know. From the bio on her website:

After a search for work took her single mother to St. Louis, from age ten Pat lived in tenements and in an orphanage until she was given a scholarship to college. Those early experiences have deeply influenced her writing, and fueled her passion for those who have been denied voice through poverty and other misfortunes.

"How the Stars Came Down" is a snapshot of a night in her childhood, a shift in her vision, and it's lovely, lovely.

How the Stars Came Down
by Pat Schneider

Night. How the stars came down
arching over us, and the only name
we had for them was shooting stars.
Why there were so many was anybody's guess.
My great grandmother thought the world
was coming to an end when Haley's comet
....
(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday roundup is at Carol's Corner. 

(Photo thanks to Free Images.) 

Poetry Friday: Swallows by Leonora Speyer

Photo thanks to FreeImages.*

Swallows are much on my mind of late. They love our porches, view them as prime real estate.

We always let them build in front. Why? I don't know. The front of the house should be what we're more concerned about, right? The mess the birds leave behind, the cleaning up of the droppings. But a number of years back, when the swallows first decided that we were their own private Capistrano, I just couldn't say no to them. Instead, I called the girls over to the window, we watched a pair of swallows investigate this corner, then that one. We imagined their conversations: "Yes, dear, the corner you like is lovely, but think of the children. The corner I chose will be cozier, don't you think?" Then the swallows started a family, and the girls and I followed their progress as babies appeared, cried and chirped, were fed, grew, flew the nest.

Every year, on the front porch, they build, they leave a mess, we clean up, they raise their brood, and then they're gone.

This year, a pair scoped out the back porch. They heard it was a builder's market at the Edmisten house, and two corners on the front porch were already taken.

That's enough! Atticus and I cried. We'll have bird droppings all over the back porch! The grill! The lawn chairs! We are putting out foot (feet) down!

Oh, but they're crafty, those swallows. This is a determined pair, and once they fix their eyes on a building site, they do not give up or move on. Every day, they start building. A little mud, some dried grass, dab, dab, dab. Atticus and I knock their foundation down, sweep it away. The swallows attempt half-hearted dive bombing, but they aren't as aggressive as everyone says. They swoop near us, sure, but don't have the heart to actually attack their potential landlords. One day, I took the dog out back and caught the swallows red-handed (footed?), flying away from their first mudding of the day. They both landed on the power line that crosses the backyard. I could tell they were trying not to glance at each other, pretending they didn't know each other. Pssst, just ignore me for now ... maybe she'll think we're not together. We're not the ones trying to build that nest. That's right, Missy, just move along with the dog. Nothing to see here. 

That cemented my love for them.

We've swept some mud away over the last couple of days, but I'm about to give up. They are too clever, too determined, too beautiful for me. I can't bear to thwart their plans anymore.

What I have is yours, swallows. I hope you will name one of your children after me.

Swallows*
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.

~~~~~

The round up this week is at A Year of Reading.

*In the public domain.

Poetry Friday: Wonder and Joy by Robinson Jeffers

Wonder and joy speak for themselves. 

Happy Poetry Friday! 

You can find the round up at Reflections on the Teche.

Wonder and Joy*

Robinson Jeffers

The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure

They are only foolish artificial things!

Can a bird ever tire of having wings?

And I, so long as life and sense endure,

(Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure

My heart to the recurrence of the springs,

Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,

The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure

Must ever well within me to behold

Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt

Is studded with three nails of burning gold,

Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt

This wondering joy may yet be good or great:

But envy him not: he is not fortunate.

~~~~~

*"Wonder and Joy" is in the public domain. 

Poetry Friday: Today, by Billy Collins

Photo: FreeImages.com

Ramona and I were at a park yesterday, and the air was charged with perfection.

Today?

Revel, run, repeat.

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
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

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

~~~~~

Ellen Leventhal has the round up. 

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur (aka, He Who Never Fails to Bowl Me Over)

Although I have often commented on him, Richard Wilbur doesn't need my blather. Here he is, simply being his perfect, poetic self.

April 5, 1974
by Richard Wilbur

The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In the dull pasture where I strolled
Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave,
Though still too frozen-flat to stir,
And rocks to twitch and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land?
Was matter getting out of hand
....

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

~~~~~

Robyn Hood Black has the Poetry Friday round up today.