Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast

So, my upstairs neighbor (a poet) loaned me a couple of books of poetry over the holidays. Due to my Cybils duties, I haven’t been able to open them until recently. One of them is by Galway Kinnell, and I’m loving it. So I thought I’d pay my neighbor’s good deed forward, and share him with you all.

“The Correspondence-School Instructor Says Goodbye to His Poetry Students”

Goodbye, lady in Bangor, who sent me
snapshots of yourself, after definitely hinting
you were beautiful; goodbye,
Miami Beach urologist, who enclosed plain
brown envelopes for the return of your very
“Clinical Sonnets”; goodbye, manufacturer
of brassieres on the Coast, whose eclogues
give the fullest treatment in literature yet
to the sagging breast motif; goodbye, you in San Quentin,
who wrote, “Being German my hero is Hitler,”
instead of “Sincerely yours,” at the end of long,
neat-scripted letters extolling the Pre-Raphaelites:

I swear to you, it was just my way
of cheering myself up, as I licked
the stamped, self-addressed envelopes,
the game I had of trying to guess
which one of you, this time,
had poisoned his glue.

Click here to read the rest of the poem. It gets even better.

Jules here (poor Eisha’s got some computer woes again; her computer pretty much just went kaput on her. But she’s also knee-deep in shortlisting with her fellow Cybils YA panelists, I believe, so that’s at least fun).

I’ve been reading the poetry of Deborah Keenan this week. Last year (it still feels odd to say that), Milkweed Editions released an anthology of some of her previous poetry as well as some new ones in Willow Room, Green Door. Keenan, a professor in the Graduate School of Liberal Studies at Hamline University, is new to me, but I’m happy to have discovered this anthology — at turns challenging, stirring, sometimes heart-rending. And she has this ability to capture moments of motherhood (when she writes about it, since — to be sure — she writes about many other subjects as well) in the precise and compelling manner of Deborah Garrison (whom I hope to cover on an upcoming Poetry Friday, and whom I have a wrung sponge to thank for introducing me to her poetry).

Read the rest of this entry �

This week, I’m sharing E.E. Cummings’ holiday poem, “little tree.” Here’s the beginning:

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don’t be afraid

And you can read the rest here. The spacing is a little off here; there should be a significant amount of space after “see,” but WordPress won’t let me do that. (And the above link to the entire poem disregards those spaces, too, but if you’re super interested, just go get E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962, and take a gander there. Great book).

This poem was originally published in Cummings’ Tulips & Chimneys, his first published work in 1923 (first one after The Enormous Room).

I’ve read about and seen different picture book adaptations of this poem, including Deborah Kogan Ray’s lovely, gentle version from 1987 (pictured here — I couldn’t find an image any larger). But I had no idea that Chris Raschka illustrated one in 2001 (published by Hyperion and pictured above). I’ll have to go find this one, since I’d love to see Raschka’s contemporary take on the poem.

Happy holidays to all!

MORNING ADDENDUM: Wow. Do you want to read a really powerful poem that Elaine Magliaro shared at the Blue Rose Girls’ site? Check it out.

Need some gift-giving ideas for the children and teens in your life? Well, you just know that you want to give them some poetry anthologies. And you need some advice on that, you say? Well, fret no more. We have another feature up at the Poetry Foundation, this one all about poetry anthology gift recommendations — ranging from audio collections to classics to contemporary anthologies — chosen from the Essential Children’s Collection at the Poetry Foundation’s site. Enjoy!

Let me just say up front that I’m really enjoying my duties as a panelist on the Young Adult Fiction Nominating Panel for the Cybils. I’ve been reading a TON of books, and a lot of them I probably wouldn’t have even heard about if they hadn’t been nominated. It’s been a great experience so far, and I’ve got some new favorite books that I should really write about someday soon.

That said: I’m starting to really miss fantasy. I mean, straight-up teen fiction is great and all – dating, drugs, gossip, gangs, religion, rebellion, class clowns, abusive parents, terminal diseases… there’s some great stuff to be said about all of it. But I guess I can only take so much reality-based fiction in one three-month sitting. I’ve been starving for faires, unicorns, wizards, goblins… heck, even a little telekinesis or a ghost or something would be nice. Come January, I’m going to have to go on a BIG OL’ FANTASY BINGE. Anyone who’s got a recommendation (I’m looking at YOU, Fantasy Panel people), you can just leave it here in the comments. Much obliged.

In the meantime, here’s an excerpt from a classic William Butler Yeats poem that’s inspired both a song by The Waterboys and a novel by Keith Donohue (co-reviewed by me and Jules last year):

“The Stolen Child”

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Click here to read the whole thing. And don’t forget to leave me your Fantasy recommendations! Pretty please!

It’s Sunday night, and I’m trying to talk about a book here, but I’m too distracted, playing around at the web site of The Poetry Foundation. And I found the short poem “Christmas Tree Lots” by Chris Green. It’s not exactly uplifting, so if you want such a thing right now, look elsewhere. But, even as someone who has a real, live tree currently in my living room (trying its best to stay alive with the water we give it), I really like this one — and I always like reading the other point-of-view. The entire poem is one huge metaphor that evokes sadness, but I can still appreciate the poet’s craft. It’d be almost pointless to put an excerpt. If you’re so inclined, you can read the entire thing here.

Consider this my late entry for Poetry Friday, since last Friday we were having too much fun chatting with MotherReader. Actually, I take it back: Poetry doesn’t have to be relegated to just Fridays. Enjoy.

P.S. My Web search of Chris Green took me here, “Hair Tips for Poets,” quite an enjoyable read. And I’m really intrigued, as this link also tells us that he has an anthology of poetry entitled The Sky Over Walgreens — 2007 even. How can you not love that title? I’ll have to explore this.

I may have mentioned it before, but I’m on the Young Adult Fiction Nominating Committee for this year’s Cybils. And let me tell you, with 123 nominated books, it’s becoming quite the challenge trying cram as much reading into my day as possible. As I tear through novel after novel, I’m starting to notice how often the same metaphors and imagery get used over and over. It makes me that much more appreciative when I come across a truly original turn of phrase – a unique combination of words that really captures the emotion or aesthetic that the author is trying to convey. So I sympathize with Zbigniew Herbert in his quest for the perfect word.

Here’s a bit of his poem, “I Would Like to Describe:”

I would like to describe the simplest emotion
joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin

Click here to read the rest. Maybe he didn’t find that one perfect inimitable word, but see if you don’t think ol’ Zbigniew did a pretty good job of putting thought to paper, after all.

Yeah, I’m one of those dirty freakin’ hippies who acknowledges Buy Nothing Day every November 23rd. Black Friday just ain’t my thing. If you’re one of those people who wakes up at 5 a.m. to get in line for sales at Wal-Mart or Sears on the day after Thanksgiving and you shop all day long, I hope you’ll still have respect for me for celebrating the alternative here and I hope we can try to understand one another when I say: I just. don’t. get. it.

And, this is a bit of a stretch, but as I was looking at Adbusters’ Buy Nothing Day site, I got to thinking about over-consumption. And that got me thinking about one of my favorite poems ever (which I happen to have matted and framed on one of the walls of my home in a lovely Thomas Merton poster I once found in the cobwebbed corner of an old used bookstore, but I digress). It’s called “The Harmonies of Excess,” written by Trappist monk/acclaimed Catholic spiritual writer/poet/author/social activist Thomas Merton, pictured above (his autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, is a fabulous read).

So, sure, this has nothing to do with the over-consumption which Buy Nothing Day addresses. And, sure, I just thought of it ’cause of the word “excess,” but it’s always been one of my favorite poems. Just humor me.

“The Harmonies of Excess” by Thomas Merton

* * * * * * *

The hidden lovers in the soil
Become green plants and gardens tomorrow
When they are ordered to re-appear
In the wet sun’s poem

Then they force the delighted
Power of buds to laugh louder
They scatter all the cries of light
Like shadow rain and make their bed
Over and over in the hollow flower
The violet bonfire

They spin the senses of the mute morning
In an abandoned river
Love’s wreckage is then left to lie
All around the breathless shores
Of my voice
Which on the coasts of larking meadows
Invented all these children and their mischievous noises

I found someone who posted the poem in its entirety here, so you can read the rest there if you’re interested. You really don’t want to miss the last stanza.

Whether you’re out shopping today (shudder) or kicking your feet up and buying not-a-damn-thing, happy Poetry Friday!

In case you missed this on Sunday, where we first mentioned it, the Poetry Foundation feature Eisha and I wrote has been posted. To read it, go here and click on “Lunchbox Poems.” We got a huge kick out of writing for the Poetry Foundation, and we hope you enjoy reading it, if you’re so inclined to do so.

I’m posting that particular lunchbox image just for Eisha, who I’m pretty sure was a Monkees fan as a wee one.

Eisha and I want to wish you all a happy Thanksgiving. I posted these words last year, but I’m sorry, they’re the most kickin’, most supreme thanksgiving words there could ever be. Maybe I’ll just post them every year, for that reason. These are the words of Thoreau, writing to H.G.O. Blake, once a Unitarian minister, in December of 1856:

“I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite — only a sense of existence. My breath is sweet to me. O how I laugh when I think of my vague indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it, for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment.

If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance, like flowers and sweet-scented herbs — is more elastic, starry, and immortal — that is your success.”

Now go and eat — like Harold — nine kinds of pie that you like best.

Congratulations to Robert Hass, winner of the 2007 National Book Award in Poetry, for his book Time and Materials.

Here’s an excerpt of a very cool poem of his, “Interrupted Meditation:”

Little green involute fronds of fern at creekside.
And the sinewy clear water rushing over creekstone
of the palest amber, veined with a darker gold,
thinnest lines of gold rivering through the amber
like—ah, now we come to it. We were not put on earth,
the old man said, he was hacking into the crust
of a sourdough half loaf in his vehement, impatient way
with an old horn-handled knife, to express ourselves.
I knew he had seen whole cities leveled: also
that there had been a time of shame for him, outskirts
of a ruined town, half Baroque, half Greek Revival,
pediments of Flora and Hygeia from a brief eighteenth-century
health spa boom lying on the streets in broken chunks
and dogs scavenging among them. His one act of courage
then had been to drop pieces of bread or chocolate,
as others did, where a fugitive family of Jews
was rumored to be hiding. I never raised my voice,
of course, none of us did. He sliced wedges of cheese
after the bread, spooned out dollops of sour jam
from some Hungarian plum, purple and faintly gingered.

Click here to read the rest.

I love the way the poem jumps around in a very stream-of-consciousness way, just like the title implies. And I love the little hidden daggers of emotional poignancy, like the image of the whitened chocolate, or the heaving his wife’s rib cage as she sobs. It’s like he keeps getting sideswiped by his own heart. Beautiful, powerful, and clever without being cloying. That’s what I like in a poem.

Congrats to the other NBA winners as well, particularly Sherman Alexie – I’m reading The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian right now, and I’m totally digging it.