Inaugurated by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, National Poetry
Month is now held every April, when schools, publishers, libraries,
booksellers, and poets throughout the United States band together to
celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of
organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays,
workshops, and other events. -Poets.org
As I have done for the past few years, I've created a slideshow in honor of National Poetry Month.
My first effort, Poems In Words and Images, featured a combination of my own and Creative Commons photographs:
Sometimes I do a bit a research just for the fun of it. This morning, a tweet from Liz Burns sent me on my merry way:
I discovered that this quote is attributed to Julian of Norwich, a 14th-15th century Christian mystic. Her visions while seriously ill led her to write Revelations of Divine Love (ca. 1393), purportedly the first book composed in the English language by a woman. Despite living in a time of turmoil, punctuated by peasant revolts and outbreaks of the Black Death, Julian believed in a merciful and loving deity. She claimed that her famous "All will be well..." was spoken directly to her by God.
The lines were incorporated into T. S. Eliot's Little Gidding (1941-42):
"Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us—a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching."
In more recent times, Julian's words appear in an amazing variety of song lyrics:
Poetry, song lyrics, even the title of a murder mystery...Julian of Norwich's words live on. Tracking down the source of this quote, and its modern manifestations, was a lovely little task for a Monday morning.
April is National Poetry Month, a celebration of verse initiated by the Academy of American Poets in 1996.
Last year, inspired by friend and professional colleague Buffy Hamilton, I created a SlideShare that linked poems and images, using both my own photographs and some found via a Creative Commons search.
In 2012, I challenged myself to use only images I had captured to illustrate the words of poets - and to provide one slide for each day of April. While the finished product may lack some of the visual impact of last year's effort, it provided me with even more personal satisfaction.
This year, I've already read about an interesting Poem in Your Pocket Day activity from Cathy Jo Nelson:
"All the 'pockets' have poems ready to be had, and the pockets also have a qr code to poems from poets.org so kids can save them to their smart-phones as an option."
...and I'm sure that John Schumacher and Shannon Miller, of Two Libraries, One Voice, will have some wonderful, interactive celebration planned, as they did last year.
In her essay, Why We Should Read Poetry, Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Amy Lowell called poetry "the height and quintessence of emotion, of every sort of emotion" She concluded,
"We should read Poetry because only in that way can we know man in all his moods - in the most beautiful thoughts of his heart, in his farthest reaches of imagination in the tenderness of his love, in the nakedness and awe of his soul confronted with the terror and wonder of the Universe. Poetry and history are the textbooks to the heart of man, and poetry is at once the most intimate and the most enduring."
So share a poem, write a poem, illustrate a poem, memorize a poem, recite a poem. The possibilities are endless and rewarding.
"There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story." -Linda Hogan
When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness, I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile." The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's simple," they say, "and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine." -Mary Oliver
Although my methods of accessing literature have expanded, I will always be a reader.
The Reader
She is going back, these days, to the great stories That charmed her younger mind. A shaded light Shines on the nape half-shadowed by her curls, And a page turns now with a scuffing sound. Onward they come again, the orphans reaching For a first handhold in a stony world, The young provincials who at last look down On the city's maze, and will descend into it, The serious girl, once more, who would live nobly,
The sly one who aspires to marry so, The young man bent on glory, and that other Who seeks a burden. Knowing as she does What will become of them in bloody field Or Tuscan garden, it may be that at times She sees their first and final selves at once, As a god might to whom all time is now. Or, having lived so much herself, perhaps
She meets them this time with a wiser eye, Noting that Julien's calculating head Is from the first too severed from his heart. But the true wonder of it is that she, For all that she may know of consequences, Still turns enchanted to the next bright page Like some Natasha in the ballroom door— Caught in the flow of things wherever bound, The blind delight of being, ready still To enter life on life and see them through.
My friend, Buffy Hamilton, was updating a topical display in her library when
"I began thinking about what I might feature in addition to student created poems, quotes about poetry, and images of favorite poetry books...it occurred to me it might be fun to combine favorite lines of poetry or short poems with a carefully selected photograph to unpack a feeling, idea, or image I associated with the lines of poetry or short poem."
Buffy's exquisite slideshow, "Using Photographs to Dwell in Poetry," is embedded here, but you should read her entire posting to see where she and a collaborating teacher plan to take this project.
I have matched photos and poems before, but usually the image came first. Inspired by Buffy's example, I selected fourteen poems, then searched my own Flickr photostream and Creative Commons for appropriate pairings - which is not as easy as it might sound! This is my version, "Poetry in Words and Images."
While this type of activity is suitable for all ages, I would suggest that younger students be encouraged to choose poems that are concrete rather than abstract. A discussion of symbolism might be appropriate; knowing how to use and refine search terms and keywords is, well, key.
Final products could take the form of a collaborative slideshow, digital album, posters, or trading cards. Creating a VoiceThread or Animoto would provide the option of an additional performance component.
Of course, the enjoyment of poetry should not be limited to a single month.
"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." -Dead Poet's Society
Thursday, April 14, was National Poem in Your Pocket Day, an annual celebration which invites people of all ages to "select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends."
While this event was not designed exclusively as a library or school event, it certainly lends itself beautifully to those venues. Lacking students of my own, I was delighted to "borrow" some from my virtual colleagues.
John Schumacher started the ball rolling by inviting me, Shannon Miller, Jennifer Malphy, Kathy Schmidt, all school librarians, and teachers Donna Kouri and Stephen Gagnon, to collaborate in a Google Document, where we set up a schedule for Skyping throughout the day. For my part, I shared a few poems, read - and sang - a rhymed story, and listened to students recite their selections, some original.
Benefits for the students:
exposure to poetry
public speaking practice
the "cool factor" of connecting with adults and children in five states
Benefits for teachers:
having an audience made the experience more authentic for students
connections were made for future projects, possibly one involving photography and poetry
Our Skype interaction was the perfect example of using a tool to enhance and extend learning experiences. It was certainly not the only activity in which these students participated for Poem in Your Pocket Day, but it was a memorable one for all of us.
Poets make pets of pretty, docile words: I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish Which circle slowly with a silken swish, And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds: Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds, Come to my hand, and playful if I wish, Or purring softly at a silver dish, Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.
I love bright words, words up and singing early; Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing; Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees; I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly, Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees, Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.
April is National Poetry Month, so I'll start off the celebration with one of my (many) favorites from Pulitzer Prize winner, Mary Oliver:
The Journey
One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice -- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life you could save.
I visited the Library of Congress Primary Source Set that Mary had recommended, then did some background research.
By definition, a "found poem" is a composition made by combining fragments of such printed material as newspapers, signs, or menus, and rearranging them into the form of a poem. Found poetry is fancifully described as the literary equivalent of a collage. In its purest form, found poetry uses only the original text, without alterations or deletions.
There are a number of lesson plans available online that focus on creating found poetry, including
My own foray into found poetry was inspired by some papers I found in my late father's office. Dad's parents, my grandparents, were Italian immigrants. They worked hard, found their version of the American Dream, and proudly became U.S. citizens.
Just prior to the outbreak of WWI, my grandfather had to return to Italy to settle an estate. Unable to leave the country once war was declared, Grandpa was given a choice: enlist in the Italian army, or be shot as a spy! He opted for the former, and served his time, while Grandma managed the family and their businesses. While far from home and loved ones, he kept a journal.
At some point, a photocopy of this document came into my father's possession, along with a translation of a few of the entries from their original Italian. On these pages, I see my grandfather's beautiful script and hear the loneliness and longing in his words.
Here are a selection of "found poems" in my grandfather's voice:
I. Malachin
Last night at the usual hour we had a roll call of the 13th squad and everybody was present except for one soldier, Malachin. He is a country boy and he likes to drink wine. This evening he is still missing and nobody knows where he is or if anything happened to him. The Commandant of the platoon ordered us to look for him for some time and at 11 pm he was declared a deserter. Pity for him.
II. Mail Call
The mail came this morning, but for me, nothing. I write almost every day, but for me always nothing. Word goes around that in a few days we have to advance, and we hope that God will keep us in good health and safe, so we can be together and I think about my loved ones a lot...a lot.
III. Cold
The icy air really cuts your face and freezes your feet. Just in a few minutes, your feet are not just frozen but like marble. The night is beautiful, with so many stars, a night for lovers! The stars shine so brilliantly in the sky. If a poet were here, he would write some beautiful poetic words. I look at my watch and the time is 2 am. We have to stay up for another 3 hours with this tremendous cold air and we feel the nervousness of the time.
IV. Battle
We hear the sound of battle gunfire, machine gun fire and even the air smells of gun powder. We also hear soldiers calling for help and, to top it all off, is the feeling of insecurity, the end of this messy and gory raid. The potent machine gun light sweeps across the land and everything is dead silent. But this time the light has a companion from the other side, and it seems that it is a duel between the two giant lights. Our light is searching and the enemy light tries to confuse us. After a while, the lights from both sides go off. No winners.
April played games with us, veering from unseasonable warmth to frost-warning level cold then back to glorious sunshine.Flowers are beginning to bloom, and spring is a go once more. Since April was National Poetry Month, I thought I'd intersperse images and verse. Add in the scent of lilacs and the sound of birdsong, and you'll capture the essence of April's quirky charm.
"The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March." - Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time
"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk. The rain makes running pools in the gutter. The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night-- And I love the rain." -Langston Hughes, April Rain Song
"This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze." - D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring
“Blown bubble-film of blue, the sky wraps round Weeds of warm light whose every root and rod Splutters with soapy green, and all the world Sweats with the bead of summer in its bud.”-Laurie Lee, April Rise
"Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done?" - Matthew Arnold,Empedocles on Etna
“Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.” -Rainer Maria Rilke
"Forsythia is pure joy. There is not an ounce, not a glimmer of sadness or even knowledge in forsythia. Pure, undiluted, untouched joy." -Anne Morrow Lindbergh
"The green eyes of Springtime, Charming, as ever, Flirting, again." -Michael Garofalo
"I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face." -Langston Hughes
"Harshness vanished. A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey. Little rivulets of water changed their singing accents. Tendernesses,
hesitantly, reach toward the earth from space, and country lanes are showing these unexpected subtle risings that find expression in the empty trees." -Rainer Maria Rilke
"Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done..." -Matthew Arnold
"Inaugurated by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, National Poetry Month is now held every April, when publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools and poets around the country band together to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture." -Poets.org
In gratitude for the pleasure that poems have given me throughout my life, I've gathered some links and posts that celebrate the beauty of the written (and spoken) word.
The Library of Congress has a poetry page with a variety of resources, programs, and webcasts. In the spotlight is current American Poet Laureate Kay Ryan, who believes
"Poems are transmissions from the depths of whoever wrote them to the depths of the reader. To a greater extent than with any other kind of reading, the reader of a poem is making that poem, is inhabiting those words in the most personal sort of way. That doesn’t mean that you read a poem and make it whatever you want it to be, but that it’s operating so deeply in you, that it is the most special kind of reading."
Her "Hide and Seek" speaks of more than just a child's game:
"It’s hard not to jump out instead of waiting to be found. It’s hard to be alone so long and then hear someone come around. It’s like some form of skin’s developed in the air that, rather than have torn, you tear." -Kay Ryan
"I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after." -Wallace Stevens
Of Modern Poetry
...It has not always had To find: the scene was set; it repeated what Was in the script. Then the theatre was changed To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
"It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place. It has to face the men of the time and to meet The women of the time. It has to think about war And it has to find what will suffice. It has To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage..." -Wallace Stevens
"You are the great flood of our souls Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts, You are the smell of all Summers, The love of wives and children, The recollection of the gardens of little children..." -Amy Lowell
"But stars were with me most of all. I heard them flame and break and fall." -Fanny Stearns Davis
The Starry Host
"The countless stars, which to our human eye Are fixed and steadfast, each in proper place, Forever bound to changeless points in space, Rush with our sun and planets through the sky, And like a flock of birds still onward fly; Returning never whence began their race, They speed their ceaseless way with gleaming face As though God bade them win Infinity..." -John Lancaster Spalding
"We are afloat On our dreams as on a barge made of ice, Shot through with questions and fissures of starlight That keep us awake, thinking about the dreams As they are happening. Some occurrence. You said it." -John Ashbery
"Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history." -Plato
October is a month of bittersweet beauty. Nature's colors ignite in bursts of red, orange and yellow, then fade and crumble, finally yielding to winter's cold white majesty.
These four poets express some of the sadness and glory that is October.
October Journey
I want to tell you what hills are like in October when colors gush down mountainsides and little streams are freighted with a caravan of leaves, I want to tell you how they blush and turn in fiery shame and joy, how their love burns with flames consuming and terrible until we wake one morning and woods are like a smoldering plain --
a glowing cauldron full of jeweled fire; the emerald earth a dragon's eye the poplars drenched with yellow light and dogwoods blazing bloody red. Traveling southward earth changes from gray rock to green velvet. -Margaret Walker
The Love for October
A child looking at ruins grows younger but cold and wants to wake to a new name I have been younger in October than in all the months of spring walnut and may leaves the color of shoulders at the end of summer a month that has been to the mountain and become light there the long grass lies pointing uphill even if death for a reason that none of us knows and the wren laughs in the early shade now come again shining glance in your good time naked air late morning my love is for lightness of touch foot feather the day is yet one more yellow leaf and without turning I kiss the light by an old well on the last of the month gathering wild rose hips in the sun -W.S. Merwin
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. -Robert Frost
Autumn
...The leaves fall patiently Nothing remembers or grieves The river takes to the sea The yellow drift of leaves... -Sara Teasdale
April is National Poetry Month, so I decided to try a creative writing assignment with my high school Current Events group.
After a discussion about the nature and characteristics of poetry, I asked students to compose a poem or song lyric dealing with one of the topics we've examined in class. Since this includes everything from the election to volunteerism to Michael Phelps to assorted teen issues, I was confident that there'd be enough choices to please everyone.
When I mentioned sharing their creations with others, perhaps publishing them in a leaflet, one boy put his head down and opted out. He said that if he had to use "school appropriate" language, he couldn't write what he felt and would be unable to talk about life as he sees it. A few others were uncomfortable with the idea of having administrators read their honest opinions about drug use and other controversial subjects.
At that point, I paused to consider the purpose of this exercise. This was neither an English Language Arts class nor a literary club. If I wanted authentic response, I would have to respect the writers' desire for confidentiality. I believe that students should have the right to decide how their original works are used. They would not be writing for me, the school, or the world at large: they would be writing for themselves.
We reached a compromise. Students could write "Private" on the assignment and I'd guarantee them that only I would read the poems. Each class member would receive a grade of 100% for participating.
My reluctant student composed a haunting lyric about loss and loneliness. The language was not obscene, just full of pain. I hope that some day he will share his words with others. For now, his cry from the heart is safe with me.
"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
spring is like a perhaps Hand in a window (carefully to and from moving New and Old things,while people stare carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there)and
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. -John McCrae
Taps
Day is done, gone the sun, From the hills, from the lake, From the sky. All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.
Go to sleep, peaceful sleep, May the soldier or sailor, God keep. On the land or the deep, Safe in sleep.
Love, good night, Must thou go, When the day, And the night Need thee so? All is well. Speedeth all To their rest.
Fades the light; And afar Goeth day, And the stars Shineth bright, Fare thee well; Day has gone, Night is on.
Thanks and praise, For our days, 'Neath the sun, Neath the stars, 'Neath the sky, As we go, This we know, God is nigh. -Author Unknown
In 1968, I spent an unforgettable summer studying at Oxford. It was the first time I had ever traveled to Europe, and I made the most of it: attending classes at the University, hopping the train to London for shopping, galleries & the theater, exploring Paris, Amsterdam, Bruges, Cologne, Trier. It was quite an adventure for a relatively sheltered, small town girl.
Our seminar was entitled "Uses of Imagery" and it included lectures on 17th and 18th century English Verse and an in-depth study of King Lear. We were registered as temporary readers at the Bodleian Library and had tutorials with our course instructors.
While cleaning out a storage loft this weekend, I discovered my notebook, still legible after 40 years. What caught my eye was not the pages of neatly written lecture summaries, but rather the poem I had composed to describe my fellow students. Where they are now, I wonder, and how have their lives played out?
The Seekers
Betsey
Memories of Indiana Served with tea and scones. Upon arrival home - Chicago
Doug
Roman ruins And Wren churches But not people
Janet
Certainty. Unaware Of the secret rebellion: "You are not our dream."
Martha
Plantation daughter Charmingly ignorant Amazed by the existence Of other traditions
Mary
The future teacher Awaits a chance To remember.
Mark
The world through A wine bottle Monochromatic
Polly
Flirtation Could not ease The pain Of questions Left unanswered
Sophie
Can money Buy understanding?
Wyman
Some desire darkness And in Not being tragic, Are.
My daughter and I set off on an impromptu adventure yesterday, a road trip through rural Washington County, NY.
The big white church caught our eye first.
Across the street was Bethany Cemetery, Truthville, NY.
My initial thought was to take a few pictures of some graves, presumably of veterans, which were decked out in patriotic colors for the Fourth of July. But it didn't take long for my interest to broaden.
The shared headstone of Cora and Harold Douglas celebrates their long life together: "Whither thou goest I will go". Little Tanya Susan Cain was only on this earth for two days; a tiny lamb graces her resting place.
The older stones bore their own truths. Most of the women were either "the daughter of" or "the wife of" someone, having surrendered a part of their identity to their male relatives.
Many females died in their late teens or early twenties. Did childbirth carry them off at so young an age?
What tragic chain of events claimed the life of Eliza Corbin "who was drowned at Whitehall Landing, July 26, 1825, aged 18 years & 8 months, leaving a sorrowful husband & many weeping friends."
Sally Baker's large stone is elaborately decorated. Does her anchor symbolize faith, or was her husband or a family member involved with ships or the Navy?
Jeremiah Brownell was born in 1731 or 1732. Did he bear arms in the French & Indian War, then pick up his musket again in middle age to join the Colonials in their fight for independence? Was he a Loyalist? Or did he arrive in upstate New York after the battles were done?
What manner of person was Chapin, whose irregular rock bears a single name, with no other information?
The little cemetery at Truthville reminded me of Spoon River Anthology. Edgar Lee Masters recreated an entire community by sharing narratives of the departed residents of a fictitious town.
We can only guess at "truths" of Truthville. These crumbling inscriptions give no sense of the fire and passion of the people who once bore these names. Perhaps that is exactly what they would have wished.
“Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.” –Jean Paul Richter
Feathers to enable flight Wings to lift and carry High and far above the earth Wheeling in a joyous arc Returning home to solid footing Memory of wind and cloud Earth below Sky above
There has been some discussion lately about the "exploitation" of Twitter by people who are interested in self-aggrandizement rather than connection and collaboration.
In my wildest dreams (well, maybe in just a few of the more delusional ones), I don't anticipate becoming a sought-after lecturer, consultant, or best-selling author.
Twitter is my place to meet new friends, converse with virtual colleagues, share resources, and offer encouragement, sympathy, or congratulations, as needed.
There may well be those who are only concerned with self-promotion. If so, their agenda becomes apparent relatively quickly. My rule is to only follow people who follow me back. I'm in Twitter for conversation, not hero-worship.
Like many tools, Twitter has a variety of uses. It works for me, but then, I'm Nobody! Who are You?
"Andrew likes 'Diary of a Nobody' by George Grossmith" by Ross_Angus
That was then:
NYS-certified School Library Media Specialist;
online facilitator and research consultant for CyberSmart Education Company; photographer and author.
This is now: retired; world traveler; proud Nonna!
