Tag: poetry friday

How do you eat a whale?

I’m in the copy editing stage of the publishing process for my book SHIRA AND ESTHER DOUBLE THE WONDER. My middle-grade debut novel launches Fall 2023 from Chronicle Books.

Perhaps because of the heat, my attention is not as focused as usual. Like a squirrel, I skitter from one thing to another—foraging, cleaning, social media, videos, playing with Rothko the cat, and back to the work at hand before something else shiny catches my eye. I’ve been waiting and working for this moment for the last 20 years and yet, I’m procrastinating.

One show that I’ve been obsessively procrastinating with is Home Town Takeover with Ben (a cuddly bear of a man who can make anything out of wood) and Erin (pixie-dream-girl, and artist extraordinaire) Napier. The premise of this show (in case you don’t know) is that they have chosen one town to revitalize. Ostensibly, the show is about remodeling buildings but REALLY it is about leadership, economics, transportation policy, marketing and community. The Napiers often reflect on the massive task they’ve taken on with the question: How do you eat a whale? The answer of course is: One bite at a time.

Back to copy edits. Enjoy this excerpt of the poem “The Whale,” by Joseph Edwards Carpenter.

The Whale
by Joseph Edwards Carpenter

1

Oh! the whale is free of the boundless sea
He lives for a thousand years;
He sinks to rest in the billows breast,
Nor the roughest tempest fears:
The howling blast as it hurries past,
Is music to lull him to sleep,
And he scatters the spray in his boisterous play,
As he dashes the king of the deep.
Oh! the rare old whale, ‘mid storm and gale,
In his ocean home shall be,
A giant in might, where might is right
And kind of the boundless sea!

Poetry Friday: Empty Nesting

Purchase at your local independent bookstore or through my Bookshop link.

It’s been a long time since I spoke about mothering. Mommy blogs as a genre seem to satisfy their purpose once a child has become an adult. And yet, I am still a mother. With two sons, I’ve experienced everything twice. They each left for college but came back for holidays and vacations. Then they each finished college and set up nests of their own.

This last time handed me a gut punch I wasn’t really expecting. After all, we had already navigated long stretches away from each other, serious girlfriends, a pandemic separation (when we all agreed they’d be better with Dad in Maine then with me in NYC), and weekly phone calls that became more occasional. I’ve learned I cannot control their day-to-day health and safety (much less my own). I understand not only that I’ve given them all I could, but also, that they are fine humans whom I trust completely.

However, I had those moments, maybe you’ve had them too, where you look at the young man before you, and perhaps the light shifts, and you see a flicker of them as the small child they once were. And then it’s gone.

This poem from Laura Foley in the poetry anthology THE PATH TO KINDNESS: POEMS OF CONNECTION AND JOY (p.76 Edited by James Crews, Storey Publishing, 2022) captures my experience.

Laura Foley
A PERFECT ARC
I remember the first time he dove.
He was five and we were at a swimming pool
and I said: you tip your head down as you are going in,
while your feet go up.

And then his lithe little body did it exactly right,
a perfect dive, sliding downward, arcing without a wave,
and I just stood
amazed and without words
as his blond head came up again
and today

I watched him for the longest time as he walked
firm and upright along the street,
with backpack, guitar, all he needs,
blossoming outward in a perfect arc,
a graceful turning
away from me.

2017 March Madness Poetry is back!

poetry friday

For all of you who love reading and writing poetry for kids, it’s time to celebrate. Ed DeCaria is reviving the March Madness Poetry contest. Not only that, but he has also put in  an amazing effort to give Madness Poetry it’s own website with new and improved user experience. He is currently taking 1) Poet Authlete Applications 2) Classroom Teachers who want their students to participate in voting and 3) Fans who want to participate in voting. As we’ve all discovered, if you don’t vote, you suffer the results so go to http://madnesspoetry.com/ today and signup! Thank you, Ed!

Poetry Friday: The Smith-Corona

I recently became the caregiver to a 1953(?) Smith-Corona typewriter which inspired the following poem. Enjoy! (Now if I could only find a new ribbon.)

There aren’t a lot of typewriters out there
not a lot of typers either.
Hard to get ribbons and parts.
A’s require pinkie force that I do not possess.
Computers have made me soft.
Still there is a satisfaction of
FORCE
and noise
each clack of hammer on roller
the absence of wires
no plug in sight
just me and the keys and the return bar.
My thoughts too quick
hammers catch on each other
stuck like a logjam of paperwork
sitting on some secretary’s desk.
She with pencils in her hair
and a pencil slim skirt
doing a hard days work.
I imagine her
young
spunky
driven
wanting more.
To be a journalist
a novelist
the boss.
Just like her
my time will come.


Poetry Friday: Astrologically Speaking

Astrologically Speaking
By Anna E. Jordan

He charts lives.
Interprets transits.
Clarifies uncertainties.

She is astrologically
dumb.

He—
Leo,
Scorpio rising,
Aries moon.

She—
Aquarius,
Virgo rising,
Sun in 5th house.

He sees a future
in opposition.
Nodes out of place
He needs space.

She struggles to understand.
Searches for translation.
Grasps at what is already
gone.

He finds truth
in
the language of
Stars.

She in her own
starstuff.

-November 14, 2014

400px-Paranatellonta

poetry friday

Poetry Friday: Opening

Yoga opens me. Physically, many of the yoga poses (Asana) require an opening of the lungs and heart. Goddess pose opens my entire body with arms up and out, legs wide, knees bent. In it, I feel exposed, vulnerable. In Shavasana, I lay on the floor in a splayed position, grounding my entire body and my energy. I make space within for breath to freely travel. I open my mind, heart, throat, and gut, emptying mind and body of tension. Thoughts come. Images too. Usually I acknowledge them, then ask them to leave me in peace. Other times I am so open and they are so powerful– tears come. I try not to feel guilty about soaking the lavender scented eye pillow or disturbing my neighbor. Instead, I release, allowing myself to open.

The 6:40
By Anna J. Boll

If only people were as dependable as trains
Chug, chugging along
Always moving forward
Not straying from the track

But even trains explore
At a junction the track slips
straight to left
or ca-chunk,
it hugs right

Then full steam ahead
a new path
just like people

Fantastic Friday!

Arrivederci!

I’m off to Italy. Creative Chaos will return in late August. In honor of the Olympics, a poem from the Poetry Foundation archives.

BY VICKI HEARNE

The sudden thuck of landing
The arrow made in the mark
Of the center lifted and
Loosened his skin. And so he
Stood, hearing it like many
Thrusting breaths driven to ground.
He abandoned the long light
Flight of arrows and the slow
Parabolas bows dream of
For the swifter song beyond
Flesh. Song of moments. The earth
Turned its molten balance.
He stood hearing it again:
The precise shudder the arrow
Sought and returned to, flaming.

Vicki Hearne, “The Archer” from Tricks of the Light: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 2007 by Vicki Hearne.  Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press.

Source: Tricks of the Light: New and Selected Poems (The University of Chicago Press, 2007)

Poetry Friday: Keep surfing, no poetry here folks..

I’ve mentioned
my YA manuscript.
It’s out
and about:
lunching with agents,
riding beside them
on the train.
There has been one decline.

The kindest,
most gracious letter
I’ve ever seen.
It even has a posticom.
Casing, jamb and hinges
constructed from
letters
words
sentences.
A secret reentry door.
A FASTPASS™ at Disney World.
For free!
But nothing is free.
To open the door
I’ll need to find my re-vision glasses
checking all the places
I’ve already looked
bed-side
by the tv
under the papers by the computer
until I realize they have been
perched atop my head
from the very beginning.

I hope
the other wonderful women
(agents all)
are enjoying their summer
and their children
(fur or otherwise).
They should be flying kites
dipping their toes in cool mountain lakes,
getting sand in their swimsuits
after chilling in salty seas.

Truly.

It is summer.

I am busy too.
Packing for Italy
where I will research a book.
An idea that floats
and anchors
and floats again
in the grey matter
behind my eyes.

In Florence
there will be art
and architecture.
In Tuscany
bikes rides,
and wine with my husband
(In the flesh.
First time
since January).

In September
sunny summer days
fade fast.
We gear up for school
syllabi,
and supplies,
and deadlines,
and then,
maybe then

The agents will
breathe deep
open overflowing files
and read.

All in good time.
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