I’d like a refund from this month; I’m fairly sure that there weren’t thirty full days. I’m fairly sure there was some stinting, somewhere, some hours cut off… why does it seem like it should just be moving past February when we’re already to May? School is out next month!? How did that happen!?
This has been a really unusual month – at times harder than expected, and at times, easier, at least in terms of poetry. I can at least say I’ve had to reframe the way I look at this “simple” poetic form. So, thanks for being my audience, and I look forward to pushing into a new form perhaps next year.
I scribbled this out thinking of the election, for some reason. Hm…
look at it this way…
Perhaps a view more viable Equitable, and numinous Requires that we our first impulses Shed. Opinions, then more pliable, Prepare us to be liable to let things go – Extolling peace instead. To Cede a need for “rightness,” first, you take a step away To take a breath, and look again, as judgment you delay… Impartial, this reception Viewing life without deception, and in truth, making Exceptions for the humanness of all.
Doesn’t that seem like what that cover says? The gun, the hand reaching back. The utter seriousness on her face. It’s the quintessential Terminator-style scene — a savior arrives, guns blazing, demanding exact obedience in return for leading the underdog to safety, and then melting away into the sunset. Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat; it’s a story we’re practically demanded to love.
People who have looked at the paper money of other countries realize that American paper money loses points in the category of “interesting.” Not only does it hardly have any color but green, there are absolutely zero women on it of any shade. And now to discover that our first paper money woman (making sure to give Sacagawea her due) is to be African American, too? Wow. (Jury’s still out on how ridiculous it is that it won’t be for another twenty years, but xkcd said it best: C’mon, Treasury Dept.; this is a minor problem you could solve. Really.)
(Though I searched, I can’t give credit to the artist who put these two mediums together, but full props to them, and please let me know if you find them.) I was commenting that if the cover to the 2007 Ann Petry Harper Trophy book was made part of the design for our cash, we’d all hoard twenties, like the Sacagawea dollar coins got snapped up and mostly reside out of circulation. Tobias Bucknell tweeted back that he’d spend nothing but twenties. Which made me laugh. $.50 library fine? No, let me drop you a Tubman on that. No, no, a whole jar of change is fine. It’s fine…
Of course, not everyone is a fan of Harriet Tubman stepping out of history into contemporary life. People have been screeching that she was a METHODIST! (Oh, dear Lord, no! Not a religious person! We’re post-religious!), and that, additionally, she carried a pistol AND a sword. (ON HER PERSON! Whaaaaaaaat?)
Oddly, you’d think fans of history would know that there’s a lot of tradition surrounding religion in America; especially back in 1860, after all, as the country had only recently descended from Puritans who left England for what? Religious reasons, and five points to you. Ms. Tubman’s owners had been Methodists, and it was what she knew. Surely we cannot fault her for that. Also: many abolitionists before or during the Civil War were not necessarily pacifists (John Brown or Nat Turner, anyone?) and though she was a humanitarian, Harriet Tubman was also the soldier who was famously quoted as telling slaves who thought after their initial escape that they’d made a mistake and should turn back, “You’ll live free or die a slave.” The gun she carried at times (she was drawn carrying a sharpshooter rifle on posters by irate slaveowners demanding her return) certainly gave that statement some weight. While I doubt she was unsympathetic to their fear, she couldn’t allow anyone to give away the position of the rest of those who were going to keep running. She carried a gun not just to avoid capture herself – she had a $40k price on her own head (well, Araminta Ross did, which was her name as a slave; she changed it to Harriet Tubman herself), which was a megabillions fortune in those days – but to make sure her little train on the underground railroad didn’t leave the tracks or lose a passenger. 1,000+ slaves and she never blew her cover, never lost an escapee. That is nothing short of miraculous, you know. A short, middle-aged woman (she was 38-44 during the Civil War years) who couldn’t read or write and who’d had a severe head injury during slavery, and she managed all of that.
Her heroism merely showed A dame adept and of strong will (Rethought her planning on the fly, Refused to cower or stand still.) Intuiting through trap and maze, Eluding landmines laid for leagues Tenacious, and her cunning ways
Transfixed her charges through fatigue. Undaunted ’til their fear broke through – By balking some made to return – “If Manumission’s not for you? A bullet will ease your concerns.” Nursed and cooked, too; soldiered, spied: “hero” the word, exemplified.
So, she was many things: nurse, cook, soldier, spy — and veteran who drew a pension after the Civil War. Many, many people don’t know that. She wasn’t just some nice lady with a lamp showing freed slaves the way from shackles. She also demoralized the Confederates, blew up their mines on the Cobahee River, served as a raid commander under Colonel James Montgomery, in concert with the African-American 2nd South Carolina regiment — and she carried on as if her color and gender were beside the point. Many people know a bit more about this story from Comedy Central’s “Drunk History.” It’s a neat little reenactment, but if you’ve not seen it, be warned: drunk narrative with swearing:
Despite the wandering, this is quite accurate, which means this lady knows her history stone cold sober. So should should we all.
I’ve probably blogged about this more than once, because it was a defining terror of my young life: when I was eleven, an optometrist, using that offhand exaggeration many adults use on children, told me that I was so nearsighted that I would be “blind by the time you’re thirty.”
I was the a serious, literal kid who only got glasses at the end of the second grade because she had such ironclad coping strategies for being unable to see — and though I hid it and was ashamed, I really was, and remain, severely nearsighted. So, white-knuckling in horror (clearly, not in the literal sense) I believed that optometrist, and waited for blindness, practicing blindfolded for hours, navigating my room.
I never told anyone why.
This morning, in the wee ‘sma hours, I had cause to remember.
Plucky Proverbs & Courageous Cliché
Carry On. Never Surrender Indeed, ’tis darkest before Dawn. To Every cloud, a silver lining – Resolve that you’ll “keep holding on.”
Light a candle; better It than many bruises to amass. Grit your teeth: “yes, you can” Handle life’s lemons within your glass – Take as truth: this too shall pass.
A retinal migraine involves optic nerves creating illusions of sight, then blindness. Waking – (possibly from low blood sugar) – out of deep sleep to a coruscating brightness in a darkened room, only to have that eye lose vision completely is — simply breath-stealing terror. I’d heard of auras relating to migraines and know that sometimes our optical nerves experience migraine without pain, so I figured I’d wait it out, not scream, and look it up when I could see again (and, I had to believe I would). To my relief, I was right; I found multiple descriptions matching my experience. (What did people do before they had the internet to help them self-diagnose and stoke the fires of incipient hypochondria?) Going tomorrow to my already-scheduled ophthalmology appointment – serendipitous blessing, that – I’m holding fast to my decision this month, to at least attempt to look on the bright side. I may only be able to deal in cliché today, but I’m getting there.
Meanwhile, enjoy the actual poem by an actual genius with actual blindness and not a bad headache:
When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
You know you’re doing something right when people start sending you the acrostics they find. They’re everywhere! This one would have been perfect for last Friday, and you can find it in total at McSweeney’s.
– – – –
The ABCs of Passover.
BY LAUREN KRUEGER and MATTHEW DAVID BROZIK
– – – –
A is for April, when Passover’s here!
(Unless it’s in some other month of the year.)
B is for Boils, Beasts, Blackout, and Blood.
Dinner conversation never had it so good!
C is for Challah — egg bread: you can’t beat it!
And during this holiday, nor can you eat it.
D is for Drinking: four full cups of wine.
Required — a mitzvah! (Or grape juice, it’s fine.)
E is for Egypt, land the Jews fled.
Then shook the Egyptians in the Sea that is Red.
F is for Fish, “gefilte” it’s called,
Carp and pike, both thoroughly mauled.
G is for Gathering, that’s what we do!
The more, the moanier, when you’re a Jew.
H is for Hebrew, language Semitic.
“I’m saying it wrong? Everybody’s a critic!”
I is for Israel, the land we hold dear.
But no rush to go; there’s always next year!
J is for Jewish — that is, not a goy.
You know, like that nice Star-of-Bethlehem boy.
K is for Kosher, fit for consumption.
Or, put another way: “okay to eat,” according to basic laws derived from two of the five books of the Torah — Leviticus and Deuteronomy; but the details and practical applications of those laws were transmitted over centuries through oral law (eventually codified in the Mishnah and Talmud) and later elaborated upon in rabbinical literature… and the rationale for most of which is nowhere to be found.
L is for Lamb, star meat of the meal.
So tender! So juicy! Oh, wait… no — that’s veal.
M is for Matzo, a crispy delight.
(Yet fifty-one weeks of the year: out of sight.)
N is for Neighbors, like-minded feasters.
Unless they’re the kind who celebrate Easters.
…
So there it is: Passover, letter by letter.
(And not even Moses himself could do better.)
This is a total cheat, but Gwenda reminded me yesterday of my very favorite version of the alphabet song, and there’s an abecedarian poem of sorts sung at the end. I know. A poem is not quite a song, as not every song is a poem… but, this one is, so this time it counts.
Sesame Street ABC
Amazingly
Beautiful
Creatures
Dancing
Excites the
Forest
Glade, in my
Heart how
I do
Jump like the
Kudo
Listen to the
Music so
Nice the
Organ
Plays.
Quietly
Rests the
Sleepy
Tiger
Under the
Vine tree at the
Water’s side and
X marks the spot ‘neath the
Yellow moon where the
Zulu chief and I did hide.
Bug phoned me, giggling, Friday morning and said, “Guess what? I have stitches!”
(Only my siblings can say weird stuff like that, and then laugh.) She explained that she’d only just returned from the ER and was the proud bearer of five stitches in her forehead because, and I quote, “I sat up to turn off the alarm on my phone, and the ceiling fan fell on me.”
*crickets*
“No, really!”
The Tale of the Rogue Appliance
Barely had she wakened ‘Ere the day went all awry Whirling doom upon her landed Arrowed from an empty sky Ravaging the peaceful morning Errant object of offense
Ominously, without warning Fractured peace with pain intense!
Farcical, this rudest waking And alarming – falling fans a Nemesis before unnoted… So much for our weekend plans.
Did we mention the ceiling fan was on at the time??? This incident has been filed under “Things Which Could Happen ONLY to Bug.” She was blessed to only have five stitches, and more blessed that the next play she’s doing makeup for isn’t for another week…
It was inevitable we’d come to the abcederian acrostic, the one with which most elementary kids are familiar. Let’s take your name, and make an acrostic of it! the teacher says, enthused. Won’t that be fun? Not if you had my name, which I hated. (I went by my middle name in grade school. An acrostic with a Y is less fun than it could be.) Edward Lear manages, although he also has meter and humor in his poem. I shudder to think how long this nonsense took him!
Alphabet Poem
Edward Lear, 1812 – 1888
A tumbled down, and hurt his Arm, against a bit of wood.
B said, “My Boy, O! do not cry’ it cannot do you good!”
C said, “A Cup of Coffee hot can’t do you any harm.”
D said, “A Doctor should be fetched, and he would cure the arm.”
E said, “An Egg beat up in milk would quickly make him well.”
F said, “A Fish, if broiled, might cure, if only by the smell.”
G said, “Green Gooseberry fool, the best of cures I hold.”
H said, “His Hat should be kept on, keep him from the cold.”
I said, “Some Ice upon his head will make him better soon.”
J said, “Some Jam, if spread on bread, or given in a spoon.”
K said, “A Kangaroo is here,—this picture let him see.”
L said, “A Lamp pray keep alight, to make some barley tea.”
M said, “A Mulberry or two might give him satisfaction.”
N said, “Some Nuts, if rolled about, might be a slight attraction.”
O said, “An Owl might make him laugh, if only it would wink.”
P said, “Some Poetry might be read aloud, to make him think.”
Q said, “A Quince I recommend,—A Quince, or else a Quail.”
R said, “Some Rats might make him move, if fastened by their tail.”
S said, “A Song should now be sung, in hopes to make him laugh!”
T said, “A Turnip might avail, if sliced or cut in half.”
U said, “An Urn, with water hot, place underneath his chin!”
V said, “I’ll stand upon a chair, and play a Violin!”
W said, “Some Whiskey-Whizzgigs fetch, some marbles and a ball!”
X said, “Some double XX ale would be the best of all!”
Y said, “Some Yeast mixed up with salt would make a perfect plaster!”
Z said, “Here is a box of Zinc! Get in my little master!
We’ll shut you up! We’ll nail you down!
We will, my little master!
We think we’ve all heard quite enough of this sad disaster!”
Despite the effort to write a brand new poem every day, I’ve still managed to fall into a little mental cul-de-sac that insists on making rules. To resist this, I’m going to attempt no meter at all. I am terrible at blank verse, which amuses me thoroughly. It only seems like it should be easy. There’s lists of words… then there’s actual poetry. Someday I’ll figure out how to bridge the two.
ore
o, Let the light of
your face on Us
shine. let the searchlight
of your eyes eXamine
every part And see
that which within hidEs shadow.
the Twisting thicket of my
thoughts thus lEads, turn by
tuR, back where I
began. eterNal my surprise –
my self I find Afresh: still
still with thee.
Boy, there was some of everything in there. Thinking of the new $20 – which fifteen years from now will be a weird pastiche of oppression and freedom, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” – also a weird pastiche – came to mind. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s poem (which later became a hymn) has its title in the poem’s final lines. One of my favorite choral pieces by Edward Elgan is Variation IX (Adagio) ‘Nimrod;’ listening to a choral variation put the words lux aeterna, or eternal light, from the Latin prayer during a requiem mass, into play, using Kwame Alexander’s acrostic technique. “Ore” is the phonetic pronunciation of the Hebrew word,אוֹר – which is to be, or become light, and is reflected in Ps. 139 – a tehillim is the Hebrew word in the Torah for a psalm. I wrote this poem thinking of my friend, Jess, who has the enigmatic plea of John Donne’s Sonnet 14 inked on her back. Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
All we are: a mishmash of impulses, hopes, half-dared dreams and unuttered prayers, yet within that tangle, we are not unseen. May every turn of your path be light.
Convivial scenes of yellowy-green Adorn the lush, mudlicious landscape. Recanting its vow to change disallow, the Prodigal, Winter, makes its escape… Evoking the pace of a great steeplechase Determined, the seedlings awaken Impetuous thirst quenched by a cloudburst Effulgent, the land reawakens. Momentous – and mine! – This season, divine.
This poem comes from Kwame Alexander’s just-published-this-month novel in verse called BOOKED. It’s a companion novel to THE CROSSOVER, winner of …basically all the book awards last year for middle grade books. Okay not all of them, but a whole basket. Anyway, you see why it won all the things just from this simple poem — deceptively simple. Some of the novel is blank verse, but there’s meter and rhyme and a crisp, driving movement to his work. While BOOKED doesn’t have the rap beat/dance tunes of THE CROSSOVER — football (soccer) seems to lend itself to an entirely different rhythm than basketball — Alexander takes different kinds of poetry for a spin – and he uses acrostic, twice!
BOOKED is about a rising star, Nick Hall, eighth grade superhero. He’s killin’ it in soccer – and he’s going to make it to his school’s version of the World Cup. He’s juuuust about to make time with a very sweet girl. And then — boom — it all goes up in smoke. Like THE CROSSOVER, this is another sports-centric middle-grade novel about life, loss and coping, as Nick learns about picking yourself up and going on. It’s told with a lot of heart and a lot of talent.
Gameplay
by Kwame Alexander, from the book, BOOKED, 2016
on the pitch lightning faSt
dribble, fake, then make a dash
player tries tO steal the ball
lift and step and make him fall
zip and zoom to find the spot
defense readies for the shot
Chip, then kick it in the air;
take off like a Belgian hare
shoot it left, but watch it Curve
all he can do is observe
watch the ball bEnd in midflight
play this game faR into night.
Atypical acrostic, yes, but I think — by my completely fly-by-night knowledge of its “rules” — I think this counts as well, and I like it. I’d challenge my students to write acrostic poetry in this way.
