This weekend we enjoyed tax-free shopping for school supplies and clothing in Virginia. As someone who hates to shop, the thought of joining hordes of people at the mall didn't particularly appeal to me. However, I took along a good friend and we spent Friday afternoon looking for bargains. We never left the first store we entered, and by the time we left, I had quite a few new things for fall.
My success in the clothing (and shoe!) department had me reading poetry about clothing this weekend. I picked up my copy of Shoe Magic by Nikki Grimes and read about flippers, sandals, running shoes, baby shoes, golf shoes, work boots and more. Here's one on slippers.
My success in the clothing (and shoe!) department had me reading poetry about clothing this weekend. I picked up my copy of Shoe Magic by Nikki Grimes and read about flippers, sandals, running shoes, baby shoes, golf shoes, work boots and more. Here's one on slippers.
SlippersNext I flipped through Button Up!: Wrinkled Rhymes by Alice Schertle and read about jammies, t-shirts, costumes, galoshes, undies, and more. Here's one on shoelaces.
by Nikki Grimes
Rest your soles.
Spread your toes.
Curl, breathe deep.
There now, Dreamer,
Hush. . . .
Sleep.
Bertie's ShoelacesAll this reading made me realize that there are so many topics I've never written poems about before, shoes and clothing being among them. So, the challenge this week is to write a poem about an article of clothing. Choose any form you like and have fun. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
by Alice Schertle
Good old Bertie,
he lets us hang around.
It doesn't bother Bertie
when we drag along the ground.
We're not up tight
as our Bertie Buddy knows.
We're hang loose laces and
we don't do bows!
Hey, fun! I decided to write a poem about a necktie, one of the zillions of things that makes me glad I'm not a man (of course, we have high heels and panty hose, but I'll save those for other poems).
ReplyDeleteThe Tie That Binds
A tie.
A noose.
It’s neck
abuse
without
excuse.
Don’t be
obtuse.
Don’t try
a truce.
It’s of
no use.
Just cut
it loose!
--Laura Purdie Salas
Fun to play with these. But somehow, couldn't come up with a name for this...
ReplyDeleteI am suave, debonair
or pretty in pink,
toppled with feathers
or splattered with ink.
Foldable, totable
delicate lace
rainproof, hoofproof
motorcycle chase.
Covered in fruit,
ribbons, flowers or fur,
softened in leather
I make women purr when
they walk into church
on a Sunday morn, or when
drinking mint juleps
outside on the lawn.
I crown kings and emperors,
scare away crows,
I speak with authority-
mask people's woes.
--Diane M. Davis
.
Fun! Great offerings so far. Here's one I wrote:
ReplyDeleteTOURIST
She bought the blouse on the Rue des Rosiers
because she loved the buttons,
all true mother-of-pearl, all small.
Three closed each cuff, one secured the collar,
eleven lined up nicely down the silk
from throat to belly, each button
would be one word in the opening sentence
of Le Livre des Cent-et-un Fantaisies Parisienes
This reminds me of a favorite hat from my childhood...so much so that I keep playing with the idea!
ReplyDeleteStocking Hat
Auntie knit
me a hat
in lemon
and peach.
Stripe
by
stripe
down
my
back
inch
by
inch
it
can
reach
to
my
knees.
I can flip it fast
over my shoulder
like the hair
I will have
someday...
when I'm older.
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Mittens v Gloves
ReplyDeleteMittens make my fingers
meet
like best of friends
out on
the street.
Gloves,
on the other hand,
are like cousins
you can not
stand.
©2009 Jane Yolen
These are so great! Diane, I love:
ReplyDeleteFoldable, totable
delicate lace
and the last two lines, especially!
Julie, what a wonderful contrast between the buttoned-up woman and her Parisian fantasy!
Amy, I love the image of her flipping that hat over her shoulder!
And Jane, your poem made me snort out loud. I always wished I had cousins to play with, but I guess it's not always necessarily a blessing!
I did another one today, Tricia. Thanks for this inspiration!
Cloche
It rests on the bedside table
next to all the prescription bottles:
a smooth bucket of
peacock blue wool.
It’s in fine shape,
except for one stain
my grandmother won’t explain
(it smells suspiciously
like alcohol).
A black satin sash
wraps the hat
like a mourner’s armband.
At least that’s what it
reminds me of.
But Grandmother says
I’m ridiculous.
She’s glad her youth
sits beside her bed,
keeping her company,
filling her nights
with echoes
of jazz and gin.
--Laura Purdie Salas
baby socks so cute and tiny
ReplyDeletewith soft padded feet and toenails shiny
one sock could be a finger puppet
or a mitten for your little moppet
raining or snowing
sunny or wind blowing
baby socks will be
the comfort they need
by: Cindy Blair – 8/11/09
I think this one hit a chord for all of us! Poems are tumbling out!
ReplyDelete(Like clothes in the drier? Oops-- catch that metaphor because it goes viral.)
Jane
I just closed the post and had to return just to say, I am still grinning. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteTricia,
ReplyDeleteI've enjoyed reading all of the contributions to this week's Poetry Stretch!
I've been so busy packing up half of my house for our trip to Maine on Friday and working on plans for the 45th reunion of my high school class that I didn't think I'd have time to contribute to this week's Poetry Stretch--but the following poem popped into my head just now while I was blowing my hair dry.
TALKING TO MYSELF WHILE SHOPPING FOR A BATHING SUIT
What to do
When you're sixty-two
And sporting post-middle-age spread?
You know that the thong,
My dear, is all wrong!
Just peek in the mirror. Nuff said?
(This is a poem of six lines.)
It's more about the absence of a piece of clothing. But anyway, The Mortician's Son on the Custom of Burying Bodies Barefoot
ReplyDeleteOh my lord, Elaine! Thank you so much for the laugh!
ReplyDeleteHave a fabulous time in Maine!
These are great fun. Here's one inspired by my travels in Santa Fe this week.
ReplyDeleteThe Hat
Made by hand,
Green silk band,
Straw braid fanned,
The hat,
Folded flat,
To a mat.
Time to pack
The rucksack.
Into bag, black.
On the road,
Hat is stowed
In shouldered load.
Shaken out
Worn about
When sun’s out
Sudden gust
Hold on! You must!
Saved it – only just.
Bored boy
Needs a toy
The hat’s a joy
To toss and throw
Across the row
Where flowers grow.
Tossed along
Across the lawn
Oh no! It’s gone!
Street Parade
Yearn for shade
Is that a braid
Of straw I see?
Behind a tree?
The hat! Returned to me.
Hi Trici, what a great poetry stretch! Elaine's poem was especially funny and hit home a little too much.
ReplyDeleteI made an attempt with "Last Year's Sneakers" over at http://ldkwritetime.blogspot.com
Have a great weekend!
I'm late! But here's my poem - in Australia a jumper is a knitted sweater.
ReplyDeleteUn-Knitting
I looked down at my jumper
And found a strand of wool.
My brain told me to leave it.
My fingers told me, Pull!
I tugged and pulled and rolled it.
The strand grew to a ball.
I’m wearing just two sleeves now
And Gran’s not pleased at all.