Poetry Stretch Results - Endings and Beginnings

The challenge this week was to write a poem about a beginning, and ending, or both. Here are the results.

Left Behind: 2009
by Jane Yolen

Thirty-six pounds,
a lust for chocolate,
regrets,
a heavy pocketbook,
five pairs of size 16 pants,
several boxes of books
I will never read again
or use for research,
the word awesome,
anger at friends,
boots that are pointed
and not water-tight,
an ice cream maker
with missing parts,
a jealous nature,
fifteen glass vases from the florist
that held funeral flowers
from almost four years ago,
the man who stuck his tongue
down my throat on our only date.

© 2009 by Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


A Song for New Year's Eve
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

1. Endings

Tail of a horse, flapping
like a slow flag. Last page
of a book, its surge of words
vanished. His back as he walks
away, smaller and smaller.
Song's final note, hovering
like a dragonfly, then suddenly
gone. Sunset kiss at the end
of a movie. December 31st,
dry as a spent Christmas tree,
fallen needles brushed away
by the broom of the wind.

2. Beginnings

Horse's face, large eyes asking
a question. First sentence
of a book, tugging you into
the story with both hands.
Familiar striding shape
of a friend coming closer,
smile growing. First note
of a song, rising like a sun.
Establishing shot: a town
one morning, a house, a porch,
an opening door. January 1st,
fresh and white as new snow.

--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009


Birth (Beginnings)
by K. Thomas Slesarik

Aww diaper, bib, and baby bottle,
a newborn girl to hold and coddle.
Trouble comes when they start to toddle;
at first a little, then a lot’ll.

© 2009 by K. Thomas Slesarik


Re-tirement (Endings)
by K. Thomas Slesarik

Grandpa is re-tired.
It’s really kind of sad.
I’ve been tired once
but twice is really bad.
He must be exhausted
to be tired and re-tired.
It happened once to grandma
and soon after she expired.

© 2009 by K. Thomas Slesarik


SOMEDAY
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

Someday, my friend, you will find yourself smack
dab in the middle of a bow. You'll be encircled by
the light. Embraced by it. Move, and you'll still be
centermost. You are the proverbial right person
in the right place at the right time--rain before you,
sun behind you. The angle is right. The reflection
is right. The rainbow both begins and ends with you.

YOU.


Linda of Write Time shares a poem entitled A New Year Begins.


**on the beginning of winter...**

FIRST SNOW AT THE NEW HOUSE
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Shoveling snow at the curb, I
trade heaven for earth weight—
the high convergence
of stratocumulus
that ribs the sky like a scroll
is lost to digging and lifting;
it is only later, at my desk,
under an easeful lamp,
that I climb to reach winter’s roof.

Three steps up a ladder now, I
chip spikes of ice from frosted
gutters, drop each white knife
into a mogul of snowdrift
that melts in the drip
from my boots; it is only
later, awake in the dark,
I feel how cold this ground
grows without its fresh cover
of cloud.


**and on the beginning of a life...**

THE FINE TILT
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech
(for Lesley, weeks before; with a nod to Mark Strand)

Even at night, in voiceless sleep,
a trust, like tug of earth to moon,
converses between us in bonds of gravitation,
held weightless in the weight of kept promises,
pulled into greater orbit by that third body,
yet eclipsed by your own, but even now arranging
the fine tilt and flat spin of its arrival flight path,
the coming of its love, the coming of light.

©2009 by Steven Withrow


A STORY FOR THE NEW YEAR
by Julie Larios of The Drift Record

She spent last year's ending
in a muddle, meaning to begin again,
but began mid-way unraveling,
began traveling to foreign places
but found the language – well - foreign,
the pacing off, the setting wrong, soon longed
for home's familiar adjectives and prepositions,
its overstuffed with nothing-new old chair.

Now home, the New Year almost knocking,
she hears the kettle whistle, hears
the front door’s been-there done-that sigh
hears the toast pop up, sits down each night
for supper, gets up later every morning
and begins again - or tries - to figure out the ending.


VIRGIN EMBRACE
by Carol Weis

A new year
beckons
with arms
spread
amply
inviting me
into
its virgin
embrace.

© Carol Weis


Andi of a wrung sponge shares a poem entitled A New Year.

My mother has been visiting for the last few weeks. This poem was inspired by her.

The ring she wears has
no beginning
no end
unlike the marriage it signified
rock solid for more than
fifty years
until he was taken from her

Now she marks the new year
a new beginning
on this road alone
caught in memories of the past
and an end that came
too soon

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Times Best of the Decade - Books

The critics at Time Magazine have weighed in on the best movies, TV, books and theater of the decade. Lev Grossman (THE MAGICIANS, THE CODEX) has selected the 10 best books of the decade. There is one young adult book on the list (can you guess which HP it is?), and at least one that I think would make a fine crossover book (see number 2).

Here's a list of the ten, with links to the Time summaries.

• Never Let Me Go (2005), by Kazuo Ishiguro
• Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell (2004), by Susanna Clarke
• The Corrections (2001), by Jonathan Franzen
• The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (2007), by Junot Diaz
• The Known World (2003), by Edward P. Jones
• Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2003), by J.K. Rowling
• Atonement (2002), by Ian McEwan
• Lush Life (2008), by Richard Price
• Then We Came to the End (2007), by Joshua Ferris
• American Gods (2001), by Neil Gaiman

I've read eight of the ten. How about you? Is there an adult read that you think should be on this list? Or better yet, how about a worthy YA title that adults would love?

Nonfiction Monday - Let It Snow

We had a foot of snow one week before Christmas. The bulk of it was still here on Christmas Eve, but it all began to melt away in the rain on Christmas day. Now that it's gone, I'm still thinking of snow. Here are two terrific nonfiction reads about it.

Snowflake Bentley (1998), written by Jacqueline Briggs Martin and illustrated by Mary Azarian - This Caldecott Medal winner tells the true story of Wilson Bentley, a farmer who spent the better part of his life studying and photographing snowflakes. It begins this way.

In the days
when farmers worked with ox and sled
and cut the dark with lantern light,
there lived a boy who loved the snow
more than anything else in the world.

Willie's story is told from his childhood through his death. Accompanying the biography are a series of sidebars that contain additional facts about Bentley. The last page of the book contains a photo of Bentley at his camera (the same one at the top of the Wilson Snowflake Bentley home page), a quote about his love for photography, and three of his renowned snowflake images.

This is the story of a remarkable man who pushed the limits of science and technology to create groundbreaking images of snowflakes. If the book inspires an interest in further study, you can view a number of his amazing photographs at The Bentley Snow Crystal Collection.

The Story of Snow: The Science of Winter's Wonder (2009), written by Mark Cassino with Jon Nelse, Ph.D. and illustrated by Nora Aoyagi - A visually appealing and highly informational book, readers learn that snow begins with a speck and then follow along as that speck becomes a snow crystal. Photos of snow crystals are included with a comparison of the enlarged images to a snow crystal of actual size. The shapes of snow crystals are examined (stars, plates, columns), as is their relationship to the number six.

There is much to learn and wonder about here. The book ends with a guide for catching snow crystals. Teachers will find the teacher's guide for this book particularly helpful.

This post was written for Nonfiction Monday. Hosting this week is Diane Chen at Practically Paradise. Do take some time to check out all the great posts highlighting nonfiction this week.

Monday Poetry Stretch - Endings and Beginnings

With the new year approaching, I'm thinking of what will be left behind in 2009, as well as the fresh start offered by 2010. It seems particularly appropriate then to focus on endings and/or beginnings for our stretch.

Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.

Poetry Friday - Christmas Bells

On Christmas morning in 1863, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow composed an anti-slavery poem that was later adapted into the carol entitled “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” (You'll notice that the two verses that pertain specifically to the war have been left out of the carol.) While many folks know and love this carol, I like the poem better. Its message of hope and goodwill in the face of war and despair still rings true today.

Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

For more information about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, visit the Maine Historical Society's web site which examines Longfellow's life and work, his homes and his family. It also includes a searchable database of his poems, lesson plans for teachers, a filmography, and more.

The round up is being hosted by Kate Coombs at Book Aunt. Do stop by and take in the poetry being shared today. Happy poetry Friday all! And for those of you celebrating the holiday, best wishes for a happy Christmas.

A Little Book-Related Art Work

My son was over the moon when an ARC of Nathaniel Fludd, Beastologist Book 2: The Basilisk's Lair arrived addressed to him last week. He quickly re-read the first book (Nathaniel Fludd, Beastologist Book 1: Flight of the Phoenix) before moving on to book 2. I knew he was hooked when he got to the end of the first chapter, gave a fist pump and yelled "Oh yeah!"

When he finished the ARC he wrote a thank you note and drew a few pictures inspired by the books.

I love raising a reader. There's just something about sharing the excitement of a new book that always makes me happy.

Monday Poetry Stretch - Three Words

In the book I Am Writing a Poem About . . . A Game of Poetry, Myra Cohn Livingston wrote about three of the assignments she gave to students in her master class in poetry at UCLA. In 2008, Elaine at Wild Rose Reader and Janet Wong, one of the students in Livingston's master class, challenged folks to complete one of these assignments. That's the same challenge I'd like to propose this week. Write a poem in any form that includes the words ring, drum, and blanket. If you need a little inspiration, check out the ring/drum/blanket poems written in response to the original challenge.

Here's the poem I wrote the first time I was challenged to use these words.

Gunfire
rings out,
day
after day.
Long settled in,
War's heavy blanket
smothers
the drumbeat of
freedom.

I can't wait to see what comes out this time. Leave me a note about your poem and I will post the results here later this week.

I Have Just Four Words For You ...

My

Grades

Are

Done!

P.S. - Normally blogging to resume soon.

Poetry Friday - Woods in Winter

I wrote my Poetry Friday post for Christmas a few weeks ago (yes, I know I'm a bit compulsive) and ever since I've been on a Longfellow kick. Since snow is predicted in the next 24 hours (oh please make it so!), I'm sharing this winter poem.

Woods in Winter
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill,
     And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
     That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
     Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
     And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
     The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
     The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
     Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
     And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
     When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
     And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
     Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
     Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
     Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
     I listen, and it cheers me long.

The round up is being hosted by Susan Taylor Brown at Susan Writes. Do stop by and take in all the great poetry being shared. Before you go, be sure to check out this week's poetry stretch results. Happy poetry Friday all!

Monday Poetry Stretch - Clerihew

Last year at this time I wrote these seasonal poems in the form of a clerihew. A clerihew is a four-line verse written in an a/a/b/b rhyme scheme that is biographical and humorous.

Frosty was a man of snow
who liked it ten degrees below.
He feared for days that were too warm,
for melting ruined his boyish form.

The shiny nose on Rudolph's face,
gives the 'deer a special place.
Leading the sleigh through fog and snow,
he's grateful that his bum don't glow!

I thought it might be fun to revisit this form again. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.

Drool-Worthy

I love cooking. It's a form of art and poetry for me. So, imagine my delight at finding a post at The Best American Poetry blog entitled A Little Porn For the Weekend. Don't worry, it's food porn of the sweetest kind. See if you can't name the movies these amazing scenes come from.

Poetry Friday - It's All I Have to Bring Today

Yesterday was the anniversary of Emily Dickinson's birth. Today I'm sharing one of her poems.

It's All I Have to Bring Today
by Emily Dickinson

It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

The round up is hosted by Diane Mayr at Random Noodling. Do stop by and take in all the wonderful poetry being shared. Before you go, be sure to check out this week's poetry stretch results.

Poetry Stretch Results - It's About Time

The challenge this week was to write a poem that referred to time in some way. Here are the results.

FIRST NIGHT HOME
(for Marin, days after)
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Your first night home
I couldn't sleep, it was like
a small moon had drifted
through an open window
and settled in our room,
complicating gravity.
For weeks we let you
doze off in your swing,
rock-a-bye, lullaby,
pretty pendulum baby.
One night I napped
on the couch near you,
dreaming to the click
of your metronome seat.
When I woke the TV clock
told a strange time.
I blundered off the blanket,
sat up waiting, fearful
you'd stopped breathing.
But you scrunched your nose
and fenced your fist
and gravity resumed
and the new moon grew
and turned the earth
and turned the earth
and turned the earth
to welcome you.

© 2009 by Steven Withrow


6:45 a.m.
by Harriet of spynotes

I wake when the sun pries through the curtain gap
to unmask me in the quiet and not-quite dark.
Fifteen minutes before everyone is out of bed
and milling around the kitchen
and looking for a banana or a signature or a hug or a cup of coffee.
Fifteen minutes, and I am willing
my dreams to stay in my head,
hands pressed over eyes:
the adventurous dreams
where the fate of the world
lies on my capable shoulders
in a thousand different places
plus one.
the peaceful dreams
where there is only one small and quiet thing,
Fifteen minutes to remember things of importance
and things of no importance
at all.

Kneading hands and feet
willing wrists, ankles back to life,
words thunder past,
spiral out my ears,
form a cloud around my still-pillowed head.
make breakfast make a phone call make noise make love
make a nuisance of yourself
make hay while the sun shines
pack lunch pack a bag pack a snack for later
back to work back to back back in the USSR on the radio
turn it up turn it down turn left at the second light turn around
and turn around and turn around again but don’t turn back
Definitely not back.
Drive to work drive to the store drive yourself to distraction

Where was I going?

Once upon a time,
in spring I would hurl back the covers
my feet hitting the floor
before my eyes were open
running to grab the world and
a box of cereal that might,
if I were really lucky,
hold a prize like a ring or a car or a million dollars or a pony.
The early bird always did get the worm in the spring.
At least it did then.
In winter, I am less agile.
But still, I share a morning dance in the bathroom
with my four-year-old self
and a toothbrush microphone,
surprised at the face staring back from somewhere past forty
while snow falls past the window over my shoulder
and snow falls past the window past my ear
and snow falls past the window
too fast
and too deep
to measure.

take a memo take an aspirin take a number take your time
take the dog for a walk take the money and run
take a message for someone too busy to answer the phone
take five take a seat take a bath take a hike
take something you need
take it now take it now take it.

Then give it away.

Or,
maybe,
save it for later.
Later, when you remember:

Where was I going?

And you remember:

the way to get there is
to put your feet on the floor
one
at
a
time.
The rest?
It will be carried along
on the tide of mornings.
The sun is up.
And so are you.


The Extra Five Days
by Heidi Mordhorst of my juicy little universe

Three hundred sixty degrees in a circle
any circle
a circle the size of my eye
a circle the size of the sun

Three hundred sixty-five days in a year
any year
any year except a leap year
a year like the year I was born

Five degrees, five days difference
or maybe six
five nights of sleeping, five days of being,
doing and being and counting

I come around
and come around
and come around and leap

and somehow the wheel of my year
keeps five days ahead of a circle


Tracks
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Something passed this way,
blurring the snow with its feet.
The tracks are dotted
with scraps—bits of tinsel,
gift wrap, even the curved
gold shards of a broken
ornament like a cracked sun.

The footprints are shadows,
blues eddying toward
a great door made of stone
that ends the white sameness.

It is colder than snow
to the touch, and heavy,
but I drag it open,
scraping the shape
of a single wing before
I walk into next year.

--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009


Michael Coldham-Fussell of Rivers of Meaning shares a poem entitled Space and Time in Mind. Welcome, Michael!


Father Time
by J. Patrick Lewis

When once begun
And on his own,
He stopped for none
And ran alone.

Time took his time.
Days’ ends ahead
Left nights to climb
Into Time’s bed.

The watch and clock
We’ve come to know—
Tick-tock, tick-tock—
Precisely show

That Time this time
Should take a bow,
Still in his prime—
The here and now.

The hour survives,
The minute ends.
Time alters lives
That time transcends.


Untitled
by Easter of Owl in the Library

I want to write a manifesto about time.
I will scrawl it, bright red, on a dusty concrete wall
While sirens sing in the distance.

I’ve done my time in the trenches
Labor. Dirty diapers. Mommy and Me. PTC.
All the tedious seconds buzzing around me.
I had fun, but time flies.

I want to write a manifesto about time.
I will shout it on a busy corner
While people hurry past, eyes sliding past me.

Time is money
And I want to spend some on myself.
I want to indulge myself with hours and hours of poetry.
I want to squander minutes,
Let them run through my fingers and onto the page.

I want to write a manifesto about time.
I will chant it with a crowd of protesters
While we march toward the Capitol.

Ah, but time marches, too.
It has marched me past
Baby teeth and first days of school
And popsicle stick art projects
Even when I have wanted to stand still.

I want to write a manifesto about time.
I will whisper it over you
While you sleep in your quilted cave.

Soon enough, I will have time on my hands.
Until then, I can stitch out some time for myself.
I can hide it in the corners of my day,
So that it won’t take away from
The best of times:
The time I spend with you.


A Book and a Chair
by Elaine Magliaro of Wild Rose Reader

A book and a chair
Are nice to share
When the edges of day
Are melting away
Into the night.

A book and a chair
Are nice to share
Touching and talking
Reading and rocking
Into the night.


Sitting Down to Eat
by Jane Yolen

How many times did we sit down to eat
And you refused the offering?
One time, ten times, a hundred times,
Your mouth sore, your stomach drawn in on itself,
The cancer like some tin-hat dictator
Forbidding you your life. How many times?
How many times did I make soup, straining it
In the blender: tomato, apple, butternut squash,
Sweetening it to tempt you, decorating the dish.
There was nothing I would not try,
Even buying a second blender to be ready
Should you want to eat again. How many times?

Each spoonful a victory, I cozened you
As if you were a reluctant child, begging,
Singing, telling you tales, the old choo-choo,
Spoon chugging into your mouth.
I did not go quite that far, but would have,
Had I thought it would work, many times.
And on the last day, though we didn’t know it
Till after, you ate an extra spoonful, winked
At your son. We didn’t say a word, not one,
So astonished, we took it for a sign
You were on the mend, relaxed our guard,
And you slipped away. No more time.

© 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


CAPTURED IN TIME
for Renee
by Carol Weis

I got her bald-headed
picture sent to my
inbox last week
her face smiling
brilliantly
as tears rush
down mine
a rampage
tumbles
across
cheeks
spills
over
chin
splashes
onto
chest.

Two months
of chemo
captured
in time.

© Carol Weis. All rights reserved.


Linda of Write Time shares a poem entitled To My Unborn Grandchild.

Elaine Magliaro of Wild Rose Reader also shares two poems about time.

And finally, here's my poem. It's for my boy who's growing up much too quickly.

On the day you joined this world
sand in the hourglass of life
dropped to the empty bottom,
stacking grain upon grain.

Since then a hill has emerged
and, unable to flip the glass
(oh how I wish I could!),
I long to narrow the neck,
slow the march of time
that steals innocence and
propels you to adulthood.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Happy Birthday Emily

Today is the 179th anniversary of Emily Dickinson's birth. I thought it appropriate to celebrate with one of her poems.

Before the ice is in the pools,
      Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
      Is tarnished by the snow,

Before the fields have finished,
      Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
      Will arrive to me!

What we touch the hems of
      On a summer’s day;
What is only walking
      Just a bridge away;

That which sings so, speaks so,
      When there’s no one here,—
Will the frock I wept in
      Answer me to wear?

Where's Tricia?

Imagine a scene right out of Where's Waldo?, but think of the academic version. Can you find me buried under a pile of papers waiting to be graded? At the moment, probably not. I will, however, dig myself out in a few days (grades are due soon, after all). When it's all over, I'll be back with bells on. I hope you'll join me then.

Monday Poetry Stretch - It's About Time

I still find it hard to believe that we are rushing headlong towards the end of the year. I have papers to grade, cookies to bake, packages to mail, cards to send, and more. I am counting the days until my mom arrives (2!), grades are due (8 and 10 respectively), my sister's birthday (13), and public schools close for winter break (11).

In the midst of this year-end chaos, I am acutely aware of time, how little I have and how much I need. So, for this week's stretch I propose we write about time, in any form, in any of it's incarnations. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.

Do You Read "Writers Read?"

I've long been a fan of the blog Writers Read. I find the reads of authors fascinating, and I always find terrific recommendations for new books (usually adult).

Today, author Narrelle Harris wrote this.

I loved Thomas Keneally’s Searching for Schindler on many levels. The memoir, an account of the research that went into writing Schindler’s List, is a gem both for those fascinated by the Schindler story and writers in general. The chapters on the business of writing – the research, the self-doubt, the endless waiting for progress on projects that may never come to pass – struck a strong chord.

Now THAT'S a book I want to read. You'll also find a number of titles by other Australian authors (including YA writer Justine Larbalestier).

If you haven't made Writers Read a regular stop, you should put it on your list. The posts are short, well-written, and informative.

Poetry Friday - Villanelles All Around

I belong to the most amazing online collective of poets. You may remember the crown sonnet we collaborated on and debuted in April of 2008. We tried working through the writing of a sestina with a shared set of words, but that form was really challenging. Ever persistent, Liz Garton Scanlon sent us this note on October 26th.

OK, gals. This may be flat-out nuts, but I miss you guys and want to hang out.
Reading the villanelle that Sara posted on Friday reminded me that I really, really, really love villanelles.
And since our sestinas are so challenging -- and not done -- I'm thinking....

(yes, drum roll please)

(no, come back)

(seriously, you guys... don't go... just hear me out...)

We each do a villanelle.
In one of our repeating lines we use the word thanksgiving, in the other repeating line we use the word friend.
No other rules, no other similarities. Just those two things.
And we post them the week AFTER Thanksgiving -- on Poetry Friday -- December 4th.

I know that's really soon, but what the heck?

Gauntlet thrown.
With love and admiration...

For just a moment, imagine this woman as a drill sergeant--a kind one. She's inspiring AND makes you want to work. So, I played along. As with the crown sonnet project, I'd never written a villanelle before (at least not a successful or complete one). I began in typical Type-A fashion with a worksheet. For me, filling in the blanks was the easiest way to dive in. I'll also admit to starting with the last two lines (lines 1 and 3 in the first stanza) first. I wanted to make sure they worked together before rushing headlong into the rest of the poem. In the end, I wrote a few pieces. One didn't meet the requirements of the assignment, but it did work for David Harrison's word of the month challenge, so I revised and posted it to his blog.

Here's my villanelle. It still doesn't follow the rules exactly, but I like it just the same.

Dear friends, Thanksgiving!
For glorious oaks and sprawling trees
in winter, summer, fall and spring

For all things green and lush and living
that dance so lightly in the breeze
dear friends, Thanksgiving!

For spiders spinning webs of string
while swinging and dangling on a trapeze
through winter, summer, fall and spring

For sunflowers bold and bright and smiling,
climbing skyward with grace and ease
dear friends, Thanksgiving!

For birds that chirp and peep and sing
while visiting blossoms with bumblebees
through winter, summer, fall and spring

For poems, prose and words that sing
of beauty that brings us to our knees
Dear friends, Thanksgiving
in winter, summer, fall and spring!

My poetry sisters are sharing their poems today as well. Be sure to stop by and see how they used the words Thanksgiving and friends in the form of a villanelle.

• Tanita Davis
• Kelly Fineman (Writing and Ruminating)
• Sara Lewis Holmes (Read*Write*Believe)
• Andromeda Jazemon (a wrung sponge)
• Laura Purdie Salas
• Liz Garton Scanlon (Liz in Ink)

The round up is being hosted by Elaine Magliaro at Wild Rose Reader. Do stop by and take in all the great poetry being shared. Before you go, be sure to check out this week's poetry stretch results. Happy poetry Friday all!

Poetry Stretch Results - A Poetic Bestiary

The challenge this week was to write about magical or mythical creatures. However, a bestiary includes all kinds of animals, as you'll see from the results shared here.

Griffin's Stomach Rumbles
by Heidi Mordhorst of my juicy little universe
In hunger
my furred tail flicks
my muscled hindquarters
set themselves tightly back
ready to spring

In hunger
my wide wings beat
my keen eye climbs
the sky, scans the ground
ready to strike

Only my talons and claws agree on
how to hunt.

Tiel Aisha Ansari of Knocking From Inside shares a poem entitled Manticore.

MOUSE MISSIVE
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech
My Dearest Love,

This fair morning we died:
Corncob, Squashtupple, Fortiflax,
And I, Bellwhisper,
We four of Loop Forsooth,
In meadow country of Glisterberry,
Roused to the bugle of Her Mouseship's
Twenty-Second Anti-Raptor Infantry,
Donned bright centurion suits,
Shouldered buckthorn bayonets,
And marched to meet our adversary
At the battle of Low Fernfrond,
Mellow month of mustard seed,
Year of white leaf.

You should know that chief
Among my thoughts were visions
Of you and of our pups.
You'll be pleased to learn not one of us cried,
Save for young Squashtupple
Who clutched his thistle rifle like a toy
And tried to cover a sniffle --
But you couldn't blame the boy,
For when the skirmish started in earnest
And shades of dread Horned Owls
Cloaked over us like clouds before the moon,
Even formidable Fortiflax, who fought the Cats,
Elsewhere, in another year and war,
Looked no prouder, no stouter than a ghost.

I hope you find this posthumous post,
If such can describe my manner
Of writing you now,
In aftermath of afternoon,
Some small consolation for your grief.
Tell all others whom you pass
This one unhurried thing:
Corncob, Squashtupple, Fortiflax,
And I, Bellwhisper,
Were mice of tested mettle till last
Gash of talon and lash of midnight wing,
At the battle of Low Fernfrond,
Mellow month of mustard seed,
Year of white leaf.

© 2009 by Steven Withrow


Dr. Alastair Dobbs' Notebook,
Final Entry
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt
Not a dragon,
has no scales.

Not a swamp beast,
lacks algae.

Horns, seven.
Not a satyr.

Far too large
to be a basilisk.

Too many teeth
to be a minotaur.

If I could just—

Color, the black
of the inside of a grave.

Mine.

--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009


Here be monsters
by Harriet of spynotes

I stand
On the pebbled edge of the world,
my cardboard spyglass
peering toward the horizon
at the break in the swells,
ignoring the tide
of frustration and rage
that brought me here.
After the crashing door.
After the hail of thundering words.
After outriding the wind
on a too-small bicycle.

The rise and fall of static
that buzzes around me
in salted eddies
half drowns
that guilty voice behind my ears
whispering, “Leviathan.”

Scraped palms
on barnacled rocks,
feet scrabbling for grip
on their soft mossy surfaces,
I am at last on the top of the heap,
The conquering hero,
looking again
At the small circle of ocean
within the ocean
of oceans.

It heaves and swells,
a sickly green,
savaging the waves
with scales
and a mighty roar.
The shock of it
Knocks the spyglass
From my hand.
I watch it disappear in the sea
Like a drowned bird.

What is it to drown?
No Ophelia drenched in flowers,
but sinew and bone
flailed raw against the rocks,
until nothing is left
But scales and sea;
and something sucking
just beneath the surface
where you can’t quite see;
something so deafening
that you can’t quite hear.
Until you wonder where it is
that you end and the sea begins.

And then the tide goes out.
And then the tide comes in.
And nothing is any different
than it was before,
except the dull roar
that stays with you
on the long road home.


MEDUSA HAIR
by Carol Weis

Peering into the mirror
stuffy nosed
and mouth ajar
I see the hair
of Medusa
slinking
round my head
with eyes
from Böcklin’s painting
drooping back at me
and immediately
decide
to go back
to bed.

© Carol Weis, all rights reserved


"The echeneis is a small fish that is often found on rocks. It has the ability to slow the passage of ships by clinging to their hulls." Pliny the Elder, Natural History

ECHENEIS
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling
The rocks are barely
visible beneath the waves,
yet, I know they are there.
I half hope the echeneis will

rise up, make contact, cling
to me, restrain me, stop
me from touching the
edge of the world. Fish,

or no fish, I know what
awaits at the end. Sail
on, sail on. It's too late
now, to turn back.


FLYING FISH
by Julie Larios of The Drift Record

East to west,
two Egyptian fish
guide the sun-ship
across the sky over Cairo,
above the dunes of the Sinai.

Wouldn't you like to fly
through the day
sunrise to sunset,
cloud-finned,
a fish twin?


Supermom
by Easter of Owl in the Library

Her house is clean. She's always dressed to kill.
She only shops the most exclusive stores.
Her springtime garden bursts with daffodils.
At Christmas, she's the first to wreath her doors.

Her kids are on the honor roll, of course,
Obedient and talented and bright.
Her marriages is free from threats of divorce.
She and her husband never, ever fight.

She's the CPA for a major firm
And secretary of the PTA.
And though her to-do list would make you squirm
She still found time to hit the gym today.

No one should emulate this mythic beast.
Imperfect is more fun, to say the least.

Here's my poem.

Outside Fenrir's Grasp 

His yellow eyes stare through you
as he contemplates your taste
the crunch of your bones in his mouth
sound of your screams in the night

But thanks to the dwarves
he is just out reach
chained to a rock
straining against a thin ribbon

Strangely fashioned of
bear sinews
cat footsteps
bird spittle
breath of fishes
mountain roots
a woman’s beard

What magic is this that holds Fenrir?
Step lightly, tiptoe past
the crouched and snarling beast
a monster in wolf’s clothing

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

If You Haven't Seen/Read This, You Don't Know What You're Missing

The lovely Susan Taylor Brown has launched a project for the month of December called 31 Blogs (You Might Not Know) in 31 Days. Each day she'll be highlighting a blog she thinks others should know about. This is a very cool idea but dang it, do I really need to add to the list of 239 blogs already in my Google Reader?

In any case, as I was reading through unread posts this evening, I came across a few I knew I had to share. They're all from the same site, so if you are teacher and don't already subscribe to Teaching PreK-8, why the heck don't you? I'm just sayin' ... Here are a few things that popped up today that are stand out pieces.

Retracing Memories by David Harrison - In this article, David discusses writing memoir poems in the classroom and offers some wonderful suggestions. If this whets your appetite for poetry, then be sure to visit David's blog.

Esmé Raji Codell: First Lady of Read-Aloud by Jessica Rae Patton - Yes, that's OUR Esmé. Can I call her that? Yes, I claim her for the kidlitosphere. She's ours and we love her. And as a teacher, I'm claiming her again as an amazing inspiration.

A Poetry Workshop in Print by Lee Bennett Hopkins - This column contains a number of articles highlighting poets and poetic forms. Lee works tirelessly to promote poetry, so you know there's good stuff here.

Thanks to Susan Taylor Brown for inspiring me to share. Just don't blame me when your RSS feed reader explodes. It won't be my fault.

The Lovely and Underrated Typewriter

I love the scene in You've Got Mail where Frank practically swoons over the new-to-him electric typewriter he's purchased (a machine that is the exact copy of the model he already has in Kathleen's apartment AND the one at his own place).

What is it people love about typewriters? I'll admit to loving typewriter jewelry, but I'm also quite fond of the vintage Royal typewriter that sits in my office. This manual typewriter was my Dad's, and it's the first machine I ever typed a paper on (and I do mean typed).

In the Guardian today, Sam Jones asks Do Typewriters Hold the Keys to Fine Writing?. He shares some interesting notions from some very famous writers. Here are a few quotes.

Will Self - "Writing on a manual makes you slower in a good way, I think. You don't revise as much, you just think more, because you know you're going to have to retype the entire f***ing thing."

Frederick Forsyth - "I have never had an accident where I have pressed a button and accidentally sent seven chapters into cyberspace, never to be seen again," he points out. "And have you ever tried to hack into my typewriter? It is very secure."

While I pledge allegiance to my MacBook and whisper sweet nothings in her ear, do check out Do Typewriters Hold the Keys to Fine Writing? for some fun reading.