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The assignment for the Poetry Seven this month was to write a poem in the style of ee cummings, taking one of his works as inspiration. Although cummings is one of my favorite poets, and I've blogged about him before (in relation to Frank Cottrell Boyce's fabulous novel, Cosmic) I did a little research anyway. And discovered this:
Between the ages of eight and twenty-two, cummings wrote a poem a day.
And here I am, trying to follow in his pen strokes.
First of all, I had a hard time naming what I was attempting to do. What did "in the style of" mean?
One more thing: we also decided to record these poems, as ee often did. Click on the sound file below to hear me read my work aloud.
Other echoes of ee cummings can be found at each of the Poetry Seven's blogs today:
Liz, echoing "i like my body when it is" Tricia, echoing "silence.is a looking" Tanita, echoing "the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls" Laura, echoing "Spring is like a perhaps hand" Kelly, echoing "maggie and milly and molly and may" Andi, echoing "a wind has blown the rain away"
Poetry Friday is hosted today by Katie at the Logonauts.
The Poetry Seven has a list: an agreed upon schedule of poetic forms we will attempt this year. And in which order.
But then, we get fancy. Throw around themes or a common word or two.
This month, we were due to tackle odes. Free-verse odes, so no one had to wrestle with rhyme if they didn't want to. The topic? Anything at all. The words? Up to us.
The only catch? They were supposed to be humorous.
It turns out that a funny ode---praising and pranking, both at once, you might say---is jolly hard. An Ode to---well, you’ll see---I think
One wintry morn, waking to find my snow shovel absconded with— brazenly taken from under the front stairs —and replaced by one with a cracked acrylic blade— why oh why would you steal my shovel and leave me your TRASH instead?— I will make, to re-boot (re-foot? re-shoe?) the day Frito waffles with mascarpone and warm strawberry compote (!!!) but today—having found this recipe now am deeply depressed for who can ode-alate corn chips better than such a dish—certainly not this poem, which is why it is not about Fritos—
although, in a way, the first stanza touches on but does not intersect with the subject of this ode— or should I say, the object of this ode— for we use the term “object of my undying devotion”— or perhaps the word is yet to be coined —the ode-ulatee? the ode-ified?— or perhaps it is —like an old cell phone—in the clutches of a different owner, and dialing it would yield a word like odoriferous— which has nothing to do with odes—
—still, there was this Danish mathematician—I know! I know! the Danes don’t stink, but they are often confused with the Finns, so I rather think it’s nearly as confusing as odiferous—so, this Dane— he thought nothing of writing a book called Geomietriae Rotundi, which might be funny if there were a photo of him, jolly and circular, eating waffles, but the year was 1585 and it was Denmark, so perhaps he was wan and thin, and mope-y in a Hamlet sort of no-snow-shovel way and really would’ve annoyed you with his tons and tons of friends, despite his lack of social graces—or waffles— and this is when— it occurs to you, that he is a mathematician—
not a writer—and yet, he has introduced— as you wish to—although not for the first time, as he did, but soon! yes, soon! the term you are gallantly ode-ifying if only you could stop thinking about Fritos—an idea which should be by now all but parenthetical (which means enclosed) while the term you are praising is entirely uncaged— like one of those European vacays, where you ricochet off borders like you were being Googled by a middle-schooler who must—in twelve minutes— crib an ethnic costume indicative of her illustrious ancestors or else forfeit the extra credit needed to crawl across the finish (Ha! the Finns, again!) line of World History and yet—
you cannot believe that in all this— not once—perhaps because you are certain that this mathematician, this Thomas Fincke—- does that name sound Danish to you?— that he had a snow shovel AND friends, and—despite having a son-in-law named Ole Worm—perhaps he had a loving, round-ish wife who made him waffles —so maybe you should’ve praised geometry, with all its useful angles—but instead… Sorry, I’ve lost my train of thought. What was I saying? Oh! Yes.
If you're like me, you had to look up a raccontino to know what it was. Or, more precisely, I had to scramble to Miss Rhumpius's blog to find out that it's a poem that is:
composed of couplets (any number)
even number lines share the same end rhyme
the title and last words of the odd numbered lines tell a story
The Poetry Seven had different approaches to this form. Some wrote their end line sentence first. Others came up with a theme first. Me? I wrote a non-rhyming poem, made it rhyme and then played with the odd numbered end words and line breaks to form a story sentence.
As one of our group said of my method: Impossible.
Heh. Well, I will admit that I didn't mind toying with the couplets or jiggering the rhyme scheme, but moving those end words around into a sentence was killer for me. It felt wrong to be messing with how I shaped the poem originally. I like my line breaks to be my line breaks!
But it all came right in the end.
at the fulcrum of the day
I watch my children as the tides, escaping,
inch by inch, until they are fanned
out, too far out; I call to them: mind the time!
Thin as a needle, I rise, slow to expand—
How closely sliced are the minutes, as onions shaved
to transparency; I see them, as near as my hand;
I have only seconds before noon slips into
afternoon; blocks of hours eroded to sand.
Soon it is before supper; Beyond is the dusk
and the night; the tide I can withstand
But great God, let the sun balance, never-ending—
Wait there, wait there! I call as l stand.
---Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)
Poetry Friday is hosted today by Amy at The Poem Farm. The other raccontinos--by each of the Poetry Seven--can be found here:
Specifically, I had a non-repeating line that ended with spiral and needed help. Lo and behold! The rhyme search turned up
On to Wikipedia, where, along with some impenetrable diagrams of molecules, I found THIS:
"Human hands are perhaps the most universally recognized example of chirality: the left hand is a non-superposable mirror image of the right hand; no matter how the two hands are oriented, it is impossible for all the major features of both hands to coincide."
Well, COOL. Our hands, although we think of them in pairs (like rhymes), they are, in reality, unmatchable. What a fitting subject for the villanelle, a poetic form built around the fiction that things can always be manipulated so they will line up, just so.
The only teeny problem with this lovely word, chiral, was that I could name but one other rhyme for it off the top of my head. (Besides spiral.) Did that stop me? Did that stop me from making it the REPEATING LINE?
No, it made me fling myself further into the Internet to see what other unmatchable words were out there.
In truth, though, I've always been this way.
I admire other approaches to poetry, of course-- I adore a well-tempered line turn, a gorgeously formal word choice, an exquisitely correct rhyme---I really do. I just don't know how to write that way.
To me, poetry is an excuse to play with words as hard as I possibly can. A way to be madly in love with world, one cool fact at a time. A chance to gyre and gimble over the fundamental strangeness of my own hands.
My poetry sisters all know this, of course. What a veneration of villanelles they've made: Tanita, Liz, Laura, Andi, Kelly, and Tricia.
Our hands, no matter how we rotate them, are chiral did you know that? they’re mirror images that never meet Look at them! Look at them now! Don’t listen as I birle
(to cause a floating log to revolve by treading); I spiral on the surface of the Inter-bog, layered rich as peat; But my hands, no matter how I rotate them, are chiral
How did I find these facts? I was seeking rhymes more viral, to conflagrate—OMG—there is such a thing as gleet? Look at your hands! Look at them now! Don’t listen as I birle!
I blame Ogden Nash, who could precisely match eye roll -ing end rhymes; no unruly corners on his fitted sheet! Yet, my hands, no matter how I rotate them, are chiral
It’s like trying to tame the Jabberwock, most gyre-ral but he’s one-off; no need for gamete to mate gamete Look at your hands! Look at those doozies! Don’t listen as I birle!
But if you must Google these words, seek out too: gyral (relating to the convolutions of the brain); how meet! Yet, hands, no matter how we rotate them, are chiral; Look at them! Look at them now! Don’t listen. I birle!
Else we dry to salt, fleeing night-depths of the ocean;
The antidote to fear is honeyed in devotion
Why pillory our hearts, why gulp the unguent potion?
Why frack our veins to stir up courage quickly dead?
The antidote to fear is honey-slow devotion;
Yes, poetry, delivered deep, a draught of barmy mead.
This poem would not have been possible without the encouragement of the rest of the Poetry Seven:Liz, Andi, Kelly, Laura, Tricia, and Tanita. Each of these poets has a triolet posted today, so go and drink deeply.
You may recognize some of the themes I talk about (and even the actual words!) as drawn from this blog---but then, I see this blog as a kind of notebook in which to gather my thoughts for both now and later. It turns out there is a cumulative effect of reading, writing, and believing.
Poetry ought to be taught in schools as a game. I mean it. All the way up to high school and beyond.
We start this way---with hand clap rhymes, or raps, or silly jingles which we make even sillier, or perhaps, (gasp!) off-color.
And then...the bell rings and recess is over and poetry gets made "a subject."
PHOOEY on that!
In contrast, there's an old Japanese game called renku* in which poets build a linked chain of haiku together on the spot. Apparently, in ancient times, it used to get quite rowdy---even a little PG-13 here and there, perhaps like some modern day bouts of Pictionary tend to do...
It was about pleasing the crowd with a sly twist on theme. Or throwing in a tricky word. Or slipping in an allusion that tickled your brain until you had time to look it up and say: Oh, right! I should've gotten that!
So, in the spirit of going back to poetry's roots, the Poetry Seven are at it again with a pickup game of renku. Liz and Andi threw us the idea a week ago, and presto! by today, we have something that weaves and jinks and laces us all together. We have a game. Play with us.
*Renku: alternating verses of three lines, two lines (could be 17, 14 syllables) with a linked theme and a shift. Below, the initials at the end of the lines indicate which of the poets wrote it. lps=Laura Purdie Salas, aj = Andi Jazmon (Sibley), tsh=Tricia Stohr-Hunt, kf=Kelly Fineman, sh=Sara Holmes, td=Tanita Davis, lgs=Liz Garton Scanlon
fall leaf in April wearing last season's fashions-- shunned by the green crowdlps
The orange truck moves from block to block. Sometimes, kids watch. A cat slinks by. During the next storm, we'll be glad of the branches trimmed to limits. But sometimes, I want to tear down the signs that go up overnight: No Parking. Tree Service. Monday 8-5.
Last day; last haiku A tree dies in sawdust smoke Who will I tell now?
---Sara Lewis Holmes
Thank you to all my friends who wrote beside me, and to those who commented here. You made April poetry.
Oh, April is speeding by! This weekend was gone in a flash, but that's because any time I have with the fabulous Loree Griffin Burns is always too short. Loree was in town for the USA Science and Engineering Fair, and I caught her presentation on Citizen Science. After writing about scientists who track trash and scientists who investigate honeybees, Loree decided to write about something powerful and simple: how any human being with alert senses and a willing heart can participate in the grand adventure of scientific discovery.
From listening to frog calls to hunting for lost ladybugs, each citizen scientist is asked only to be an expert in their own local community, and to observe and share the data he or she collects. It's a bit like Twitter science. (I hope Loree won't object to that description!) Just like Twitter has enabled millions of people to be on-the-spot reporters, observing and relaying what they see and hear, citizen science empowers kids, families, scout troops, classrooms, 4-H clubs, nearly anyone--- to take what they see and hear in the small square of their backyards and add that knowledge to the vast earth-wide pursuit of scientific knowledge.
Loree and I also talked about haiku----since she knew I was writing some for Poetry Month--and because she believes science and haiku have a lot in common. By focusing on the very small and the very particular, we gain access to the profound. She even recommended a poetry book to me that I can't wait to find: Seeds From a Birch Tree. For now, though, I'm paying attention only to what I heard and saw and learned from Loree today.
Shh! I'm listening Spring peepers caught on iphone shared sound grows louder
Red binoculars Held breath, sharp eyes, open ears One sky; many wings
Ha! That's not really a joke. To Mike's horror, I told him the accompanying chords he was so lovingly playing for me were a distraction. I know. Awful. But I've always sung with a crowd, and for me, what I listened to was them, their voices, so I wouldn't screech off-course. I had no idea what to do when the only thing I could hear was a steady beat of chords. What I really needed was to SEE how my voice was supposed to compete with lovingly entwine with that.
To help, my husband laid down a guitar track in Garage Band. Now the measures click by and the sound waves pulse in and out. I can see it. It's helping.
But it's also incorruptible. Tying to sing with music is thrilling in a way that trying to jump on a spinning carousel is fun. I keep mis-timing my leaps and winding up in the dirt. But the lights! Those prancing steeds! The hypnotizing spell of the notes pouring out and up and down and around and around...
Which brings me to the poem for today. It's one that's I've shared on Poetry Friday before, back in 2009. But I love it for how it can gush without being mush. How everything spins and stays hyper-still at the same time. And it's so much about timing. Love often is.
A Love Song
by William Carlos Williams
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you.
The stain of love Is upon the world. Yellow, yellow, yellow, It eats into the leaves, Smears with saffron The horned branches that lean Heavily Against a smooth purple sky.
There is no light— Only a honey-thick stain That drips from leaf to leaf And limb to limb Spoiling the colours Of the whole world.
I am alone. The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the sky.
See me! My hair is dripping with nectar— Starlings carry it On their black wings. See, at last My arms and my hands Are lying idle.
How can I tell If I shall ever love you again As I do now?
Every morning on the back patio, my dog, paws delicately crossed, keeps watch like a stone lion for the neighbor's cat. At least, so she says. What really happens is that she leaps for the first available squirrel.
Statuesque canine daily seeks SBS* To uncross my paws
*Single Brown Squirrel
Are you tired of haiku about my dog yet? I find her more interesting than flower blossoms.
Last night, my dear husband and his age-mellowed guitar took it upon themselves to help me begin to learn to sing a song. A single song. ONE.
We aren't going for "teaching me to sing." No. This is going to be like those beauty pageant contestants who create the illusion of vast talent by pouring tens of thousands of practice hours into three minutes. At least that's what Mike says. It can be done.
I have no idea what can be done. I don't even know what my real singing voice is because it's always throttled by fear. I do best when I'm surrounded by deep, true voices in church, voices that I can lean on and hide behind. Singing on my own is like being lost in a vast, foreign city---I can't read the signs, I only know I've made a wrong turn somewhere, and everyone is politely looking away from the panic in my eyes.
The song is Kasey Chamber's "If I Were You." The occasion is that I'm forty-nine today. Don't you think forty-nine is a fine age to finally learn to sing one song?
Fingers shift on frets you easily hold my gaze I am deaf to fear
Forty-nine reasons to sing louder and longer than each year before
I wish each of you love today, and a reason to sing.
I wrote about the dog park earlier. One of the nicest things is how well the dogs get along, even with my grumpy pet, a miniature Australian shepherd. Naturally territorial and excessively protective, she makes me crazy at home. But at the dog park? She's Miss Social. She sniffs and greets and meets and generally schmoozes like she's at some fancy fund-raiser.
But nothing gives her more happiness than an escapee. Once, a small dog kept running off from its owner, and my dog kept zipping after it, grinning with glee when she blockaded his mad dashes for the grass on the far side. The other day, she had wild romp with a rescue dog from Mexico, which she was sure was making a break for his homeland, thousands of miles away.
blue-eyed cattle dog sunlight and torn rubber ball my dog shepherds all
---Sara Lewis Holmes
Here's a short video of her, herding a remote-control helicopter:
"Read beyond that which immediately pleases you, please." ---Heather Christie
I resist this advice. I want to follow my nose in choosing what to read, and in poetry, especially. But I notice that the poet simply said read BEYOND. She didn't recommend replacing pleasure. Only swimming out a few yards more.
Anselm Kiefer Book with Wings, 1992–94 Lead, tin, and steel 74 3/4 x 208 5/8 x 43 3/8 inches (189.9 x 529.9 x 110.2 cm) Collection of the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, Museum purchase, Sid W. Richardson Foundation Endowment Fund Acquired in 2000
I woke up today, glad to be home from a week of travel, and was suddenly aware it was Poetry Friday. No need to panic. My iPhone held this photo of a sculpture from the Modern Art Museum in Fort Worth, where we spent an hour trying to understand the questions modern art flings at us. Not nearly enough time, of course.
But I have you guys, and this day of poetry, and lots of time now to think about it all. Happy Poetry Friday!
It was my husband's birthday this past week. We celebrated aboard a military jet, with a group of wonderful folks singing to him in Hebrew, a first for him. (We were escorting Israeli guests around the U.S. on an adventure I can hardly believe was real now that we're back home.) But I didn't get to cook for him, so tonight, I made up for it. Almost.
coffee-rubbed rib-eyes homemade coleslaw and cold beer Cake: sweet IOU
Also, last night, we went to see Eugene O'Neil's A Long Day's Journey into Night, which isn't for the faint-hearted. We nearly forgot we had tickets; I remembered over dinner, and we had to scramble to make curtain. But it was completely worth the rush and bother. Wow.
But for some, it was too much.
Production notes read Oh, it's about family! Intermission: gone.
I'll try to keep the daily in daily haiku next week...
Using creative math, I've now caught up the post title (#16) with the actual date (April 16.) This was to cover some lapses in my daily output, some double posts, and some uncounted poetry Fridays.
In general, I like math. I think of it as another language, one that's fun to learn, and capable of saying some amazing things. But as much as I'm impressed by writers who adhere to strict word counts, with flashy online gadgets that tick over the daily output, I don't want to know such stuff. *
Let others count days All is relative to me Am I writing now?
----Sara Lewis Holmes
* I might do better if said gadgets plunked out M&Ms; five or so per line.
Running through the Capitol Building grounds is like being in a movie. No matter how many times I do it, it still feels a bit unreal, as if suddenly dancers are going to emerge and beginning singing about democracy. This is especially true after hours when the the plaza seems huge in its emptiness.
During the day, though, people are snapping pictures EVERYWHERE and it’s useless to dodge them. I try not to cross in front, of course, but when I cut across the main steps, I have to accept I’m going to be a blur in a few dozen photos. (Not a fast blur, mind you, although I do pick up my feet to get past in a hurry.) I wonder where my pixels end up, in digital land?
Mobs in matching shirts Capitol crowds poke and pry I am deep background