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Two oddly shaped nectarines from the lady who has a wonderful organic fruit & vegetable stall every Wednesday and Saturday morning in the nearby village of Lauris. I love imperfectly shaped fruit, so when my mother (who has been an angel looking after me) brought these back I knew I just had to draw them.

It took me three days to draw them! Though that's probably due to the fact that I still tire easily ... and perhaps because, in some places, there are over twenty layers of colour in this drawing. I'm still not completely happy with it but knew that if I didn't finish it off I'd end up destroying it, so I finally stopped.

A special request, for the name Alexander. I'm quite enjoying doing these names. I have another one waiting so I'd better get onto it.

I'll have to blame my illness and recuperation for the fact that I'd forgotten to mention that this book that I'd ordered before getting so sick was waiting for me when I returned from hospital. I have been going through it with pleasure and pangs of hunger when I come across the too-yummy food drawings. Altaglich Folio: No Five contains beautifully delicate and detailed drawings by the extremely gifted Megan E. Bluhm Foldenauer whose artwork can be found here www.megalo-media.com or at her Flickr site. I've been a fan of hers since I discovered her drawings and am now determined to acquire books No 1 - 4 too! Cheers.

Flat Nectarines products at Floating Lemons at Zazzle
Alexander lime products at Floating Lemons Type at Zazzle

On what writing is

"I always thought writing was arraying words in beautiful patterns, but now I think it's more like walking blindfolded, listening with your whole heart, and then looking backward to see if you made any tracks worth keeping." Sara Lewis Holmes in her recent Poetry Friday post at Read Write Believe.

On why fiction/fantasy matter

Ten days ago, I put up a post entitled "Why We Need Fiction", about which I remain pleased. One of my rationales for why fiction is important reads as follows: "We need fiction because it allows us to create an artificial barrier, behind which we can examine Big Important Issues in a hypothetical setting, instead of beating people's brains out, possibly literally, by addressing those issues in the real world."

I've started reading my copy of The Wand in the Word: Conversations with Writers of Fantasy by Leonard S. Marcus, and it appears that Lloyd Alexander agreed with me in part:

"Q: Why do you write fantasy?
A: Because, paradoxically, fantasy is a good way to show the world as it is. Fantasy can show us the truth about human relationships and moral dilemmas because it works on our emotions on a deeper, symbolic level than realistic fiction. It has the same emotional power as a dream."

On poetry

Here, the first seven lines of a fourteen-line poem by James Kirkup called "The Poet":

Each instant of his life, a task, he never rests,
And works most when he appears to be doing nothing.
The least of it is putting down in words
What usually remains unwritten and unspoken,
And would so often be much better left
Unsaid, for it is really the unspeakable
That he must try to give an ordinary tongue to.

And from Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey, which airs tonight at 9 p.m. on most PBS stations, the novel of which I reviewed last July. Here is a portion of the text taken from a description of the developing friendship between Catherine Morland and Isabella Thorpe. This section is often referred to as Austen's "defence of the novel", and is found in Volume I, chapter 5 of the novel:

. . . and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; ——for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding ——joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the Reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens, -- there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel-reader ——I seldom look into novels ——Do not imagine that I often read novels ——It is really very well for a novel." ——Such is the common cant. —— "And what are you reading, Miss ——————?" "Oh! it is only a novel!" replies the young lady; while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. ——"It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda;" or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.

Seems the more things change, the more they remain the same. No?

Yesterday, an interview with renowned fantasy writer Bruce Coville, and today, a top ten list. I really don't think I can keep this level of quality up, folks.

Until recently, I was on the nominating panel for the CYBILS poetry award, which kept me from telling you my top ten favorite poetry books of 2007. (I know I said twelve the other day, but I've edited myself down to a mere ten.) But now that the discussions are over and the finalists are in, I'm embargoed no more. Oh, and I should note before I start that I've not yet read Good Masters! Sweet Ladies!: Voices from a Medieval Village by Laura Amy Schlitz, illustrated by Robert Byrd and Tina Schart Hyman, nor did I get my hands on Twelve Rounds to Glory: The Story of Muhammad Ali by Charles R. Smith, illustrated by Bryan Collier, both of which come highly recommended by readers I tend to trust.

Here they are, in alphabetical order by title. Those that made the CYBILS top 7 have an asterisk before the title:

*Animal Poems by Valerie Worth, illustrated by Steve Jenkins. I reviewed this one during National Poetry Month. I loved it then. I loved it as much or more now. The poems are gems. Written in free verse, the poems are about 23 different animals. Some of the animals Worth wrote about, like the Elephant and Jellyfish, are staples in collections of animal poems; others, like the Star-Nosed Mole are decidedly uncommon. In order to keep this post from becoming ridiculously long, I will simply repeat the link to my prior review, which includes sample poems and artwork.

Blue Lipstick: Concrete Poems by John Grandits. I loved the sassy main character in this collection of individual concrete poetry. Jessie is a teenage girl who is facing issues at high school, and who has built a wall to protect herself from others. The wall is protection, but it's also prejudice and isolation, as becomes clear through the poems and through the later poem that features the wall once Jessie's perceptions start to change. The prejudice I discuss is not racial, btw, but is the result of Jessie's snap judgments and stereotyping. I really wish I could find a scan of the poem "Bad Hair Day" to share with you, but thus far, no dice. However, you can "Look Inside" the book over at Amazon. For another blog review that loves this one, check out Jules's post from September 21, 2007 over at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast. This one is perfect for the middle school and high school set, and that's based not just on basic demographics but on specific research by a mother with one middle schooler and one high schooler. For relatability (is that a word?) and content, I'd put this as a must-buy for teen poetry collections.

Do Rabbits Have Christmas? by Aileen Fisher, illustrated by Sarah Fox-Davies. If I have a quarrel with the words in this book, it's the title selection, which (a) makes it sound like it's only a Christmas title, (b) could be interpreted as being about anthropomorphic animals, which it isn't, and (c) makes it sound like it's for even younger readers than it truly is. The book opens with a poem called "Fall Wind", a song-like poem in rhymed couplets that tells of winter's approach. Other poems discuss snow (what animals and people think of it, how it looks, how it feels, footprints, etc.) and winter, although there are seven poems about Christmas. Final tally? Six winter poems, seven Christmas poems and two winter poems that mention Christmas. There are a couple of stand-out poems in this collection. My particular favorites: "December", "Sparkly Snow", "My Christmas Tree". Here's an excerpt from "My Christmas Tree":

I'll make me a score
of suet balls
to tie to my spruce
when the cold dusk falls.

And I'll hear next day
from the sheltering trees
the Christmas carols
of the chickadees.

Faith & Doubt: An Anthology of Poems, edited by Patrice Vecchione. An anthology for teens that grapples with the questions so many teens face every day: what is faith? is there room for belief? disbelief? if I have doubts, what does that mean? Vecchione has assembled an outstanding collection of poetry from a wide variety of poets, many of whom are familiar to adult readers. There are a lot of heavy-hitters in this book, from Emily Dickinson ("My Worthiness is all my Doubt") to Shakespeare ("Doubt thou the stars are fire" from Hamlet Act 2 scene 2, but you won't get the Hamlet cite in the book, which I find curious) to Whitman, Rumi, Neruda, Rilke, Shelley and more, including modern-day poets such as Marilyn Nelson and Charles Simic. The poems don't all speak about religious faith and doubt, as the introductory note makes clear. Lines attributed to Queen Elizabeth I, entitled "The Doubt of Future Foes" discuss doubt in a political sense, and "The Girl at Five" by Anna Paganelli talks about the loss of faith that comes from sexual abuse as a child, for example. Heavy topics, yes, but these are the sorts of Big Issues and Big Questions that I remember spending hours mulling and discussing with friends and writing really bad poetry about when I was a teen, so I think this one is a must for teen poetry collections.

*Here's A Little Poem: A Very First Book of Poetry, edited by Jane Yolen and Andrew Fusek Peters, illustrated by Polly Dunbar. I first reviewed this book during National Poetry Month, when I said "If you have a toddler or preschooler who needs a poetry book, this is the one to buy. It is a beautiful book in all the right ways, and it's perfect for adults to share with kids." I stand by my earlier words, including the ones about the need for adult assistance - this is a BIG book of poems for little people. One of the things I love best about this collection is the number of "new" poets in it. Yolen and Fusek have selected poems from all over the English-speaking world, and they've insisted on printing the poems exactly as they were originally written, spellings and all. So the word "favor" might be in a poem by an American author, but "favour" from a Brit (as a hypothetical illustration). The illustrations are completely darling, and this book positively screams High Quality Production! at every turn, from paper weight to typsetting to artwork to the excellent assortment of poems, all of which are well-arranged. If you take another look at my review from April, you can see some of the pages and poems to get a better sense for yourself. Or just go buy it.

Miss Crandall's School for Young Ladies and Little Misses of Color: Poems by Elizabeth Alexander and Marilyn Nelson, illustrated by Floyd Cooper. This poetry collection pieces together the story of Miss Prudence Crandall's decision to open and run a school in Crandall, Connecticut in the 1830's. Initially, Miss Crandall taught local (white) schoolchildren, but she allowed "colored" girls to attend as well. The townspeople went from unhappy to full-out ugly, taking actions that ranged from legal actions to ruining the well to hanging a dead cat on the gate outside the school to setting the building on fire. The idealism and enthusiasm of Miss Crandall and some of her students, as well as their dismay and disgust and fear as events turned obscene, are depicted movingly in twenty-four sonnets: twelve by Alexander, twelve by Nelson. The authors' note at the end of the book makes clear that Alexander likes to take a modern approach to the sonnet and stretch the form, whereas Nelson follows a more classical approach. I have to say that overall, I preferred Nelson's poems, which had an additional tautness to them that I can only guess, based on my overall reaction, is the result of her adhering to a more rigid form than Alexander. An excellent addition to middle school and high school libraries and a good supplemental text for any studies of racism.

*Poems in Black & White written and illustrated by Kate Miller. I will have to write a separate review of this book to do it complete justice. Miller decided to create images in black and white, but trust me when I say that the book feels like it's in technicolor. From the baby feet depicted for "First Steps" (which you can read, along with the second poem in the book - and one of my favorites - "Comet", over at this review post from Laura Purdie Salas. Today, I'll share with you "The Cow", although I'm really wishing I had a ppage scan so you could see the thoughtful Holstein on the page and the recreation on the text page of a black patch on the cow's side in which the poem appears in white. The text meanders as well, adding to the poem's appeal, but I'm not going to approximate that here:

The Cow

Because
she wears
a bristly map
of milkweed shite
and midnight black

it seems
as though
she's
strong enough
to carry continents
upon her back

with oceans
in between

and   islands   on her
            knees

Tap Dancing on the Roof: Sijo (Poems) by Linda Sue Park, illustrated by Istvan Banyai. What's not to love? An excellent poet, wonderful, whimsical illustrations, and oh, by the way, A NEW FORM! And you all know how much I love forms, yes? I reviewed this book back in October, and I love-love-love it now just as I did then. I predict it will win other awards, but unfortunately not a CYBILS award this year - it didn't quite make the cut (sorry, Linda!), but not for lack of appreciation or interest in it. By all means, read my review, but here's the text of "Word Watch" to intrigue you:

Word Watch

Jittery seems a nervous word;
snuggle curls up around itself.
Some words fit their meanings so well:
Abrupt. Airy. And my favorite——

sesquipedalian,
which means: having lots of syllables.

I've met Linda Sue a couple of times now, and in my mind, I can literally hear her voice in this poem, as if she were hear, speaking assuredly into my ear. Linda Sue, you had me at sesquipedalian.

*This is Just to Say: Poems of Apology and Forgiveness by Joyce Sidman, illustrated by Pamela Zagarenski. A confession: When I first began to read this book, I was a bit shruggy about it. Fictional teacher, fictional students, all writing poems to apologize for something they did as part of a fictional class exercise based on William Carlos Williams's poem, "This is Just to Say", sometimes referred to as "the plums". *shrug* The first "kid" apes Williams's form, apologizing to the teachers for eating their jelly doughnuts. *shrug* A girl apologizes to a statue for rubbing its nose. *cute, but shrug* Two boys write poems to one another about dodgeball. *boys! eyerolling shrug* And then a girl apologizes to the teacher for insulting her, and I stopped shrugging and my eyes filled with tears and I couldn't put the book down, even when I was done reading it, because I was too busy hugging it. Not shrugging. Hugging. Tightly. Sidman eases you into the apologies, but once you're into them, you are STUCK IN THIS BOOK. And then.

Then there are the poems of response (and in many cases, forgiveness), that come in the second half of the book, where even the poem written on behalf of Florence P. Scribner's statue contains magic and heart. Just glancing at some of the poems now has caused my eyes to fill again, because they are so strong and warm and wonderful. They are funny and sad and true. They are, in short, miraculous. A must-buy for upper elementary and middle-school kids and teachers. Here's an excerpt for you:

From Apologies:
"How Slow-Hand Lizard Died"

I stole him.
Took him home in my pocket.
Felt the pulse beating
in his soft green neck.
Had no place good to put him.
A shoebox.
He got cold, I think.
Watched his life wink out,
his bright eye turn to mud.
Brought him back,
stiff as an old glove.
Hid him in the bottom of the cage.
Left the money on Mrs. Merz's desk.
(Stole that, too.)

Won't touch the new lizard.
Don't like to touch
money
either.

From Responses:

Ode to Slow-Hand

the way his heart beat in his throad
the way his toes whispered on our hands

los perdonamos

his skin: rough green cloth
the color of new leaves

los perdonamos

his belly: soft as an old balloon
his tongue: lightning's flicker

los perdonamos

the sad way he left us
the sad way you feel

los perdonamos
we forgive you

Crap. Now I'm crying again. While I compose myself, by all means check out Elaine Magliaro's post at Blue Rose Girls from back in March.

*Your Own, Sylvia: a verse portrait of Sylvia Plath by Stephenie Hemphill. You may recall that I first raved about this book back in March when I reviewed it for my blog. And then, I repeated my enthusiastic rave in May as part of Wicked Cool Overlooked Books. I still love it for all the reasons I stated. This book is fun to discuss, by the way, because the reasons I love it — it keeps a bit of distance between the reader and Sylvia Plath and it presents a kaleidoscopic image of her by showing her through the eyes of many different acquaintances as well as by guessing at what was in her own mind (based on her journals, etc.) — are the same reasons that some other folks don't particularly care for it (they found the many attributed voices distracting and/or didn't care for the distance between the reader and the subject (or is she the object?) of the book. Highly recommended for teen readers. This one was, in fact, teen-tested here at my house, and got two thumbs up and some tears from my older daughter. An excellent book for a book report for middle school- and high school-aged kids, and an excellent supplement and research tool for anyone interested in Plath (middle school through adult), on account of the copious bibliography and source notes in the back of the book.

Or rather, not. One year when I worked as a film reviewer for radio I took it upon myself to put together a year-in-review show that attempted to provide a summary of that year's films using soundbites from my fellow reviewers. I had nearly 60 hours of material to work with and in those analog days of rerecording and literally splicing quarter-inch tape I wound up living in the production

Benjamin L. Carp is an Assistant Professor of History at Tufts University. His new book, Rebels Rising: Cities and the American Revolution focuses on political activity in colonial America’s five most populous cities, tracing how everyday interactions in taverns, wharves, and elsewhere slowly developed into more serious political activity. In the original piece below Carp shows up the progression of violence in the colonies.

September 1764: the lawyer John Dickinson lodged a protest against the Pennsylvania Assembly’s petition to the king for a royal government. Assemblyman Joseph Galloway was outraged enough that he followed Dickinson out of the State House in Philadelphia and tried to seize Dickinson’s nose and whack him with his cane. Dickinson struck back with his own stick, and the two grappled until bystanders broke them up. (more…)

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Jacqueline Woodson
Putnam 2007

I've been floundering with this book for over a week now, trying to figure out what exactly it is I want to say. Twice now my attempts to review the book have quickly become examinations of the 1970's and why it feels like we're seeing more books set during that time and what, if any, relation all this has on our current political landscapes and whether younger readers really want to read about all this as "period" reading.

At it's simplest the story come from the wrong-side-of-the-tracks family. A boy with long hair transfers mid-year to the new school on the bad side of town, literally on the wrong side of the tracks. Being the new kid, the odd fish, makes him the easy target for the bullies and because he looks white and the other students are a rainbow of browns he is instantly viewed with suspicion. The Jesus Boy, nicknamed because of his hair and serenity in the face of his non-violent approach to life, causes unease because some of the kids begin to wonder if he isn't Jesus come back to test their faith. When finally pushed to the edge by Trevor, the class bully, JB finally lets lose a verbal assault that disarms Trevor but proves JB is like the rest of them, capable of cruelty and anger. JB's secret is that he was adopted by black parents who moved across the tracks because life wasn't any easier for them on the other side. Kids are egalitarian in their cruelty.

The story is told from the point of view of Frannie who, along with her deaf brother Sean, give us another perspective on being outsiders. Frannie doesn't feel she fits in with those around her who are more deeply connected to their church, and her brother Sean makes a connection between his deafness being a separate world that keeps disconnected. Frannie wants to believe as her friends do but she sees too many contradictions to settle her rational mind; Sean knows that no matter which side of the tracks he lives on he'll always be an outsider to the hearing world, a world he can never be a part of unlike his sister who can travel in his world through sign language.

The title comes from Frannie's book-long inquiry into a poem by Emily Dickinson which begins with the line "Hope is a thing with feathers." Indeed, it makes me wonder what Woodson herself hopes for both within the book and without.

Setting the story in the 1970's allows for a certain distancing from the idea of a segregated society, but the the ideas that lie beneath are as real today as they might have been 30 years ago. Somewhere between then and now American society has recreated new divisions and seems desperate to reclaim old one. Politics, religion and even music have moved to their respective sides of the track and don't take kindly to outsiders attempting to pass or blend in.

So why go there? Are we seeing an increase of writers who came of age during those times who feel the resonance so strongly with our current climate? The 70's are equally alive in Barbara Kerley's Greetings From Planet Earth so I'm wondering if this is a trend or a blip or just coincidence.

This perhaps moves outside the parameters of the review, but sometimes the universe sends a message and you have to puzzle it out the best you can. For a very long time now I've been wondering what to make of my particular generation, a shoulder generation who are alternately claimed as being either the tail end of the Boomers or the front end of Generation X. To my knowledge this generation is not formally recognized by marketers or the media and my experience has been that those born between 1958 and 1963 have a general sense of feeling left out. It was while I was at my wife's graduation ceremony this week that I had another old idea brought back to the surface. It was under the guise of referring to a graduating class as a karass, a term invented by Kurt Vonnegut, taken from Cat's Cradle (published in 1963 coincidentally), which is defined as "a team that do[es] God's Will without ever discovering what they are doing."

I'm beginning to feel as if my karass is making itself known in children's literature.

Today, a little somethin'-somethin' from Emily Dickinson.

I started Early---Took my Dog--
And visited the Sea--
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me--

And Frigates---in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands--
Presuming Me to be a Mouse--
Aground--upon the Sands--

But no Man moved Me---till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe--
And past my Apron---and my Belt
And past my Bodice--too--

And made as He would eat me up--
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve--
And then---I started---too--

And He---He followed---close behind--
I felt His Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle---Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl--

Until We met the Solid Town--
No One He seemed to know--
And bowing---with a Mighty look--
At me---The Sea withdrew--

I must confess, I love the imagery in this poem. But first, I must confess a shortcoming of my own. I struggle reading Emily Dickinson's poems. Not because I can't understand them, or because I dislike them. It's all the em-dashes. Everywhere. Every blessed where. They get in my way, somehow, when I read her poems on the page. Kinda like reading a Barbara Cartland romance novel, when the spunky heroine attains her love interest at the end . . . and starts . . .to speak . . . breathlessly . . . (Those of you who haven't read a Barbarab Cartland romance will have to take my word on it, but the spunky, well-spoken ingenues always end up sputtering with ellipses by the end.)

However. This is overcome in part by reading her poetry aloud, and acknowledging each dash as a slight pause or break. As it turns out, it alters the pace of the poem in ways you might not expect. For instance, the last two lines of the first stanza "The Mermaids in the Basement Came out to look at me" gets run all together. The same goes for the first two lines of the second stanza (starting after the em-dash): "in the Upper Floor Extended Hempen Hands" all goes together, without a break after Floor (where you might expect one).

All of these keeping things together or apart are part of her poetry. The spaces between some of the thoughts, the brief silences in the gaps of the dashes, are as much a part of her text as are the actual words. And while that may be (arguably) true of other poets as well, it's decidedly the case when reading Miss Dickinson's work.

It makes the reading of the third from last stanza break out as follows (assume that you should pause after each line here):

And made as He would eat me up
As wholly as a Dew Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve
And then
I started
too

Because many, if not most, of her poems are in common metre, they can be sung to the tunes of Amazing Grace or the Theme from Gilligan's Island. But if you sing them, you will miss the meanings because you will leave them in four-line stanzas, without the pauses coming in the proper places in the text. You'd have read the second and third lines as separate ideas, when in fact they are one long, lovely image.

Traditionally, this is classified as a Nature poem, and it is accepted that the speaker went to the sea and stood there as the sea rose, then returned to land. Others give the poem a psycho-sexual reading, and go so far as to claim it's a masochistic erotic fantasy. While I've always believed that sometimes the Ocean is just the Ocean, and that this is more of a nature poem, I thought it had the subtext of a love poem -- the speaker's risk of being consumed by the sea fits with other poems Dickinson wrote about her fear of being all-consumed by love, and so I assumed it could have that as a second meaning. Masochistic eroticism never occurred to me.

But today, while putting this post together, I found another plausible interpretation that seems likely enough to me that I thought I'd point you to it. I found an 0 Comments on I started Early -- a National Poetry Month post as of 1/1/1990