Poetry Friday: In a Cloud of Dust

Today's Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Karen Edmisten.

I read Alma Fullerton's beautiful picture book this week. Though I've never been to Africa myself, I have children who have spent time in Senegal and Nigeria and friends who live in Kenya and South Africa. So while my sense of the landscape and culture of these countries comes second hand, there is  something of my heart invested there.

My South African friend Wilna (pronounced vulna) in Zimbabwe.

My son and grandson at the American International School in Nigeria.

In a Cloud of Dust begins...

       In a Tanzanian village, 

       a little schoolhouse sits

       at the end of a dusty road.

Such simplicity, and yet, already these few words and Brian Deines' deftly muted illustrations place me solidly on this dusty road. The author captures the characters, their friendships, their dependence on on another, and the hardships they face with the joyful spirit of an African village. A really beautiful book. 

View more illustrations here.

Visit Alma Fullerton's author page here.

Find more art from Brian Deines here.

From Peace Corps Writers Online Magazine, 2005 issue


By the Light of the Moon
by Carrie Young (Mali 2000–01)


How free is the ocean
Or the moon
Really?

The village was off the road
And away from the world
Like a soft breeze
Blowing across the ground
Felt only by the Earth
At the bottom of the mountain
That calls it home

The beauty of the place
Equaled by the difficulties
Surrounding this life
Filled with the noise of natural things-
The pounding of grain like thunder,
Roosters crowing at every mood of the sun,
Fires crackling with ancient memories,
Children laughing and disappearing into tall grasses

And almost every night
The sound of a bilaphone
Playing at a fete somewhere
On another side of the village
Sending out a deep and hyper sound
That somehow found its way to me
Even in the thick, dark air of Africa

People dressed in bright fabrics
Were dancing until the dirt stirred
Into a fog around them
And all that was hard about the days
Trickled down their faces
In sweat like tears

I could see them in my mind
As I lay in a room lit quietly by candles
My book resting next to me
While I joined them somewhere
In that fog of dirt and freedom

Freedom for muscles
That were bent and tired
From hours spent in the fields
And freedom from a mind
That was never allowed to forget
The weightless breath of fate
Waiting in the wind

Poetry Friday: Thinking in Bed

"Bedroom in Arles" by Vincent Van Gogh

Thinking in Bed

by Dennis Lee, 1939

I’m thinking in bed, 
Cause I can’t get out 
Till I learn how to think 
What I’m thinking about; 
What I’m thinking about 
Is a person to be--
A sort of a person 
Who feels like me. 

I might still be Alice, 
Excepting I’m not. 
And Snoopy is super, 
But not when it’s hot; 
I couldn’t be Piglet, 
I don’t think I’m Pooh, 
I know I’m not Daddy 
And I can’t be you. 

My breakfast is waiting. 
My clothes are all out, 
But what was that thing 
I was thinking about? 
I’ll never get up 
If I lie here all day; 
But I still haven’t thought, 
So I’ll just have to stay. 

If I was a Grinch 
I expect I would know. 
But I don’t think so. 
There’s so many people 
I don’t seem to be-- 
I guess I’ll just have to 
Get up and be me.

   --From Alligator Pie, published by Macmillan Canada, 1974. Retrieved from poets.org.

And just for fun--oh, the thinks you can think!

Visit Jone at Check it Out for more Poetry Friday posts.

Poetry Friday: Valentine

Welcome to Poetry Friday. Our host today is Katie at the Logonauts.

Photo courtesy Sherry's Berries.

Thinking of Valentines Day next week and how much my hubs loves to shower his girls (me, daughters, daughter-in-laws, granddaughters) with cards and candy. I came across this poem in Poetry Speaks to Children. Enjoy!

Valentine

by Donald Hall

Chipmunks jump, and

Greensnakes slither.

Rather burst than

Not be with her.

Bluebirds fight, but

Bears are stronger.

We've got fifty

Years or longer.

Hoptoads hop, but 

Hogs are fatter.

Nothing else but

Us can matter.


And now just for the fun of it...Donald Hall on what people say when they find out you're a poet.

Early Spring

Here in the Deep South, we tend to ignore Punxsutawney Phil.

Penny hosts today roundup at A Penny and Her Jots.

Magnolia Blooms
by Florence Edsall
Poetry Magazine, April 1927, p. 22

Cool crisp loveliness
cupped and brittle

Against the steel tracery
Of winter boughs.

Only iron blossoming
Could flower so.

Leftovers

from "The Pumpkin" by John Greenleaf Whittier

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, 
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! 
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, 
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon, 
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better 
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine! 
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie! 

Wishing you loads of leftovers.

Carol hosts the round up today at Carol's Corner.

November in Georgia

Today's Poetry Friday host is Laura Purdie Salas at Writing the World for Kids.

Welcome to November. It's not so much the leaves falling causing issues here at my house at it is the acorns. The patio is covered in acorns. The yard is covered in acorns. When the wind blows, acorns fall from the nether regions of my treetops and pelt the tin roof of my sunporch. They pop, bounce, and roll, sometimes jolting me out of my skin. 

Tradition says that an abundance of acorns means a hard winter. So far, there is only drought and residual heat to greet this Deep South November. If you're coming to NCTE in Atlanta in a few weeks, you won't need your heavy coat, unless things change pretty soon, but don't count on it. It's not likely that I will be there, as grand baby number nine is imminent. I spent part of the afternoon yesterday rubbing that sweet little mama's swollen ankles. I can't wait to hold that sweet boy in my arms. I'll keep you posted.

As for poetry, I was delighted to find this poem by Thomas Hood, written in 1844. 

Enjoy.

NO!

by Thomas Hood

        No sun—no moon!
        No morn—no noon—
No dawn—
        No sky—no earthly view—
        No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no “t’other side the way”—
...
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
        No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

You may read the full poem here.

My Daddy's Hands

I can still feel my father's hands cupping my face even though it has been almost four years since those hands stilled. One finger shortened to the first knuckle by the wood pulled crooked into a saw blade. A faint smell of machine oil or car lubricant. The stains of axel grease that remained years after he retired from his work on diesel buses. They were big hands. They held the expansive gift of his love. It's not his birthday or his death day or anything else special. Just an ordinary Friday with my daddy on my mind. 

The Gift

by Li-Young Lee

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.

I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,

Read the rest here.

Visit Miss Rumphius Effect for today's roundup.

Stop Staring!

Be sure to visit Catherine at Reading to the Core for today's Poetry Friday Roundup.

Recently I sat at a sidewalk table having coffee with my daughter. I do enjoy people watching, but when one woman stopped outside the coffee shop to hug a friend goodbye, I suppose I really was staring. My daughter said, "Mom, you have a really bad habit of staring at people." 

People watching is supposed to be conducted in a non-intrusive manner, but sometimes I can't help myself. My writer brain kicks in and wants to know why, want to know how, wants to understand what is behind that gesture. Then my yoga brain kicks in and want to figure out which muscles are not firing and how to address the resulting postural issues. So yeah, sorry folks, but I'm a hopeless starer. 

This month Jane Yolen and Michelle at Today's Little Ditty gave us the challenge to writer a septercet, a poem of Jane's conjuring with three line stanzas, each line containing seven syllables. The staring episode became my starting point. 

Inspiration

It's rude to stare at people,
my daughter's words remind me.
I'm sure that's what I taught her.

I turn away, pretending
disinterest in the woman's
rounding spine, her frowning mouth,

but I need words to describe
her gait, the way she drags one
foot then firmly plants it down.

An accident? Polio?
No way to know. Or did she
strive like Jacob with her God?

My prying eyes refocus
on her face. My daughter pulls
my arm, forces me away.

The woman's figure chiseled
on my prying mind creates
a tale--Once upon a time.

© 2016 Doraine Bennett

National Blended Family Day

Today's host for the Poetry Friday Roundup is Michelle at Today's Little Ditty. 

In a few weeks I'll be heading to Western Washington University for Poetry Camp. What an amazing poetry packed weekend it's going to be. I'm looking forward to connecting with some special poetry friends and making some new ones. 

Anyone a Girl Scout? Remember this song?

Janet Wong and Sylvia Vardell, developers of the Poetry Friday Anthologies, have put so much time and effort into the weekend. I'm looking forward to saying thank you in person. 

I will be presenting a session on Poetry and Social Studies with award-winning author, Carmen Bernier-Grand. Yes, I am excited! 

Click here for Cynthia Leitich-Smith's interview with Carmen.

Today happens to be National Blended Family Day. I still open my copy of the Poetry Friday Anthology for Celebrations and feel quite delighted to be included with such a talented group of poets. 

Poetry Friday Browsing

It's a hot, slow day in Georgia, and I'm moving like sorghum syrup. 

Photo by Melinda Stewart.

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting Poetry Friday at The Poem Farm where you can read all about Janet Wong and Sylvia Vardell's newest poetry book, You Just Wait. These two are always up to something new!

I was excited to find a copy of Jeannine Atkins' newest book, Finding Wonders, in my mailbox this week. Stop by Irene Latham's blog, Live Your Poem, for an excellent review.

I just finished reading House Arrest, a novel in verse by K.A. Holt, which I highly recommend. Check it out here.

I leave you with this poem of syrup and fond memories.

from "Maple Syrup"

by Donald Hall

Related Poem Content Details

                                           Today 

we take my grandfather’s last  

quart of syrup 

upstairs, holding it gingerly, 

and we wash off twenty-five years  

of dirt, and we pull 

and pry the lid up, cutting the stiff,  

dried rubber gasket, and dip our fingers 

in, you and I both, and taste 

the sweetness, you for the first time, 

the sweetness preserved, of a dead man  

in the kitchen he left 

when his body slid 

like anyone’s into the ground.

Read the rest here.

An Old Favorite

I'm returning to an old favorite today. You can see it's been loved a lot over the years. 

Stop by Penny Klosterman's blog for the round up today.

 David McCord and Marc Simont are an unbeatable team. Read Lee Bennett Hopkins remembrances of the poet at Renee LaTuillipe's blog, No Water River.  Read this tribute to Simont at School Library Journal.

JAM
"Spread," said Toast to Butter,
And Butter spread.
"That's better, Butter,"
Toast said.

"Jam," said Butter to Toast.
"Where are you, Jam,
When we need you most?"
Jam: "Here I am,

Strawberry, trickly and sweet.
How are you, Spoon?"
"I'm helping somebody eat,
I think, pretty soon." 

You just have to love the sound and the rhythm and the humor!

I WANT YOU TO MEET...
...Meet Ladybug,
her little sister Sadiebug,
her mother, Mrs. Gradybug,
her aunt, that nice oldmaidybug,
and Baby--she's a fraidybug.

THIS IS MY ROCK

This is my rock,
And here I run
To steal the secret of the sun;
This is my rock,
And here come I
Before the night has swept the sky;
This is my rock,
This is the place
I meet the evening face to face.

May you find your rock and meet the evening face to face.

Montana Meandering

Vacation week for me and hubs. The beauty of this place is astounding. 

Glacier Poem
by Jacob

You can think you are big, strong, powerful. Really though?
As you look up the mountains,
That sense of pride falls away.
Maybe the screech of the eagle nips at your ears, 

Read the rest here.

Today's round up is at A Year of Reading. 

Give Me Words

I am so thankful today for the sweet Summer Poem Swap gift of homemade art, joyful words, and creativity that arrived on my doorstep from Margaret Simon. It has been a week! One that needed  some happy, settling thoughts! 

I'm in the process of assuming a role in my in-laws' finances. That, in an of itself, is a scary thought since I have a hubby who does the personal stuff and a bookkeeper daughter does the business stuff. But dad is 92 and blind, and mom is 90 and forgetting things, important things, like paying bills.

I began the afternoon by calling the retirement office on my cell phone. There was a twenty minute wait, so while I was on hold, I called the insurance company on my home phone. They needed permission from dad to talk to me over the phone, so I walked next door with both phones, forgetting that my home phone could only go so far before the signal cut off--which it did while dad was talking to them. I called them back on dad's phone and got that straightened out. Cell phone is still on hold, so I called the cable/phone provider on the home phone. While she had me on hold, the retirement office finally answered and we resolved that very quickly after my forty-five minutes of standing in an invisible line. The cable lady came back and we resolved another one.

Then I headed to the insurance office. I walked into the State Farm building but they had no record of mom and dad in the computer and told me I was probably at the wrong office. Seems there's another State Farm office less than a mile down the road, so I turned around and went back to the other one, who also had no record of them. I looked down at my notes and realized I was supposed to be at the Allstate office, which by the way was two doors down from my first stop. Finally reached the right place, talked to the right person, and checked another one off my list.

Good grief!

I prefer words over numbers. Words, give me words!

And that's just what Margaret did. Hooray for the Summer Poem Swap!

The quote at the top is from Emily Dickinson: To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Margaret was my swap partner and I sent my poem to her last week. She posted it at Reflections on the Teche. Then, feeling very serendipitous, she took four words from my poem and used them in her poem to me. What fun this was to receive--a handmade card, a hand-lettered poem, and a tiny little book of quotes, called Living a Joyful Life.

Serendipity

Sprinkle
Easy smiles
Roads are long
Every midnight
     becomes a
New morning
Dripping grace
Invitations arrive
Peace bubbles
In water's
    moonstone
Time hears
Your gratitude

© Margaret Simon, 2016.

Many thanks to Tabatha Yeatts, who masterminds these poetry swaps and also hosts today's Poetry Friday Roundup at The Opposite of Indifference.

Summer Song

Photo by Neal Simpson

Summer Song
by William Carlos Williams

Wanderer moon 

smiling a 

faintly ironical smile 

at this 

brilliant, dew-moistened 

summer morning,— 

a detached 

sleepily indifferent 

smile, a 

wanderer’s smile,— 

if I should 

buy a shirt 

your color and 

put on a necktie 

sky-blue 

where would they carry me?

Hoping this summer day carries you to grand adventures.

Visit Diane at Random Noodling for today's roundup. 

A Wanderer's Song

Welcome to Poetry Friday. The roundup today is hosted by Julie at The Drift Record.

My wandering this holiday weekend will be solely in my head and on the page. Tuskegee, Mississippi, and the old Seneca Village in Central Park. I've been saving these for a long weekend.

Though I may wander over to the park to admire the ducks and other water birds, but no major traveling plans. I pulled out an old poetry textbook today, Doorways to Poetry by Louis Untermeyer, (published by Harcourt, Brace, Inc in 1938) and was browsing through it when I found the poem below.  Wherever you are wandering this weekend, I hope you make lots of memories.

Frontispiece of Doorways to Poetry by Rockwell Kent

A Wanderer's Songby John Masefield

A wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels,

I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;

I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land,

Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,

To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;

To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,

Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.

And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,

The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,

The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out,

And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.

Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,

For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick;

And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,

For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.

A Shard of Moonlight

Photo by McD22

Pain is inevitable in this here and now living. Though we do everything we can to throw it off as quickly as possible into someone else's hands, like a game of hot potato, don't let it land here. And if it does, there must be someone to blame. Over the last week or so I sat with a friend whose father died only a few weeks before her two-month-old son was born. Another friend lost her vibrant, lovely twenty-year-old son. I grieve for the numberless children poisoned by lead-laden water. I want to close my ears to the debacle of our political system. The world is a mess and it hurts. I wish I had answers for all this grief or reasons to explain it, but I have known grief and I know there are no quick fixes, no easy answers. When I stumbled upon this lovely poem by Mary Pratt, I felt my heart warm, the sadness lessen. Perhaps it will do that for you, too.

NON-DISPARAGEMENT AGREEMENT
by Mary Pratt


~after David Weinstock

If you won’t tell how I cried,
I won’t tell how you left.
You won’t tell my raging, either,
how I blamed you for everything:
my sister’s dying, the terrorists,
war, cancer and pain, blindness,
stupidity.

So you won’t tell
how I slammed doors, broke goblets,
made a fool of myself every time
I remembered. And I won’t tell how
quiet you were, how you wouldn’t
turn back when I called.

I won’t tell
of the blank, the emptiness
of the faceless winter sky
with its perfect stillness of stars,
the hollowness of the laughter
at feasts, the blandness of Rilke
and Bach.
You mocked me
with happinesses, with sunrises
and hymns, but I won’t tell.
You won’t tell how I tried,
and later, how I stopped trying,
believing as fervently in your absence,
and I won’t tell

how it amazes me
that people still fall in love,
that somebody in that shabby
brown house practices Beethoven’s
piano sonatas with all the windows open,
that strangers dig through the rubble
with bare hands, over and over,
trying to pull strangers back to life.
And especially I won’t tell

how you returned,
how the stories went on,
how the grass grew
green again and again after the snows,
the days lengthened, the chicks hatched
and the moon rose in a thin
white shard.

Catherine hosts the roundup this week at Reading to the Core.