Poetry Friday: Allan Wolf

Last month, I participated in the March Madness Poetry Tournament organized and put on by Ed DeCaria. Sixty-four poets forged poems from words assigned and seeded by Ed's vicious imagination. I lost in round one to some guy named Allan Wolf. Check out the match up here. My word was "panic," Allan's was "kinkier." Like I said--vicious imagination. Okay, so thirty-one other people lost in round one, too. It's to be expected, right? Yeah, but who is this guy, anyway? And I know thumbnail photos are often not the best representation, but frankly, this guy looked just a little scary!

So, I went to his website, found his Facebook page, made a list of books and charged off to the library to see what I could find. And there in the Young Adult section, sitting out in the "Grab Me First" section by the computer stations, I found this beautiful book.

Aside from all the hoopla going on with the hundredth anniversary of Titanic's demise, I was intrigued by the fact that this book, unlike most poetry books (unless your name is Norton and you collect things), was nearly 500 pages long. I brought it home and plunged in. The deeper I got, the more I was enthralled.

We all know the story of Titanic. Everybody's seen the movie. How on earth does someone retell this story and make it riveting? Allan found the answer.

The Watch that Ends the Night is told in the voices of twenty-four people aboard the ship. Before the First Watch ended, I was invested in the lives of Jamila, the frightened refugee; Harold Bride, the spark--telegrapher par excellence; Thomas Andrews, the confident shipbuilder; John Jacob Astor, the millionaire who can find privacy nowhere; Frederick Fleet, the lookout who watches the world; and Frankie, the little boy who knows he can't replace his dead brother. There are others, but these are some of my favorites. And suddenly they are real people that I care about, and I don't know which ones will live and which ones will die. I even care about that stupid rat the baker chases.

The voice of the iceberg constantly reminds me that most of them won't survive.

The voice of the undertaker intrudes to count bodies, record their effects, and sew them into bags.

Who? Which ones? Always the question, and the end of each poem makes me wish helplessly for their safety.

The book received starred reviews from Booklist, Kirkus Review, and Horn Book Magazine.

I wondered what more I could say about it. It's simply marvelous.




I love audio books and can't wait to get my hands on the audio version of this one. It has been nominated for an Audie Award.

And as for Allan Wolf, don't let the thumbnail fool you. He's not scary at all. Well, he might be if he was telling a ghost story. When I emailed him in the middle of an out of town trip to ask if he wanted to add a comment, he graciously lent me his very impressive voice.

From Allan:

The earliest draft of this book contained a family of 13 ship rats that became more and more human as the ship got farther out to sea.  These rats gave themselves names. They sang opera. They fell in love. They went on quests.  The book's editor, Elizabeth Bicknell at Candlewick Press, wisely convinced me that the rats were a distraction.  It was maybe a year of work and 150 pages of prose tossed overboard.  The single rat that scuttles about the pages of the book is all that is left of this merry band of rodents.  

Note on the Iceberg:  The Iceberg speaks in iambic pentameter for a very specific reason.  Visually this form looks monolithic on the page, as a chunk of ice might.  As the novel progresses, the Iceberg's poems become shorter and shorter.  And toward the very end, the line length shortens.  The iambic pentameter becomes iambic tetrameter.  Then trimeter.  And so on.  The rhythm of the "iamb" is the rhythm of the heart: lub DUB, lub DUB,  lub DUB, lub DUB, lub DUB.  And it is the human heart that so intrigues this holier-than-thou, ancient, existentialist villain.  Also the name, iamb, is a play on the mantra that the Iceberg uses throughout the book.  I am the ice.  I am the ice.  When the iceberg finally melts away, it's final poem is:  "I am."  One final heart beat.  And then it's gone.

If you would like to know more, read this excellent interview at The Fourth Musketeer. And here is a WLOS news interview with Allan reading the voice of the undertaker.

And I couldn't resist adding Allan's actual voice to this post.

Diane Mayr has the Round Up at Random Noodling. There's always something for everyone on Poetry Friday.

Don't Be Flip

Don't Be Flip
by Todd Boss

when you drop
your mate at
the dock or

your children
at school. Don’t
be cool. Don’t

be coy. Or if
you do, don’t
assume it’s

okay to act
that way. For
today may

be your last
chance at
joy before it

flashes away

Read the rest here.

Anastasia Suen hosts Poetry Friday Roundup at Booktalking.

Are you keeping up with the progressive poem this month? Check out the line 13 addition here.

Good Poetry Friday: Scott Cairns

Since today is Good Friday, I'd like to introduce you to a religious poet whose work I find both beautiful and challenging. Scott Cairns is Professor of English and the Director of Creative Writing at the University of Missouri. Scott is a good friend of a poetry professor I had at Columbus State University (GA), and I had the pleasure of hearing him speak and read a few years back. He's delightful.

A couple of quotes about the poet:

“Cairn’s warm, calm, personal tones win him respect in many quarters, but his core audience comes from his subject matter: the mysteries, consolations and consequences of Christian belief . . . . Cairns seeks compassionate ways to apply the lessons of theologians or of Christ to his own life; one does not need to be Christian, or even religious, to profit from what he finds.” –Publishers Weekly

“Scott Cairns is one of the best poets alive.” –Annie Dillard

The More Earnest Prayer of Christ

and being in an agony he prayed more earnestly… Luke 22:44

His last prayer in the garden began, as most
of his prayers began – in earnest, certainly,
but not without distinction, an habitual…what?

Distance? Well, yes, a sort of distance, or a mute
remove from the genuine distress he witnessed
in the endlessly grasping hands of multitudes

and often enough, in his own embarrassing
circle of intimates. Even now, he could see
these where they slept, sprawled upon their robes or wrapped

among the arching olive trees. Still, something new,
unlikely, uncanny was commencing as he spoke.
As the divine in him contracted to an ache,

A throbbing in the throat, his vision blurred, his voice
grew thick and unfamiliar, his prayer – just before
it fell to silence – became uniquely earnest.

And in the moment – perhaps because it was so
new – he saw something, had his first taste of what
he would become, first pure taste of the body, and the blood.

-- Scott Cairns

Read here an article about Scott and his poetic journey.

This excerpt is from an interview in the Mars Hill Review:

MHR: As a teacher of creative writing, do you have any specific goals for your students?

SC: Yes. I want them to see themselves, and what they create, as part of an ongoing, vital tradition. I want them to turn away from the modernist, personal mode and its taste for ennui. I want them to find in poetry a means of consoling their losses, a way of witnessing grace, and an access to living, even now, in what we still might call the Kingdom of God. I want us all to be free of petty passions, and freed into serving enormous passions. I know that's pretty big talk, but I think poetry has the power to effect just such pleasures. I think the writer of John's gospel was onto something when he chose Logos as a metaphor for the Christ. I like also the Hebrew notion of word, davhar, a word which is also a thing, a power, an agent instigating other, subsequent words.

If you happen to live near Los Angeles, Scott will be presenting at Biola University on April 26.

There is lots more Poetry Friday rolling around in the kidslitosphere today and Robyn is hosting the roundup over at Read, Write, Howl.

And don't forget to follow the progressive poem celebrating National Poetry Month. Mary Lee has today's new line at A Year of Reading.

And... One more thing. Stop by Think Kid, Think! and celebrate the winner of  the March Madness Poetry Tournament. 

Progressive Poem Continues Here

Among the many offerings in the Kidslitosphere for National Poetry Month, the utterly delightful Irene Latham is hosting a progressive poem at her blog, Live Your Poem... Stop by to see the list of other poetic activities you can participate to celebrate the wonder of words.

I remember a few progressive dinners in my time. Most of them were youth group events where you were never quite sure what you'd find at the next stop. 

And that's exactly what this poetic journey offers. So climb aboard and enjoy! 

If you are reading this

you must be hungry

Jeannine, you're next!

2012 KidLit Progressive Poem:  watch a poem grow day-by-day as it 

travels across the Kidlitosphere! April 1-27

Schedule

1  Irene at Live Your Poem 

2  Doraine at Dori Reads

3  Jeannine at View from a Window Seat

4  Robyn at Read, Write, Howl

5  Susan at http://www.susantaylorbrown.com/blog/

6  Mary Lee at A Year of Reading

8  Jone at Deo Writer

9  Gina at Swagger Writer's

10  Julie at The Drift Record

11  Kate at Book Aunt

12  Anastasia Suen at Booktalking

13  Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference

14  Diane at Random Noodling

15  Ruth at There is No Such Thing as a Godforsaken Town 

16  Natalie at Wading Through Words 

17  Tara at A Teaching Life

18  Amy  at The Poem Farm

19  Lori at Habitual Rhymer

20  Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe

21  Myra at Gathering Books

22  Pat at Writer on a Horse

23  Miranda at Miranda Paul Books 

24  Linda at TeacherDance

25  Greg at Gotta Book

26  Renee at No Water River

27  Linda at Write Time

28  Caroline at Caroline by Line

29  Sheri at Sheri Doyle

30  Irene at Live Your Poem

Poetry Friday: Spring Rain

Spring is beautiful at my house. Color bursting in every corner. Oh how grateful I am, though, for this glorious spring rain. Our pollen counts have been off the charts. Everything is yellow, the deck chairs, the car, the very air. 

Rain, glorious, rain!

Spring Rain
by Sara Teasdale

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say. . . .

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

More Poetry Friday with Mary Lee at A Year of Reading.

And don't forget the March Madness Poetry Tournament. Stop by and vote!
Regional Semifinals, Flight One
Regional Semifinals, Flight Two

Spring Break Beach Reads

Wide swaths of beach four inches deep in shells.

Morning walk at low tide.

I'm finally getting to this book. Did you know that you can now  "borrow" books free at Amazon Prime?

This was a free ebook download back before Christmas. A good book for analyzing a few recent reads and thinking about a new story idea. 

Audio book  for the drive down. Will finish on the way home.  

Hubby brought this one in hardcover. I may delve into it when he's done. 

And I'm playing in the March Madness Poetry Tournament. Round One has started. I'll get my first word (seed #2) tonight. Voting for Round One begins tomorrow. 

Gettin' Ready for March Madness Poetry Tournament

                                                                         

March Madness is at Think Kid, Think! Instigated, designed and hosted by Ed DeCaria, this exciting tournament will pit children's poets from around the blogosphere in a seeded battle of rhythm and rhyme. The whistle blows on Monday for the tip-off.

Here are a few tournament poems to get in the mood.

from "The Last Tournament" by Lord Alfred Tennyson

She ended, and the cry of a great jousts
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways
From Camelot in among the faded fields
To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights
Armed for a day of glory before the King.

from "The Tournament" by Sydney Lanier

Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies,
And the knights still hurried amain
To the tournament under the ladies' eyes,
Where the jousters were Heart and Brain.

Listen to basketball-loving children's author and photographer, Charles R. Smith, Jr., read his poem, "Let Me Introduce Myself."

Poetry Friday Roundup is over at Gathering Books. Stop by and let the poetry begin.