Poetry Friday: Margaret Atwood

This has been a week of moments. Some harried and addled. Some bright and beautiful. Some quiet and still. I've tried to enter each one with purpose, to find a place to plant my feet and dig my toes into the shifting hours, brace against the slapping waves of responsibility, and plunge into the next thing with joy.

This morning, the next thing is to take my dad to the doctor. The next thing after that is time with the lovely Irene Latham this weekend and the Chattahoochee Valley Writer's Conference. 

Wishing you wondrous moments today. And plenty of Poetry Friday at Paper Tigers.

The Moment

Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

Read the rest here.

Poetry Friday: Elizabeth Bishop

I'm slow to Friday. Slow to Poetry Friday. Just plain slow today. 

While getting ready this morning, I realized I couldn't find my phone. I looked in all the probably places. Hubby helped me look with different eyes. I called myself. Nope. No one home. So I sat down to breakfast.  Hubby says, "When that happens to me, I have to retrace my steps." So between bites of scrambled egg and yogurt and strawberries, I mentally walked myself back in the door from last night. Clothes. I put clothes in the dryer. Went to check and there it was, on top of the dryer, lying on a folded towel. No wonder I couldn't hear the thing vibrate.

So we're getting ready to go out the door and hubby says, "I can't find my watch." We looked in all the usual places. No watch. I said, "You know, when that happens to me, I have to retrace my steps." We cracked up laughing. No time to retrace steps, so he's probably been retracing them all day long. Hopefully the watch will show up tonight.

I got in the car, planning to plug my phone in, since it had been on battery power all night and was nearly dead. I couldn't find the phone charger. 

So here is the perfect poem for losing things.

 

One Art
Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Read the rest here.

More Poetry Friday with Renée over at No Water River.

Poetry Friday: Tennyson

I took an online class this summer on plotting and outlining a novel with Dennis Foley through writers.com. It was a really good class and Dennis recommended Scrivener as the tool of choice. So I've played around with it for a couple of months and finally decided to buy the version for Windows. This program is really involved, very powerful, and I needed more than a tutorial, so I'm taking the class offered by Gwen Hernandez. It's a pretty cool program and Gwen is a good teacher. If you write fiction, it's worth checking out. I use OneNote for research on my nonfiction projects, but I can see where Scrivener can be useful here, too. Even for keeping up with blog posts, Scrivener looks like a great program for making life easier.

Gwen recommended a wonderful blog post by a friend about using Scrivener. It's definitely worth reading. Check it out at The Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood.

There is no theme to this post. I just felt like this poem today. Enjoy. More Poetry Friday at http://randomnoodling.blogspot.com/

The Oak
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;

Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.

All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.

Monday Musing

Random musing going on for Labor Day!

1.  If you have an iPhone, there is an app called Viber that lets you talk to anyone around the world free who also has an iPhone with Viber.  Stephen called on Saturday morning to say they had arrived in Lagos, Nigeria. They made all their flights and connections and managed to get through customs despite the fact that the forgot to take proof of the vaccines. He called again Saturday afternoon to let us know the had reached Fiditi, where they would stay for the night.  By now they should be settling in to the school and working to get the wifi up and running. I'm grateful for their safe travels. Fiditi is between Ibidan and Oyo. 

2. My dad is feeling a little better in a rehab facility. I think he's decided to stick around for a while longer. In a few weeks. We may be able to bring him home. My brother and I will put a refrigerator downstairs in his tri-level house, along with a microwave and toaster oven, so that he doesn't have to get up the stairs. I live four houses down from him and in a couple of weeks, my brother will be moving back to town and will be living in his house for a while.  

3.  I once sold a book called "In Your Genes" to a fifth grade teacher for teaching science. Unfortunately, it was a bit too graphic about what was in your jeans for a fifth grade classroom. We exchanged it for something more appropriate.  I was sitting in my dad's room this week and noticed he was sleeping with one foot out from under the bed covers. That's how I sleep. So is that in the genes, too?

4.  There are secrets grandparents keep. Until you're a grandparent, you don't even know they exist. If you're a grandparent, call me and we'll break open a bottle of wine. If you're not a grandparent, you 'll just have to wait.

5. I saw the cover of one of my new books this week. It's a series with State Standards on Native Peoples. I wrote the Inuit, Kwakiutl, and Nez Perce. Love the cover! 

Saying Goodbye

My house is strewn with toys. My energy is no match for the two little ones that have filled the rooms with noise this week. We've read books, watched Sheriff Woody and Buzz Lightyear multiple times, done puzzles, played Operation, and fed the ducks. Today my son and wife and their two sweet children board a plane for Nigeria where they will serve as house parents for a new school, Bethel American International School, opening just north of Fiditi. It's about three hours drive from Lagos on the coast.

In the last four months, they have sold, packed, or given away most of their household goods. They are traveling with nine suitcases and six carry-ons, plus children and car-seats! We've had a sweet visit. I'll miss them, but they are so excited about being there. It's such a great fit for them. You can see their story here.

Sylvia Vardell is hosting Poetry Friday this week at Poetry for Children. Stop by and enjoy the poetic offerings. In the meantime, I'm headed to the airport.

Taking Off
by Mary McB. Green

The airplane taxis down the field
And heads into the breeze,
It lifts its wheels above the ground,
It skims above the trees,
It rises high and higher
Away up toward the sun,
It's just a speck against the sky
--And now it's gone!

Southern Breeze Poet Sandra Havriluk

Welcome to this Poetry Friday. I am very excited to be hosting the round up today. I have the special privilege of introducing you to SCBWI Southern Breeze poet and author, Sandra Havriluk. I was browsing through the literary journal from the Alabama Writer's Conclave a few weeks ago and found Sandra's award winning poems, excepts from her novel in verse. I was immediately hooked by the main character, Belle's honest Southern voice. You're going to love these girls, meaning Sandra and Belle!

Here's the first stanza of "From Cradle to Grave."

~ 1 ~

June 21, 1934: Thirteenth Birthday
My mama pushed me into this world and
herself out of it thirteen years ago
today. The way Daddy sees it, he got
the raw end of that deal. Netty, who cooks
and cares and cleans for us, sees into my
heart like only somebody who loves you
like a mama can. She balls up her
hands onto her skinny hips. Her curved, dark
arms shine with summer day sweat, her muscles
ropy like twists of licorice candy.
“Belle Downing,” she says to me, “you didn’t
ask to be born. Your mama’s dying ain’t
your fault.” She holds my hand between hers.
We call it our moon pie, my marshmallow
white squeezed between her chocolate covering.
She lets go, sighs. “We all have our lot in life.
So’s time you be accepting yours, chile.” But
that’s hard to do when the June day’s heat wraps
you up, smothers you like a blanket of blame.

You'll want to read more at alalitcom. Scroll down to page 40 where Sandra's work begins.

Sandra agreed to chat about herself and the project. I hope you enjoy getting to know her a bit, as I have.

WHY DID YOU CHOSE TO WRITE FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE IN VERSE?

Every time I have a chance to meet with agents at various conferences to pitch this manuscript, I am asked this question, followed by the agents informing me how hard it is for them to sell verse novels, not to mention historical fiction written in this format. My answer to this “why question” is always the same: Belle’s voice came to me in this way, starting with the first line. Writing the story in blank verse seemed to fit the restrictions, isolation, and despair of Belle’s life.

I’ve always heard “write what you know.” The idea of writing a story about the surviving child of a mother dying while giving birth had always been on my heart because of my father, for that was his story. He always carried a sense of loss and guilt over his mother’s death, and his father always held him accountable for the loss of his wife. Although From Cradle to Grave is entirely fictional, there is much of my father’s pain and guilt in Belle, as well as his on-going search for redemption and acceptance.

WHAT WERE SOME OF THE CHALLENGES IN WRITING A NOVEL IN VERSE?

Telling a complete story in verse presents difficulty in balancing plot with poetic structure. Each scene must move the story forward, yet it must read as a poem. Dividing the story into three parts and ending with an epilogue helped with the forward motion of the story. The hardest thing I had to do was to eliminate some poems I loved for their poetry but which did not add any depth to the story.

WHO ARE MENTORS AND / OR INFLUENCES?

Obviously, Karen Hesse’s Out of the Dust cannot be overlooked as an influence in my attempting a verse novel. I have loved that story since I introduced it to my middle graders when it first came out and won the Newbery. My MFA thesis was entitled “YA Novels in Verse: Poetry or Prose with Line Breaks?” I spent hours analyzing what works and doesn’t work in YA verse novels for my thesis. A few of my favorites include Steven Herrick ‘s By the River, Meg Kearney ‘s The Secret of Me, Helen Frost ‘s Keesha’s House, The Braid, Pamela Porter’s I’ll Be Watching, Elizabeth Alexander and Marilyn Nelson’s Miss Crandall’s School for Young Ladies and Little Misses of Color.

I completed the first version of From Cradle to Grave as my MFA Creative Thesis under the working title Benevolence. Thanks to Susan Campbell Bartoletti for her encouragement to develop the character Otto Rimsky more fully and to Joyce McDonald for her critique of my poetry. I also thank my MFA workshops and my writing groups from the bottom of my heart for their input and inspiration.


More about Sandra:
Sandra earned her AB in English from the University of Georgia and her MFA in Creative Writing from Spalding University. Sandra’s mentors have included Joyce McDonald (award-winning Swallowing Stones and The Devil on My Heels) and Susan Campbell Bartoletti (winner of Newbery Honorfor Hitler Youth). In addition to the MFA program, Sandra has attended the Chautauqua Writers Foundation, the Rutgers One-Plus-One Conference, the Big Sur Writing Workshop, and SCBWI conferences. An English teacher, Sandra has taught at the elementary, middle, and high school levels and at present is an adjunct instructor at Gwinnett Technical College. She holds professional memberships in the Atlanta Writers Club (AWC), the Society of Children Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), and the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE).

Sandra has won 3rd place in the Atlanta Writers Club Juvenile Fiction writing contest for The Secret of Elijah (YA Historical Fiction) and 1st place for From Cradle to Grave (YA verse novel) in both the Atlanta Writers Club and the Alabama Writers Conclave Juvenile Fiction contests. Her work-in-progress is Side by Side, a verse novel about the impact of the Montgomery Bus Boycott on the lives of two little girls, one black and one white. She is actively seeking representation for her manuscripts.

If you'd like to contact Sandra, you may find her at email: shavriluk@bellsouth.net

On another note:

Starting today, you can read my interview with Cathy Hall, part of the blog tour for the 2012 Writing and Illustrating for Kids (WIK) conference. I’ll be leading a session on the Nuts and Bolts of writing for children. WIK is organized by the Southern Breeze region of SCBWI, the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. This year’s WIK conference will be Oct. 20 in Birmingham, AL. It’s a great place to learn more about the children’s publishing industry, meet agents and editors, and connect with a supportive network of writers and illustrators. Check it out at www.southern-breeze.net.

Now, add your Poetry Friday link. I may not be as "present" as usual, as my dad is in the hospital, so I'll be checking occasionally and reading as I can. Enjoy!

Poetry Friday in Oregon

I have spent a lovely week in Oregon with my daughter and son-in-law. A beautiful place, but looking forward to getting home. Traveling today. Enjoy this poem from Oregon's poet laureate, Paulann Petersen.

Primed

It was middle June

during the duration
of a month that was a wait

for each day to come,
during that summer
when I would turn teen,

when I was almost something—
way past twelve and counting.
It was the middle of day,

mid-day heat halfway 
between cool and hot,
a double-handed noonday

stroke: the clock's
count of twelve
reminding me of what 

I was not. Still a multiple
of two, three, four, six,
I was a mere factoring

Read the rest here.


Andromeda hosts today's Poetry Friday Roundup at A Wrung Sponge.