Ghost Villanelle

A poem to celebrate Halloween by Iowa poet Dan Lechay.


Ghost Villanelle


We never saw the ghost, though he was there--
we knew from the raindrops tapping on the eaves.
We never saw him, and we didn't care.


Each day, new sunshine tumbled through the air;
evenings, the moonlight rustled in dark leaves.
We never saw the ghost, though: he was there,

if ever, when the wind tousled our hair
and prickled goosebumps up and down thin sleeves;
we never saw him. And we didn't care

to step outside our room at night, or dare
click off the nightlight: call it fear of thieves.
We never saw the ghost, though he was there

in sunlit dustmotes drifting anywhere,
in light-and-shadow, such as the moon weaves.
We never saw him, though, and didn't care,

until at last we saw him everywhere.
We told nobody. Everyone believes
we never saw the ghost (if he was there),
we never saw him and we didn't care.

Renga Challenge

The renga challenge didn't go so well. Oh well, I know everyone is very busy at this time of year. Thanks to cloudscome http://awrungsponge.blogspot.com/ for her two line stanza. There's still time if you want to play. The next person will write a 3-line stanza, the next 2 lines, and so on. Here's what we have so far. I can't wait to see what you will add!





crowded pumpkin patch
empty by mid-afternoon
autumn gone too soon



Earth's children all possess
thier own round orange space

Come Renga With Me!

In the introduction of their new book, Birds on a Wire, J Patrick Lewis and Paul Janeczko (see last week's post) invite readers to "get together with a couple of your friends and see if you can create a renga of your own." Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I'm going to try the activity with my eighth graders, but I'd like them to have an example of a renga in progress.

Here's where you come in. It would be great fun if you could help me create a Poetry Friday Renga to show them. Here's how it works, I have written three lines about an experience I had last Saturday. The next person writes two lines, the next writes three, etc. Don't worry too much about strictly sticking to the rules of a renga. For me, poetry is more about getting your meaning across rather than being boxed in by too many rules. For example, my "starter" lines rhyme, most renga don't rhyme, but I kind of like the sound and couldn't think of anything I like as much so I'm going with it.

Here's a website I've found helpful in case you want to learn more about renga or other Japanese poetry forms: http://www.ahapoetry.com/r_info.htm.

Let's keep it going until next Thursday, that way my students can watch as new entries are made, and I'll post the complete poem for our next Poetry Friday. What do you think? Will you come renga with me?



crowded pumpkin patch
empty by mid afternoon
autumn gone too soon
http://www.irvingisd.net/






secret-agent-josephine.com

J Patrick Lewis

It's been almost twenty years since I bought a book of poetry by J Patrick Lewis called, Earth Verses and Water Rhymes. My students loved those poems. It instantly became one of the most popular books to read during D.E.A.R. time. I bought a second copy so that I'd have one for my personal collection.

Over the years I've added many of J Patrick Lewis' books to my collection including his latest, which I absolutely love, Birds on a Wire: A Renga 'Round Town written with the great Paul Janeczko.





You can imagine my excitement when I received an email from J Patrick Lewis! J Patrick Lewis! Wow!


The first thing I did was to print out that email for my memory book!



When I told Pat (I'm not sure I should be referring to someone so esteemed by his first name.) that my students are currently studying narrative poetry, he generously offered me one of his wonderful poems to share with my students and on my blog. The poem has appeared in several anthologies. After reading it, you'll see why it's been so popular.


Stories


Circling by the fire,
My dog, my rough champion,
Coaxes winter out of her fur.
She hears old stories
Leaping in the flames:
The hissing names of cats,
Neighbors' dogs snapping
Like these gone logs,
The cracking of ice . . .
Once, romping through the park,
We dared the creaking pond.
It took the dare and half
Of me into the dark below.
She never let go.

We watch orange tongues
Wagging in the fire
Hush to blue whispers.
Her tail buffs my shoe.
She has one winter left.

Maybe two.







If haven't visitied J Patrick Lewis' website, http://www.jpatricklewis.com/ , you really should take a look at the terrific resources for kids, teachers and writers.

Autumn Cinquain

I drive to work on a road lined on each side with cornfields . Yesterday, as I sat at a stop sign waiting my turn, I noticed a couple of deer standing in the cornfield to my left watching the cars go by. They stood very still and seemed to be in deep thought. I starting wondering what they were thinking. Where they just curious about the cars? Were they waiting at the stop sign for their turn to cross the road? Were they angry about the traffic cutting through their cornfield?

This little poem snapshot was inspired by them.

Contemplation

Two deer
in the cornfield
peek out between brown stalks.
Are they hoping to cross the road
safely?

Almost Forever

I love books written in verse form and so do many of my students. I just finished reading Almost Forever by Maria Testa (http://mariatesta.com/), author of the award-winning novel Becoming Joe Dimaggio.

Almost Forever is a brief novel written in the voice of a young girl whose father is sent to Vietnam to serve as a military doctor for a year.




Although the girl worries about her father’s safety, she also worries that she might forget him. In this excerpt the girl explains that year is a long time for a child (something we adults often forget).

From “One Year (Not Such a Long Time)”

One year
is not
such a long time,

Daddy said,
kneeling on one knee
in front of me,
squeezing
my shoulders.

In one year, Baby,
you’ll be in
second grade,
not first
and you’ll be
seven years old,
not six,
and then
I’ll be home.
One year
is not
such a long time.

I did not
tell Daddy
that he was wrong—
that second grade
was half a hallway
and a whole world
away from first,
that seven
was everything
six was not,
and that one year
was forever.

Everyday the girl goes with her mother and younger brother to the post office to get the letters from Vietnam. When the letters suddenly stop coming, the family fears the worst.

I teach near an army base. Several of my students have a parent in the military. Some of them have a parent stationed outside of the country. I think they will see themselves through the eyes of the main character and be able to relate to her emotions and experiences. My hope is that Almost Forever will also inspire them to keep a journal to record their own experiences while their parent is away.

Fond Memory

Yesterday, the mailman delivered two poems my mother wrote many years ago. I had forgotten how beautifully she expressed her love for her father in each tiny package of a poem.

Now that Mom is very ill, she asked what I'd like to have to remember her by. I knew immediately that those two poems were what I wanted most. I hadn't seen them in years, but as I read each one, memories of her reciting them to us came flooding back. She told me that she loved her father so deeply, she wanted to give a special gift to him, and her poems were all she had.

My grandfather cried when he read "Daddy's Girl." My mother knew he was proud of her when he asked for the poem to be read at his funeral. The second poem, "Angel" was written after her father passed.

As I remember, Mom only finished those two poems. She was always so busy with children and housework; there was little time for writing. I posted a poem I wrote about her last Mother's Day.

She sent "Daddy's Girl" out to a publisher once. When it was rejected, she was sure no one would want to read anything she wrote and gave up on her dream of seeing the poem in print.

I think she always meant to write more; time just got away from her. I wish she had written more. My fondest memory of her won't be one of her cleaning the house. It's the image of her sitting at the kitchen table putting so much of her heart into every line of those special little poems that I'll remember.

(I didn't print her poems here, because I'm hoping to find a publisher who will love them as much as I do.)