Beware! After nail
clipping, the poodles are running
in stealth mode.
poem- horse light August 21, 2013
Light is galloping across the hills
Glistening roan, bay, and dun.
Splotches of palomino and skewbald
reflect the canter of the clouds
across the sun.
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©2012 Michael Russell Used with permission. If you love this image, you should check out Michael’s gallery!
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The light was so fantastic above Kalamalka Lake on the drive home today. I wish I’d had a camera to capture the long light, and gleaming fields of gold, russet, and brown above the lake! Words will have to do, though Michael Russell’s beautiful photo will give you an idea of the hills and the cantering clouds, at least!
Hey there, new followers! August 19, 2013
Again there are a lot of new followers (several hundred in the last couple of weeks). Especially if I’m not following you get, please let me know you’re here!
I recently noticed that I have several hundred new followers, and I’m sure that many of you are writers with your own blogs.
Please take a moment and introduce yourself and your blog in the comment section below ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ so I can check out your blog, too! It’s nice to follow back other bloggers and share the love, but if you don’t comment, I never know you’re here.
I look forward to meeting you! 🙂
much ado in English class!
Here’s some fun for you! Last year’s Eng 9 class playing with Shakespeare. Have a chuckle!
Just for fun, here is an interpretation of Act Two of Much Ado About Nothing by a group of my linear English 9 class. They did a good job with it, and I have to say, I love Don John! ;-P
found poem- nature nostalgia August 18, 2013
It’s been a while since I went hunting for a found poem. Here is one using single lines or phrases found on the WordPress Blog roll under the topic of poetry between noon and 1:00 Pacific today, August 18, 2013. Each line of the poem comes from a different poem. If you find a line from your work, please link to it in the comments!
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Lessons in bird song
like it was our world.
Art of revelation-
something more than me-
more temperamental-
heart of a warm sky,
My soul is
a glorious riot of frogs-
threads of raindrops-
transitory life.
Fear and pain
tied artificial limbs together.
Your words float
my infinity,
a drawn sword.
Twilight comes
shadows litter roadways
waiting to be discovered.
You lay here wanting
the new heaven
like a sinner sees God.
I danced a lone waltz
The women break
philosophical dreams
amid the forest wild.
Hope was an ever-blossoming flower
where dreams are made.
I caress your face
tear my soaring wings.
Everything in my head went quiet
a flute for the wind’s mouth.
She is the music
holding hands with my future nostalgia.
Let’s not be the ones who sleep with no dreams.
Beauty sits in itself,
one word for freedom,
the child that I used to be-
an archipelago of memories.
Pain needs no name,
exploring all its mysteries.
The sun touched your face,
passion
exuding her scent
never to grow old,
petals falling from a rose.
This thought ought to be true
like tree roots’
perennial embrace.
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What I like about found poetry is the juxtaposition that comes. The pronouns change, and while some fit seamlessly, others jar you, and you have to consider why it works (or doesn’t, as you perceive it!). Sometimes a line catches you and holds you, and you have to ponder. The meaning weaves from stolen images, like Frankenstein’s monster.
poem-great at eight (For Rachael) August 17, 2013
You’re eight
and in your mind you’re great
Your dreams are there within your grasp
You clasp them tight and know
that as you grow
You’ll meet each goal
Your soul desires
Until someone you admire says, “No!
You don’t have talent,
you can not do
what your dreams are telling you.”
If you believe these sorry words
If you accept this worry heard
If you allow your dreams to die
if you sigh, and don’t ask why
then I suppose you wield the sword
that kills your dreams.
The naysayers set it in your hand
but they can’t swing it.
So throw down the sword,
hold tight to dreams that stir you in the night!
Those dreams that feel so right,
that make you mighty, those dreams
to sing, to act, to write!
Practise each day, to hone your craft
in every way, no matter what the naysayers say!
Opportunity looks like hard work.
Luck is believing you are lucky.
Practice makes perfect.
You will move past eight, and if not yet great,
Just wait!
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This poem grew out of a Twitter conversation. Diana Gabaldon said that she knew when she was 8 that she should be a novelist (she went on to earn a Masters in marine biology and a PhD in ecology before she got around to trying, though). I was 8 when I started writing stories, sharing them in school, and dreaming of being a writer. Rachael Hofford said that when she was 8 she was told by her teacher that she had no talent for writing and that she should give up that idea. As an English teacher, I know first hand that some of my students who dream of writing aren’t very good, but the only way for them to get better is to read and to write. Practicing their writing by emulating the best that they read will teach them the skills to become good writers. Maybe they lack a spark of genius, but it may come later with life experience. If it doesn’t, there are still many writers who do well telling a story. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. You may have to work very hard, and you’ll need some luck as well, but your dream is just as possible as anyone else’s.
Sesame Street- Sons of Poetry August 16, 2013
I have to show this to my English classes on Poetry Friday next year. lol
The Sons of Poetry aren’t quite as efficient as Rhymezone.com, but they’re much more entertaining!
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listening on the lake August 15, 2013
A lone loon
intones a poem
lingering long
across the lake.
Its echoing call’s
a prayer chant.
Summer song
whispered on the water
Lonely loon
listens for his lover
lost in
melancholy memories
of sun sambas on waves.
Haunting ghost calls
as cabins close
and summer dies.
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If you haven’t heard a loon call, here is a nice video that captures the mournful quality of their song:
poem- summer storm August 12, 2013
Epic battle:
light and dark.
Musket muzzles flash
Light bayonets the hills
with slashing stabs.
In the concussion of the cannonade
Houses rattle.
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So let’s discuss this poem. Despite the nice circuitous connection of battle/rattle , I think ‘houses rattle’ is the weakest line in the poem, and ending with the weakest line is never a good thing. You want a nice strong ending. I started with ‘reverberation’ in the line (no houses at that point) which is perhaps better is some ways, though I felt too obvious a choice.
Let’s workshop this. What do you think? What would you do to the last line to continue the battle metaphor, but convey the quaking ground and rattling windows?
poem- time tree August 11, 2013
The tree outside my bedroom window
was the diameter of my skinny child legs:
smooth skinned trunk,
sweet green leaves.
Now, I reach my mother arms
around rough bark,
scrape my wrists as
I stretch to touch
my finger tips together.
There’s summer sun in the scent
of poplar leaves.
I look into the window
searching for my youthful face
gazing out at the future.
