Poetry Speaks Who I Am is the latest anthology to come from Sourcebooks' "Poetry Speaks" line, and the first—perhaps only?—poetry collection aimed specifically at middle-school-age readers. This book features more than 100 poems, including both classic works (from Walt Whitman, Christina Rossetti, etc.) and modern poetry written by authors representing both genders and a rainbow of cultural perspectives. The book includes a 47-track audio CD featuring many of the poets reading their own work.
This is the kind of project that fills our hearts with happiness, because over the past five years we've met several kids who seriously had no idea that poetry was still being written. Poetry Speaks Who I Am is the ideal collection to prove to young readers that while poems like Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee" are called classics for good reason, modern poetry—like Parneshia Jones's outstanding "Bra Shopping"—can be funny, evocative, and powerful. There were one or two inexplicable omissions (no E.E. Cummings, and they left out my favorite youth-themed poem of all time, Simon Armitage's "I Am Very Bothered"), but Poetry Speaks Who I Am is still totally awesome, and a must-buy for any middle or high school library.
Little known fact: the story of The Sorcerer's Apprentice, that creepy bit in Fantasia with Mickey Mouse battling the brooms (which terrified me as a child, BTW), is actually based on a poem by Goethe. Yep, the dude responsible for The Sorrows of Young Werther, a novel rumored to have inspired more suicides than any other.
So, naturally, Disney has decided to make it into a Nicolas Cage movie:
The AP Wire recently posted a story about a dude named Walter Skold, an amateur poet and the founder of the Dead Poets Society of America. (Their tagline: "We dig dead poets... you dig?") Mr. Skold has just finished a three-month road trip during which he visited the graves of 150 poets in 23 states, traveling in his "Poemobile" cargo van. He spent the three months visiting and documenting the graves of the dead poets--some well-known, some totally obscure--and celebrating their works through readings, tombstone-decorating, and the odd bit of performance art.
Mr. Skold is making a documentary about his trip, and hopes to search for dead American poets buried in Europe next year.
Well, if people went to see a love story set on the Titanic, why not?
But if you like your movies sob-inducing, feel free to check out Bright Star, a biopic about the love affair of poet John Keats and the young woman who lived next door to him. Not to spoil things, but Keats died at age 25, so... well, don't get attached:
At long last, Britain has chosen a woman as its poet laureate: the Scottish-born, openly gay poet Carol Ann Duffy will be the first female to hold the post since it was created in 1668.
Duffy will serve a 10-year term as England's official royal poet, for which she will be paid an annual stipend of 5,750 pounds sterling per year, and the traditional "butt of sack"—600 bottles of sherry. (Awesomely, Duffy says she'll donate the stipend, but she's demanding the booze "up front".)
Dude. 600 bottles?
I bet I know what everyone on Ms. Duffy's Christmas gift will be getting this year.
I managed to catch today's installment of The Writer's Almanac, which reminded me that today was French poet Arthur Rimbaud's birthday. Now, normally I dismiss the Symbolist poets as a bunch of whiny, melodramatic babies... but, to give Rimbaud his due, he actually was a baby—a child prodigy whose literary career began at 16, and ended at 21, after his affair with fellow poet Paul Verlaine* went south. The poor kid probably couldn't help writing poetry like this:
A Season in Hell
Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.
One evening I took Beauty in my arms—and I thought her bitter—and I insulted her.
I steeled myself against justice.
I fled. O witches, O misery, O hate, my treasure was left in your care...
I have withered within me all human hope. With the silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy.
I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood. Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness.
And springtime brought me the frightful laugh of an idiot.
Now recently, when I found myself ready to croak! I thought to seek the key to the banquet of old, where I might find an appetite again.
That key is Charity. (This idea proves I was dreaming!)
"You will stay a hyena, etc....," shouts the demon who once crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Seek death with all your desires, and all selfishness, and all the Seven Deadly Sins."
Ah, I've taken too much of that; still, dear Satan, don't look so annoyed, I beg you! And while waiting for a few belated cowardices, since you value in a writer all lack of descriptive or didactic flair, I pass you these few foul pages from the diary of a Damned Soul.
Wow! I bet his birthday parties were nothing but fun, don't you?
*An alcohol-and-drug-addicted pedophile who began his affair with Rimbaud while his seventeen-year-old wife was heavily pregnant.
The Poem I Turn To: Actors and Directors Present Poetry That Inspires Them
Today is the last day of National Poetry Month, so here’s a last-minute offering: a review of The Poem I Turn To: Actors and Directors Present Poetry That Inspires Them, edited by poet Jason Shinder.
The Poem I Turn To: Actors and Directors Present Poetry That Inspires Them is an eclectic collection of the favorite poems of 42 entertainment figures, accompanied by their notes and commentary. The title is slightly misleading—the contributors include novelists, screenwriters, and producers, not just famous Hollywood names. The poetry selections range from well-known favorites to relatively unknown works, and the contributors' commentary features everything from pompous, name-dropping anecdotes to insightful literary analysis. Director Billy Luther's choice was perhaps the most memorable: rather than choosing an official, published work, he chose a fascinating poem written by the star of his documentary Miss Navajo, Navajo storyteller (and winner of the “Miss Navajo Nation” beauty pageant) Sunny Dooley.
The appeal of the commentary might vary, but the best part of The Poem I Turn To is the attached 30-track CD, which gives listeners the chance to hear poetry read by actors like Stacy Keach, Adam Arkin, and Holland Taylor. Recitation is becoming a lost art, and hearing poetry read by such gifted, beautifully-trained voices is a rare pleasure.
Poetry Speaks Expanded, edited by Elise Paschen and Rebekah Presson Mosby, is an updated version of the 2001 collection Poetry Speaks. This remarkable book features poems from 47 of the greatest English-language poets of the 19th and 20th centuries, including such diverse poets as Walt Whitman, Gwendolyn Brooks, and Dylan Thomas. Each chapter of Poetry Speaks Expanded is devoted to a specific author, and includes a brief biography, an essay about the author written by a modern poet, and a selection of the author’s poems. The book is accompanied by three audio CDs of the authors’ readings of their own work—everything from the early (and virtually unintelligible) phonograph recordings of Tennyson reciting “The Charge of the Light Brigade” to modern recordings of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.
Al Young‘s Something About the Blues is a more informal, idiosyncratic collection. Young, California’s Poet Laureate, has collected 120 of his new and previously-published poems. All of them are blues-inspired; many are dedicated to a specific artist. Something About the Blues is accompanied by an audio recording featuring Young reading and discussing over 20 of his poems, frequently backed by a live band.
Something About the Blues and Poetry Speaks Expanded would make wonderful gifts for any teachers, students, or literature buffs on your holiday shopping list—their combination of text and audio provides the perfect “hook” for anyone interested in deepening their understanding and appreciation of poetry. Poetry Speaks Expanded provides a comprehensive, well-organized introduction to nearly fifty of the greatest English and American poets of the past century, while Young’s collection will be embraced by fans of both the blues and his elegantly offbeat verse. These accessible, beautifully executed collections are guaranteed to offer poetry fans a memorable reading and listening experience.
In honor of Valentine's Day, here's a bizarre little love poem from John Donne. (Please note: This may not be to everybody's taste. If you're looking for something a little more conventional, try this. Or just do a search for some of the previous "Wordcandy loves..." posts, because let me tell you: we have posted some super-hot poetry on this blog.)
"The Flea" by John Donne
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two; And this, alas! is more than we would do.
O stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, yea, more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is. Though parents grudge, and you, we're met, And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true; then learn how false fears be; Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
It's been a long time since we've done one of these, but today is Sylvia Plath's birthday (and, let's face it, a lot of her stuff is very Halloween-appropriate), so I think it's time:
Terminal
Riding home from credulous blue domes, the dreamer reins his waking appetite in panic at the crop of catacombs sprung up like plague of toadstools overnight: refectories where he reveled have become the holstery of worms, rapacious blades who weave within the skeleton's white womb a caviare decay of rich brocades.
Turning the tables of this grave gourmet, the fiendish butler saunters in and serves for feast the sweetest meat of hell's chef d' uvres: his own pale bride upon a flaming tray: parsleyed with elegies, she lies in state waiting for his grace to consecrate.
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them; Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one: The shapes a bright container can contain! Of her choice virtues only gods should speak, Or English poets who grew up on Greek (I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin, She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand; She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin: I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand; She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake, Coming behind her for her pretty sake (But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose: Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize; She played it quick, she played it light and loose; My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees; Her several parts could keep a pure repose, Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose (She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay: I'm martyr to a motion not my own; What's freedom for? To know eternity. I swear she cast a shadow white as stone. But who would count eternity in days? These old bones live to learn her wanton ways: (I measure time by how a body sways.)
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero, Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? '' Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening. Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains. Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys. Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me. And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?'' Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- [They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!''] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-- [They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!''] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? . . . . . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet--and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''-- If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.'' And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: ``That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.'' . . . . . No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
"The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year. Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one."
-Lewis Carroll (Illustration by fellow Wordcandy author Mervyn Peake)
Wordcandy loves poetry, even when it's Completely. Messed. Up.
ANNABEL LEE
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, In the sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Wordcandy is particularly fond of kinky poetry from the 17th century...
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING
As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ; Men reckon what it did, and meant ; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit Of absence, 'cause it doth remove The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assurèd of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two ; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
Wordcandy loves poetry, even when it spits upon grammar conventions...
i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what is does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh.... And eyes big love-crumbs,
Poetry Speaks Who I Am is the latest anthology to come from Sourcebooks' "Poetry Speaks" line, and the first—perhaps only?—poetry collection aimed specifically at middle-school-age readers. This book features more than 100 poems, including both classic works (from Walt Whitman, Christina Rossetti, etc.) and modern poetry written by authors representing both genders and a rainbow of cultural perspectives. The book includes a 47-track audio CD featuring many of the poets reading their own work.
