Past Poetry Posts
Winter 08 Poetry Posts
Softness
There was a softness on summer days
When fluff from cottonwood trees sift through the air
There is the softness of dresses
Satin and silk and gossamer threads wound together
And there is the softness of bruises
Darkening and bleeding gently beneath the skin
There is the softness of books, of snow
Of a single feather floating down from the sky
There is a softness in earth
In the quiet dead things rotting away underneath
There is a softness in old photographs
The ones greying and ripped from being folded
Old grey photographs soft with your face
Jennifer Donovan, age 16
Lane County, Oregon
Partner Poem
Cypresses
At noon they talk of evening and at evening
Of night, but what they say at night
Is a dark secret.
Somebody long ago called them the Trees
of Death and they have never forgotten.
The name enchants them.
Always an attitude of solitude
to point the paradox of standing
Alone together.
How many years they have been teaching birds
In little schools, by little skills,
How to be shadows.
–Robert Francis (1901-1987)
from Changing Light: The Eternal Cycle of Night and Day, ed. J. Ruth Gendler
Ask the Poems
1. What is the gift of your shadows?
2. How do you shine?
3. What do you want to remind me of?
4. How are you lonely?
5. How are you enchanted?
Fall 07 Poetry Posts
Me, the Disease
I am bruised knees
Waving at tie-dyed children through school windows
Falling out of trees of apples
I am red with confused fingers
I seem to be looking for a megaphone
I am dead dragonflies
I seem to be a train
I am wet footprints down the dock
I am catching the next wave out of here
It seems I am not the only one
I am fossilized peanut butter in a rented kitchen
I am making air graffiti where everyone can hear me
With my tongue
All-nighters high on nothing but thoughts
I am too tired to care
I seemed to be unplugged
I am doing cartwheels
I seem to have a jagged spirit
I am the kid asking, "Where did all the good people go?"
--Madisyn Schultz, age 14
PARTNER POEM
Sister Cat
Cat stands at the fridge,
Cries loudly for milk.
But I've filled her bowl.
Wild cat, I say, Sister,
Look, you have milk.
I clink my fingernail
Against the rim. Milk.
With down and liver,
A word I know she hears.
Her sad miaow. She runs
To me. She dips
In her whiskers but
Doesn't drink. As sometimes
I want the light on
When it is on. Or when
I saw the woman walking
toward my house and
I thought there's Frances.
Then looked in the car mirror
To be sure. She stalks
The room. She wants. Milk
Beyond milk. World beyond
This one, she cries.
--`Frances Mayes
ASK the POEMS
1. What do you know about restlessness?
2. In what ways do you recognize yourself?
3. How are you a stranger to yourself?
4. How does thought keep you company?
5. What is the gift of limitations?
Spring 07 Poetry Posts
Good Bye
Goodbye bare feet, I cannot live shoeless anymore
Goodbye cold water, I cannot stand to swim in March anymore
Goodbye cut off jeans, I don’t grow taller anymore
Goodbye times tables and timed tests; you do not scare me anymore
Goodbye tops of trees, I am too heavy to climb that high anymore
Goodbye black cat, you are long gone and you will not scratch me anymore
Goodbye redheaded little friend, you have grown up and do not want to tag along anymore
Goodbye lunchroom drama, I am far away in the library so you do not come find me anymore
Goodbye burned fingers; I have learned my lesson and will not touch hot elements anymore
Goodbye secret valentines, slipped into lockers when no one is looking, I don’t need to hide anymore
Goodbye to writing locked away secret poems, I am not afraid to read them anymore
--Katherine Westermann, age 17
Lane County, Oregon
On the Road
By the toe of my boot,
a pebble of quartz,
one drop of the earth's milk,
dirty and cold.
I held it to the light
and could almost see through it
into the grand explanation.
Put it back, something told me,
put it back and keep walking.
--Ted Kooser
(from Delights & Shadows)
Questions for "Goodbye" and "On the Road"
1. Why do you leave?
2. What do you take with you?
3. What are you afraid to let go of?
4. How do you welcome me?
5. How do you protect yourself?
For Fall 05 Poetry Posts, fantasy writer, Nina Kiriki Hoffman chose
At Fifty Miles an Hour by Katherine Westermann, Lane County high school poet
The twinkling of the city goes by
At fifty miles an hour
Ribbons of red and yellow light
Flash across your glasses
Like the twisting tails of Chinese dragons
In a dusty obsidian sky
The rattling noise of the warm night
Rushes through your open window
And crackles in the car
Like sparks of noise
Filling our ears and ruffling your hair
The sprawling streets of concrete go by
At fifty miles an hour
People live out their lives in the city
But from the freeway
They are nothing more than a blur
In the tangle of laundromats and restaurants
That fade into each other
And we do not see them
At fifty miles an hour
The eyes behind your glasses sway
To gaze upon the city
Then flicker back
To the rushing lines
Painted on the slowly crumbling concrete
The night and the road and the city
Take little notice of us,
At fifty miles an hour
To go with it, Nina chose this:
The Vacation by Wendell Berry
Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
Five questions to ask both poems:
1. Who is on this journey?
2. What do they connect with?
3. What do they not see?
4. Who sees them?
5. What is their destination?
For the Winter 05 Post:
All My Blood is Full of Polar Bear by Rosemary Melia, age 18, Lane County, Oregon
All my blood is full of polar bear.
It was looking for a winter of darkness,
for a sun obscured by the earth's tilted curvature,
and it found it in my muscles,
for the sun's obscured by my skin's curved envelope.
The polar bear is shaking off its salty damp
coat as it lumbers
through the ravine between my eyes.
It dives for seals in my heart.
The polar bear grips with thick nails into the
bones of my arms and hibernates there,
marrow intermingling with clear white fur.
When you are ready to leave,
wander into the bleak tundra, the plane of my back
or into the cave of my mouth, and
The polar bear will send you to live in the aurora borealis
with a swipe of paw and a gnash of brilliant teeth.
For the companion poem Carter Mackenzie chose:
Saint Animal by Chase Twichell
Suddenly it was clear to me--
I was something I hadn't been before.
It was as if the animal part of my being
had reached some kind of maturity that gave it
authority, and had begun to use it.
I thought about death for two years.
My animal flailed and tore at its cage
till I let it go. I watched it
drift out into the easy eddies of twilight
and then veer off, not knowing me.
I'm not a bird but I'm inhabited by a spirit
that's uplifting me. It's my animl, my saint
and soldier, my flame of yearning,
come back to tell me
what it was like to be without me.
Questions to ask the poems:
1. Poem, what are your most powerful words?
2. Poem, to what places in the world do those words take you?
3. Poem, what do your feelings sound like?
4. Poem, what do you most desire?
5. Poem, in what ways do you make me like yourself
SPRING 06 POETRY POST
Sanctuary by Stephanie Silver, Age 15, Lane County, Oregon
The musty smell of moss and wood, the sweet singing of birds. Squirrels chirping in the distance, the trees swaying slightly in the breeze. My silent feet resting on the soft dirt as I sit down on a large rock. Next to me, a crystal clear creek trickles down over the rocks. The gentle song of the creek makes me close my eyes and lean into the soft arms of the breeze, which joins in the creek's song. The creaking trees add rhythm to the melody. Slowly, the sounds of the forest blend together to make a symphony that no orchestra could ever play. No composer could ever capture. The song eventually slows to a lullaby. I lay my head down on the soft grass. The trees sway back and forth, rocking me to sleep as they keep rhythm. The creek continues to sing its aria along with the other sounds of the forest.
“Go to sleep,” they sing softly. “You're safe here.”
Finally, I can fight it no longer. My eyes droop and I slip into a dream. Yet, I'm afraid to sleep. Afraid to wake up and find that my perfect place has disappeared.
THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come to the peace of the wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
QUESTIONS TO ASK THE POEMS (Revised):
1. What have you left behind when you go into the wild?
2. Which hungers do not get fed there?
3. Which senses do you use to find peace?
4. Why is sanctuary a temporary thing?
5. What other hidden places do you have?
Fall 06 Posts
Doug Fir by Jamie Fritz, Age 18
Standing on the shore --
Rigid and tall,
Like a soldier in line.
A gentle breeze shakes me --
And I stretch out my limbs,
Beating down, hot rays --
My trunk burns.
Clouds move across the sky,
And summer fades to autumn.
Leaves of huckleberries turn red
And my branches stay green.
The air turns crisp and cool.
The breeze that was gentle --
Slowly becomes steadier.
My limbs begin a quick dance.
The first snow begins to fall,
And slowly my limbs --
Are covered with thick wet snow.
I try to stretch,
But the snow is too heavy.
Then one day a swallow twitters,
The sun peeks from the clouds --
And the wet snow becomes wetter.
Soon the snow is gone,
With sprouts poking through
The ground --
Spring has finally arrived.
Something About The Trees by Linda Pastan
I remember what my father told me:
There is an age when you are most yourself.
He was just past fifty then,
Was it something about the trees that make him speak?
There is an age when you are most yourself.
I know more than I did once.
Was it something about the trees that make him speak?
Only a single leaf had turned so far.
I know more than I did once.
I used to think he'd always be the surgeon.
Only a single leaf had turned so far,
Even his body kept its secrets.
I used to think he'd always be the surgeon,
My mother was the perfect surgeon's wife.
Even his body kept its secrets.
I thought they both would live forever.
My mother was the perfect surgeon's wife,
I can still see her face at thirty.
I thought they both would live forever.
I thought I'd always be their child.
I can still see her face at thirty.
When will I be most myself?
I thought I'd always be their child.
In my sleep it's never winter.
When will I be most myself?
I remember what my father told me.
In my sleep it's never winter.
He was just past fifty then.
Questions to ask the poems "Doug Fir" "Something About the Trees."
1. Which season do you dream about?
2. Are you afraid of winter? Why or why not?
3. How are you strong?
4. What is the secret of the season you lead me to?
5. What do you know about how I might become most myself?
Winter 06 Poetry Posts
Inside by Lizzi Wolfram, Age 15 Lane County, Oregon
What goes on inside
Paragraphs is impossible
Rivers twist and turn
And I sit and write
To put pen to paper
And make something
Worthwhile
When nothing comes
Except random bits
And pieces
From someting
You've heard before
But can't remember.
The Poem I Just Wrote by Joy Harjo
The poem I just wrote is not real.
And neither is the black horse
who is grazing on my belly.
And neither are the ghosts
of old lovers who smile at me
from the jukebox.
QUESTIONS FOR THE POEMS
1. If you looked in a mirror, what would you see?
2. If you added other phantoms, which ones would you choose?
3. If you had a soundtrack, what would be playing?
4. Who are you talking to?
5. What would you be like if the impossible & the unreal were taken away?
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