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From “Little Pictures of Japan”, My Travelship by Olive Beaupre Miller

Apr5

I think this would be a lovely idea for a spring celebration, perhaps sometime during April, poetry month:

“Of Poetry Picnics and Fireflies”

“In Japan they sometimes have poetry picnics. When Master Sogi has an especially fine flowering tree, a cherry perhaps, all pink and with a wealth of bloom, he invites his friends to a party. There they come in their holiday robes and little clattering wooden sandals. They walk about the tree and admire it, they drink in its fragrance, and tea is served to them under its branches. Then they sit down and begin to scribble narrow , little slips of paper. By and by each one has written a poem in pretty Japanese characters, and after he has read it to the others, he goes and fastens it to a branch of the tree in honor of which the party was given.
That is pleasure enough, certainly, for one afternoon, but if the guests stay until nightfall it is possible that Master Sogi will provide for them another lovely game, that they may enjoy the beauties of Nature still further. When it is quite dark, he will let loose hundreds of captive fireflies in the garden, and as the pretty things flit here and there, showing their airy, elfin lights in the dusk, the guests will chase them hither and yon, over little bridges, in among the flowers, around quaint stone statues, about the tea house. All the garden will be gay with flitting forms and silver laughter, till the fireflies lose themselves in the moon-beams.”

I would show you the pictures in the book of the poetry-tree and the children chasing fireflies, but I’m not good at photography or posting pictures. You will just have to find your own copy of this delightful book of Japanese poetry and stories to share with the children in your life under your own poetry tree.

A River of Words by Jen Bryant

Apr3

A River of Words: The Story of William Carlos Williams by Jen Bryant, illustrated by Melissa Sweet. Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2008. 32 pages.

“By stripping away unnecessary details, Williams tried to ‘see the thing itself . . . with great intensity and perception.'” ~Author’s Note, A River of Words by Jen Bryant

“Then I looked to a big box of discarded books I had from a library sale. One of the books had beautiful endpapers and I did a small painting on it. Then I took a book cover, ripped it off, and painted more. The book covers became my canvas, and any ephemera I had been saving for one day became fodder for the collages.” ~Illustrator’s Note, A River of Words, illustrated by Melissa Sweet

My youngest daughter, Z-baby, says her favorite poem is William Carlos Williams’ brief meditation on the distilled essence of common things that begins with the words: “so much depends/ upon/ a red wheel/ barrow . . .” This picture book biography distills Mr. Williams’ life down to the bare essentials, but it nevertheless tells and implies so much about the man and about his poetry. In the book, I learned:

–that Williams became a doctor, of obstetrics and pediatrics, so that he could make a living and still write poetry in his spare time.

–that Mr. Williams loved poetry from his boyhood days in Rutherford, New Jersey.

–that the poet made friends with other poets: Ezra Pound, Hilda Doolittle, Charles DeMuth, and Marianne Moore.

–that William Carlos Williams lived a busy life of keen observation and “rivers of words”.

Several of Williams’ poems are featured on the end papers of the books, and quotes from his poems are woven into the text and into the collage illustrations. (If you are shocked by the quotation from Ms. Sweet about the wanton destruction of books to make her artwork, I choose to believe that the books she used were already too damaged to be shelved or read.) Without Melissa Sweet’s pictures, this book would be interesting but ephemeral. However, the illustrations complement and enhance the text so well that the book is destined to become a classic in the picture book biography genre. It already won the following awards back in 2009 when it was published:

2009 Caldecott Honor Book
An ALA Notable Book
A New York Times Best Illustrated Children’s Book
A Charlotte Zolotow Honor Book
NCTE Notable Children’s Book

And to those awards I add my kudos. I bought a copy of A River of Words for my library, but I think I will need to buy another copy for Z-baby. (And maybe one for my son-in-law, the poet.)

There is also a book about William Carlos Williams in the Poetry for Young People series that would be a good follow-up for “young people” who are intrigued by this introduction to his life and work. If you are interested in purchasing ($5.00) a curated list of favorite picture book biographies with over 300 picture books about all sorts of different people, email me at sherryDOTpray4youATgmailDOTcom.

I’m reviewing and highlighting poetry picture books this month on Semicolon in honor of Poetry Month. What’s your favorite poetry-related picture book?

Poetry for Fools

Apr1

It’s National Poetry Month, and it’s also the first of April, April Fool’s Day. So here is a selection of foolish poetry for celebrating the day.

THE ICHTHYOSAURUS

There once was an Ichthyosaurus
Who lived when the earth was all porous,
But he fainted with shame
When he first heard his name,
And departed a long time before us.

Come on in, the Senility is Fine
by Ogden Nash

People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don’t have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderweb of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn’t sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don’t have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don’t try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don’t go around saying Quote I don’t mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.

APRIL FOOL’S DAY

The first of April, some do say,
Is set apart for All Fools’ day
But why the people call it so
Nor I, nor they themselves, do know.

THE SNAIL’S DREAM by Oliver Hereford

A snail who had a way, it seems,
Of dreaming very curious dreams,
Once dream’t he was—you’ll never guess!—
The Lightning Limited Express.

THE OSTRICH by Mary Wilkins Freeman

The Ostrich is a silly bird
With scarcely any mind.
He often runs so very fast
He leaves himself behind.

And when he gets there, has to stand
And hang about till night,
Without a blessed thing to do
Until he comes in sight.

DADDY FELL INTO THE POND by Alfred Noyes

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!

And everyone’s face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
“Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He’s crawling out of the duckweed!” Click!

Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn’t a thing that didn’t respond
When
Daddy Fell into the pond!

Have a good laugh today! Happy April Fool’s Day!

Sequoyah by James Rumford

Mar28

Sequoyah: The Man Who Gave His People Writing by James Rumford, translated by Anna Sixkiller Huckaby.

Quite appropriately, this book about the man who invented the Cherokee written language is printed in two languages: English and Cherokee. The story itself is almost unbelievable. Sequoyah was fifty years old and knew no English and couldn’t read when he began to invent a written language for the Cherokee people in about 1809. People laughed at him and persecuted him for his strange ideas. Yet he persevered, and he is famous for having given his people a writing system and a written language.

I didn’t know that the giant Sequoia trees of California are probably named for Sequoyah. Rumford’s tale of the life of Sequoyah is framed as a story told by a father to his children about how the trees are like the man Sequoyah, even though Sequoyah was crippled and old and not a warrior at all.

“Now, who was this Sequoyah? my father asks.
He was a famous man, we say, because he invented writing for the Cherokee.
He was a brave man because he never gave up.
He was a leader because he showed his people how to survive—
How to stand tall and proud like these trees.”

The introductory blurb calls this book “a poem to celebrate literacy, a song of a people’s struggle to stand tall and proud.” And indeed, it is both narrative and poetic. I was moved, after reading this brief history of Sequoyah, to find other books and read more. A man who is famous for inventing an alphabet? That’s my kind of biography.

More books about Sequoyah:

Sequoyah: The Story of an American Indian by C. W. Campbell.

Sequoyah: Young Cherokee Guide (Childhood of Famous Americans) by Dorothea J. Snow.

Sequoyah and the Cherokee Alphabet by Robert Cwiklik.

Sequoyah: Leader of the Cherokees (Landmark Books, 65) by Alice Marriott.

Sequoyah by James Rumford is available for checkout from Meriadoc Homeschool Library. If you are interested in purchasing ($5.00) a curated list of favorite picture book biographies with over 300 picture books about all sorts of different people, email me at sherryDOTpray4youATgmailDOTcom.

One Fun Day with Lewis Carroll by Kathleen Krull

Mar8

One Fun Day with Lewis Carroll: A Celebration of Wordplay and a Girl Named Alice by Kathleen Krull, illustrated by Julia Sarda. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2018. 32 pages.

One Fun Day is not exactly a traditional biography or a picture book biography of the famous author and mathematician Charles Lutwidge Dodgson as it is a celebration of his life, his storytelling, and his way and play with words. Nevertheless, there is two page spread of text and pictures at the back of the book that tells “more about Lewis Carroll’s journey to the Alice books” as well as a glossary of “words and ideas invented or adapted by Lewis Carroll.”

The main part of the book is a romp through the life, words, and ideas of Mr. Carroll. The book talks about Carroll’s enduring childhood and gives an idea of what a day with Lewis Carroll might have been like. The illustrations are a delight, including a two-page spread of Alice chasing the White Rabbit through Wonderland. There are also numerous pictures of Lewis playing and story-telling with his young friends, and the text incorporates many of the words and phrases that Lewis Carroll originated: chortles, uffish, slithy, uglification, and un-birthday, to name a few.

The day and the book both end with Lewis rich, famous, and busy writing stories: “Lewis Carroll, the man who never forgot how to play, had turned a day of fun into stories that were fabulous and joyous—as he would say, frabjous.”

I wrote in another post about my take on modern-day accusations against Lewis Carroll that I find to be unsupported, revisionist, and unfair. You can check out that post and the links there if you’re interested. But I would suggest that you just enjoy Mr. Carroll on his own terms as he and his work are presented in One Fun Day with Lewis Carroll. This picture book would be a wonderful introduction to a read-aloud of Alice in Wonderland, a book that I love but I find to be somewhat polarizing. Some love it as much as I do; others just can’t understand it or hate it. At least you should try reading it if you haven’t. Alice is quite the adventure. And wordplay is the essence of poetry.

More Lewis Carroll:
Many Happy Returns:January 27th

Of Snarks and Quarks

Radio Jabberwocky

Lewis Carroll’s Christmas Greeting

If you are interested in purchasing ($5.00) a curated list of favorite picture book biographies with over 300 picture books about all sorts of different people, email me at sherryDOTpray4youATgmailDOTcom. I’m highlighting picture book biographies in March. What is your favorite picture book about a real person?

Christopher Smart, b. April 11, 1722, d.1771

Apr11

April is National Poetry Month.

Christopher Smart, a 16th century poet and writer of popular songs, was said to be mentally disturbed, confined for some period of time to a mental institution, but nevertheless a talented poet and perhaps just the unfortunate victim of enemies who wanted him out of the way. He wrote a famous free verse poem called Jubilate Agno, part of which is about his cat, Jeoffry, and how said cat worshipped the Lord. The book pictured below is one I have in my library, and it contains the part of Jubilate Agno that is about Jeoffry the cat. Smart also wrote a poem called A Song to David about David and the Psalms and how God speaks through the psalms of David.

Excerpt from Smart’s poem, A Song to David

Glorious the sun in mid career;
Glorious th’ assembled fires appear;
Glorious the comet’s train:
Glorious the trumpet and alarm;
Glorious th’ almighty stretch’d-out arm;
Glorious th’ enraptur’d main:

Glorious the northern lights a-stream;
Glorious the song, when God’s the theme;
Glorious the thunder’s roar:
Glorious hosanna from the den;
Glorious the catholic amen;
Glorious the martyr’s gore:

Glorious—-more glorious is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down
By meekness, call’d thy Son;
Thou that stupendous truth believ’d,
And now the matchless deed’s achiev’d,
Determin’d, dar’d, and done.

Samuel Johnson on Christopher Smart, from The Life of Johnson:

“Madness frequently discovers itself merely by unnecessary deviation from the usual modes of the world. My poor friend Smart showed the disturbance of his mind, by falling upon his knees, and saying his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place. Now although, rationally speaking, it is greater madness not to pray at all, than to pray as Smart did, I am afraid there are so many who do not pray, that their understanding is not called in question.”

Concerning this unfortunate poet, Christopher Smart, Johnson had, at another time, the following conversation with Dr. Burney:

BURNEY. “How does poor Smart do, Sir; is he likely to recover?”
JOHNSON. “It seems as if his mind had ceased to struggle with the disease; for he grows fat upon it.”
BURNEY. “Perhaps, Sir, that may be from want of exercise.”
JOHNSON. “No, Sir; he has partly as much exercise as he used to have, for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his confinement, he used for exercise to walk to the alehouse; but he was carried back again. I did not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people praying with him; and I’d as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that he did not love clean linen; and I have no passion for it.”

I’d as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Indeed.

William Wordsworth, b. April 7, 1770

Apr7

April is National Poetry Month.

Wordsworth on poetry: “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Spontaneous, powerful, emotional, and tranquil—all at the same time? I’m not sure I could do all that together, which is probably one reason I’m not a poet. One of many.

Wordsworth on The Poet: “What is a Poet?. . . He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.”

Wordsworth on nature study: “Come forth into the light of things,/Let Nature be your teacher.”

William Hazlitt on Wordsworth: “He is in this sense the most original poet now living, and the one whose writings could the least be spared: for they have no substitute elsewhere. The vulgar do not read them; the learned, who see all things through books, do not understand them; the great despise. The fashionable may ridicule them: but the author has created himself an interest in the heart of the retired and lonely student of nature, which can never die.”

As for me, I used to call him “Wordswords” because I thought him much too high-flown and wordy. I still rather think so, but I’m not so sure that it’s a deficit in Wordsworth that I don’t appreciate his poetry more. Maybe it’s a deficit in my ability to appreciate good poetry. Anyway, here’s one that I do rather enjoy, about looking out upon the sleeping city of London:

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

And another: Lucy II.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, b.February 22, 1892

Feb22

Renascence

ALL I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked the other way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I’d started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see:
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.

As the poem goes on, the poet experiences some sort of awakening or death and resurrection, or renascence, and finally, the poem of 200+ lines ends with these words:

O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e’er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,—
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—-the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

Millay was by no means a Christian poet, but her poems, many of them at least, are subject to Christian interpretation. This one was definitely a favorite in my adolescent years, and it still is. The description of a spiritual awakening or rebirth is vivid and quotable.

Christmas in Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1863

Dec11

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
and wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Music, Part IV by Henry Van Dyke

Jun3

O lead me by the hand,
And let my heart have rest,
And bring me back to childhood land,
To find again the long-lost band
Of playmates blithe and blest.

Some quaint, old-fashioned air,
That all the children knew,
Shall run before us everywhere,
Like a little maid with flying hair,
To guide the merry crew.

Along the garden ways
We chase the light-foot tune,
And in and out the flowery maze,
With eager haste and fond delays,
In pleasant paths of June.

For us the fields are new,
For us the woods are rife
With fairy secrets, deep and true,
And heaven is but a tent of blue
Above the game of life.

The world is far away:
The fever and the fret,
And all that makes the heart grow gray,
Is out of sight and far away,
Dear Music, while I hear thee play
That olden, golden roundelay,
“Remember and forget!”