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Poetry: Cybils Suggestons

Do you need a suggestion for a book to nominate for the Cybils in the category of Poetry? Nominations are open through October 15th, and anyone can nominate a book, as long as the book was published between October 15, 2014 and October 15, 2015. And here’s link to the nomination form. The Poetry category, by the way, includes verse novels this year, a change which I applaud.

The following books are a few titles that haven’t been nominated yet and that I’ve read or heard good things about:

Sing a Season Song by Jane Yolen. Creative Editions, September 2015.

Amazing Places by Lee Bennett Hopkins. Lee & Low, October 1, 2015. NOMINATED

A Pirate’s Mother Goose by Nancy Sanders. Albert Whitman, September 2015.

Poems About Animals by Brian Moses. Wayland Ltd, July 2015.

Poems About the Seaside by Brian Moses. Wayland Ltd. July 2015.

So You Want to Be a Wizard? by Wes Magee. Caboodle, October 1, 2015.

Blue Birds by Caroline Starr Rose. G.P. Putnam’s Books for Young Readers, March 2015. NOMINATED

A Heart Like Ringo Starr by Linda Oatman High. Saddleback, March 2105.

Like Water on Stone by Dana Walrath. Delacourte, November 2014.

Paper Hearts by Meg Wiviott. Margaret K. McElderry, September 2015.

Random Body Parts by Leslie Bulion. Peachtree, March 2015. NOMINATED

My Seneca Village by Marilyn Nelson. namelos, October 1, 2015. NOMINATED

Over the Hills and Far Away: A Treasury of Nursery Rhymes by Elizabeth Hammill. Candlewick, March 2015. NOMINATED

And Some More Bookish Questions

I found these post with these seven questions in my drafts folder. I don’t know where it came from or why I saved it. But here it is.

1. What propelled your love affair with books — any particular title or a moment?
I know it’s trite, but my mom read to me—and took me to the library.

2. Which fictional character would you like to be friends with and why?
Sam Gamgee and Rosie? Anne of Green Gables? Frances the badger?

3. Do you write your name on your books or use bookplates?
Neither. Well, some of my books have my name stamped in them, particularly those books that I loan out frequently to other homeschoolers.

4. What was your favourite book read this year?
So far, of the 117 books I have read this year, my favorite book has been The Dean’s Watch by Elizabeth Goudge.

5. If you could read in another language, which language would you choose?
Hebrew or Greek, to read the Bible in the original languages.

6. Name a book that made you both laugh and cry.
The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien. I always laugh at Sam Gamgee’s folksiness, his taters and his oliphaunts, and I almost cry at the end when things are made right, but a price must be paid.

7. Share with us your favourite poem?
My favorite poem used to be Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe. Then, this happened.
My favorite now? Maybe Very Like a Whale by Ogden Nash. Or Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Or The Prodigal Son by James Weldon Johnson. Yes, I think The Prodigal Son is my favorite (today).

Young man—
Young man—
Your arm’s too short to box with God.

But Jesus spake in a parable, and he said:
A certain man had two sons.
Jesus didn’t give this man a name,
But his name is God Almighty.
And Jesus didn’t call these sons by name,
But ev’ry young man,
Ev’rywhere,
Is one of these two sons.

Take Wing by Jean Little

I’ve been talking to several families who are trying to teach their children, mostly girls, about friendship—how to make friends, how to deal with “mean girls”, how to forgive, how to take the initiative to make and heal friendships. It’s hard stuff for adults sometimes, much harder for six to fourteen year olds who are apt to misinterpret nonverbal communication, take offense easily, become shy and inhibited, or on the opposite end, be inconsiderate and even rude to one another.

Take Wing is an older book, published in 1968, for middle grade readers by Canadian author Jean Little. It’s primarily about ten year old Laurel Ross and her eight year old brother James. Laurel realizes, even though no one else in the family agrees, that James is different, slow to learn and immature for his age. Then when Mrs. Ross breaks her hip and has to stay in the hospital for months, everyone in the family, including Aunt Jessica and cousin Elspeth, must come to terms with James’s problems and try to find out what to do to help him. So James and his “mental retardation” (the term used in the book which would need to be discussed and reinterpreted in today’s terminology) are the main issues in the story.

However, the book is also about friendship and how to make friends and how to resolve differences and misunderstandings. Laurel and her cousin Elspeth start to become friends when Aunt Jessica and Elspeth move into the Ross’s house to help out while Mom is in the hospital. But it’s a false start, marred by a series of missteps and crossed wires. Finally, Elspeth and Laurel learn to communicate with one another and restart their friendship. The same kind of misunderstanding and hurt feelings has been holding Laurel back from being friends with the girl down the street. The road to mending this friendship also takes communication and some courage on the part of both girls.

I would really like to hand this book to a couple of eight to twelve year olds I know. It’s a quiet, gentle story, but I think it might be good bibliotherapy for some sensitive, insecure, and easily discouraged young ladies who need an extra push to “take wing.”

This poem by Jean Little, who “has been partially blind since birth as a result of scars on her cornea and is frequently accompanied by a guide dog,” is featured in the book. From the poem and the book and Mrs. Little’s other novels, I would guess that Jean Little knew what it was like to be different and a bit diffident when she was growing up. And perhaps she can teach some of us, adult, teen or chlid, to “endure through the (friendship) journey’s stress.”

A friendship is a fragile thing
Like the dust of the moon on a butterfly’s wing
Presuming on it is like trying
To keep a butterfly from flying
You cup your hands, try not to clutch
But it is crippled by your touch
By all the self-involved demands
Implicit in your closing hands
Yet, deep in love, there also lies,
The bravery of butterflies.
Butterflies go through nights of storm
Migrating to a land that’s warm.
They drift in brilliant frailty,
Testaments to mortality,
And all the while, they own the strength
To mount the wind and come at length
Home again, their loveliness
Enduring through the journey’s stress.
A treasured friendship also can
Survive the blundering of man.
Although it is a fragile thing,
It has the courage to take wing,
Dare to ride the dark, and come
Bravely home.

Poetry Friday: Goblin Feet by JRR Tolkien

I am off down the road
Where the fairy lanterns glowed
And the little pretty flitter-mice are flying
A slender band of gray
It runs creepily away
And the hedges and the grasses are a-sighing.
The air is full of wings,
And of blundery beetle-things
That warn you with their whirring and their humming.
O! I hear the tiny horns
Of enchanted leprechauns
And the padded feet of many gnomes a-coming!
O! the lights! O! the gleams! O! the little twinkly sounds!
O! the rustle of their noiseless little robes!
O! the echo of their feet – of their happy little feet!
O! the swinging lamps in the starlit globes.

I must follow in their train
Down the crooked fairy lane
Where the coney-rabbits long ago have gone.
And where silvery they sing
In a moving moonlit ring
All a twinkle with the jewels they have on.
They are fading round the turn
Where the glow worms palely burn
And the echo of their padding feet is dying!
O! it’s knocking at my heart-

Let me go! let me start!
For the little magic hours are all a-flying.

O! the warmth! O! the hum! O! the colors in the dark!
O! the gauzy wings of golden honey-flies!
O! the music of their feet – of their dancing goblin feet!
O! the magic! O! the sorrow when it dies.

Tolkien himself said of this poem: “I wish the unhappy little thing, representing all that I came (so soon after) to fervently dislike, could be buried for ever.” However, I beg to differ, and I rather like the sweet, then melancholy, feel to this verse. I suppose Tolkien came to see and wanted to portray elves and goblins and faery-creatures differently, more seriously and nobly, after he wrote this poem and before he wrote The Hobbit and LOTR. But I think there’s room in the world for both visions. And I like the bittersweetness of “magic hours all a-flying” and “the sorrow when it dies.”

Of Psalms and Semicolons

I am taking a blog break for Lent, but I thought I’d share some of my old posts from years gone by. I’ve been blogging at Semicolon since October, 2003, more than eleven years. This post is copied and edited from April 2, 2005:

Poetry is above all a concentration of the power of language, which is the power of our ultimate relationship to everything in the universe.–Adrienne Rich
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. John 1:1

I must confess that my creativity is somewhat limited. When I started this blog, I called it “Sherry’s Blog.” Imaginative, huh?

Eldest Daughter gave me the name “Semicolon,” and I liked it. I like semicolons; I use them judiciously. However, I still didn’t have any idea that the title would actually say something about the purpose of this blog.

But it does. I blog to communicate. I also blog to connect with others and to connect other people with each other and with the information and ideas that will help them to ultimately connect with the God and Father of us all. Jesus is my Semicolon; He is the connection between me, in all my sin, and a Holy God. So in a way that could probably be expressed better in poetry were I gifted in that area, I want to use this blog as a semicolon to connect you to small things and big things, good and wise and wonderful.
Language really is quite powerful, and even punctuation has its place in holding the universe together.

The psalms, written as they were using the poetic device of parallelism, almost beg for the frequent use of semicolons in English translation. I don’t know what kind of punctuation they used in ancient Hebrew, if any.

Poem for Today: Psalm 93

The LORD reigns, he is robed in majesty;
the LORD is robed in majesty
and is armed with strength.

The world is firmly established;
it cannot be moved.
Your throne was established long ago;
you are from all eternity.

The seas have lifted up, O LORD ,
the seas have lifted up their voice;
the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.

Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
mightier than the breakers of the sea–
the LORD on high is mighty.

Your statutes stand firm;
holiness adorns your house
for endless days, O LORD .

Here’s a good introductory discussion of Hebrew poetry, in particular the psalms by Dr. Ralph F. Wilson.

The Poetry of God’s Word

Did you know that about a third of the entire Old Testament can be considered poetry? There’s not as much poetry in the New Testament, but there are several poetic passages, including some of Jesus’s words such as the Beatitudes and the Lord’s (Model) Prayer.

Hebrew poetry wasn’t exactly like English poetry or modern poetry. Little or no rhyming. There is some wordplay and alliteration, but it’s often not easy to translate. However, the basic elements of Hebrew poetry are just as understandable in translation as they are in the original language IF you think of the passages as poetry. The following poems or songs are some of the most famous, lyrical and meaningful passages of the Bible, other than the Psalms, Proverbs, The Song of Solomon, Job, and the book of Lamentations which are also written in poetic form.

The Song of Moses and Miriam: Exodus 15:1-21
The Song of Deborah: Judges 5
The Song of the Bow: II Samuel 1
The Burden of Nineveh: Nahum 1:10-3:19
The Song of Mary, Magnificat: Luke 1:46-55
THe Song of Zacharias, Benedictus: Luke 1:68-79
The Beatitudes: Matthew 5:3-10
Who Shall Separate Us? Romans 8:35-38
He Humbled Himself: Philippians 2:5-11

Trustworthy Saying, I Timothy 2:11-13

Here is a trustworthy saying:

If we died with him,
we will also live with him;
if we endure,
we will also reign with him.
If we disown him,
he will also disown us;
if we are faithless,
he remains faithful,
for he cannot disown himself.

The value of studying poetry as poetry in the Bible:

“The Bible is filled with images as well as theological ideas. Life is a journey down a path, God is a shepherd, depression is a valley, salvation is a feast. These images, and not only doctrinal ideas, should be prominent in biblical teaching and preaching. Tracing them through the Bible is as valid an approach to doctrinal content as is systematic theology. God trusted such images to communicate the truth people need to know.” ~Leland Ryken

“From Homer, who never omits to tell us that the ships were black and the sea salty, or even wet, down to Eliot with his ‘hollow valley’ and ‘multifoliate rose,’ poets are always telling us that grass is green, or thunder loud, or lips red. This is the most remarkable of the powers of poetic language: to convey to us the quality of experiences.” ~C. S. Lewis, The Language of Religion

Where I Am From

I am taking a blog break for Lent, but I thought I’d share some of my old posts from years gone by. I’ve been blogging at Semicolon since October, 2003, more than eleven years. This post is copied and edited from May 3, 2005:

NO JOKE/HAPPY POETRY MONTH!

I am from back-yard sheds and front porches, from Holsum bread, Imperial Pure Cane sugar (it’s quick dissolving) and Gandy’s milk.

I am from the edge of the Edwards Plateau, the two bedroom house on the unpaved block of Florence Street, dusty road dividing the widow ladies from the Methodist Church across the street on one corner and the Church of God on the other.

I am from pecans and apricots, mesquite and chinaberry, the tree I sat in to read my ten allowed library books every week and to watch the neighbor lady brush out her long grey Pentecostal hair that had never been cut.

I am from cranking homemade ice cream with ice and rock salt packed into the freezer and going to church every time the doors were open.

From Mary Eugenia and Joe Author, Lula Mae and Monger Stacy, Bonnie Leota and Kenneth Dale.

I come from teachers and preachers and hard workers, the kind of people who could fix your car or sell you a ticket to the drive-in picture show or teach your children to read and write.

From “don’t sing at the table” and “we only expect you to do your best”.

I’m from cars with names like the Maroon Marauder and Old Bessie, from carports and driveways instead of garages, from swamp coolers instead of central air, from shade trees and pavement so hot it could burn your bare feet.

I am from Lottie Moon and Annie Armstrong, Girls’ Auxiliary and Training Union, The Old Rugged Cross and It only takes a spark, from old ladies playing the autoharp in Sunbeams and young bearded men playing the guitar around the campfire. From Kumbaya.

From the Heart of Texas, the Heartland, the center of the universe, the kind of town everybody wants to be from.

I come from Wales and Arkansas, Comanche, Sweetwater, Claude, and Brownwood, fried chicken, fried potatoes, steak fingers and fried okra.

I’m from y’all and pray for rain and fixin’togo.

From the grandmother who sewed and the Mema who taught music, the grandpa who could sell ice to an Eskimo, and the grandfather who worked on cars and died before I was born.

I am from a house full of memories and craft projects, some completed and hung on the walls, some never finished, waiting for younger hands and newer minds. I’m from dreams and places where doors were not locked and neighbors never let you pay them back when you borrowed an egg or a cup of milk.

This poem began with a poem by George Ella Lyon called Where I’m From. You can read more at the poet’s site about how the poem became a writing prompt and a phenomenon.
Pratie’s Place has a list of links to bloggers who have written poems participating in this meme.

If you write your own I-am-from poem, let me know in the comments, and I’ll link to it.

Happy Birthday Mr. Houseman and Mr. Frost

I am taking a blog break for Lent, but I thought I’d share some of my old posts from years gone by. I’ve been blogging at Semicolon since October, 2003, more than eleven years. This post is copied and edited from March 26, 2010.

A.E. Houseman, b.1859.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry

Robert Frost, b.1874.
The Door in the Dark
Fire and Ice
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Time to Talk
A Prayer in Spring

Happy Birthday, HWL

“The student has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world and the glories of a modern one.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

American Authors of the 19th Century - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow




Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, b. 1807.

It Is Not Always May:
“Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For O ! it is not always May !”

Paul Revere’s Ride:
“In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.”

Evangeline, A Tale of Arcadie:
“Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way-side,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!”

Travels by the Fireside:
“Let others traverse sea and land,
And toil through various climes,
I turn the world round with my hand
Reading these poets’ rhymes.”

The Children’s Hour:
“Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.”
*Why is it that the Children’s Hour lasts all evening at my house?

Excelsior:
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell like a falling star,
Excelsior!

The Wreck of the Hesperus:
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere:
“So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm, —
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!”

What The Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist:
“Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art; to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.”

A little inspiration from from Mr. Longfellow.

George Washington and the Cherry Tree

I am taking a blog break for Lent, but I thought I’d share some of my old posts from years gone by. I’ve been blogging at Semicolon since October, 2003, more than eleven years. This post is copied and edited from February 21, 2005:

My mom used to read/quote this poem to us every February 22nd, Geroge Washington’s birthday. Nowadays we celebrate President’s Day, usually before the date of General Washington’s birth, but you can take time out to read a poem in honor of our first president today–even if the story itself is apocryphal. You have to do your best Eyetalian accent for the full effect.

Leetla Giorgio Washeenton
By Thomas Augustine Daly

You know w’at for ees school keep out
Dees holiday, my son?
Wal, den, I gona tal you ’bout
Dees Giorgio Washeenton.

Wal, Giorgio was leetla keed
Ees leeve long time ago,
An’ he gon’ school for learn to read
An’ write hees nam’, you know.
He moocha like for gona school
An’ learna hard all day,
Baycause he no gat time for fool
Weeth bada keeds an’ play.
Wal, wan cold day w’en Giorgio
Ees steell so vera small,
He start from home, but he ees no
Show up een school at all!
Oh, my! hees Pop ees gatta mad
An’ so he tal hees wife:
“Som’ leetla boy ees gon’ feel bad
Today, you bat my life!”
An’ den he grab a bigga steeck
An’ gon’ out een da snow
An’ lookin’ all aroun’ for seek
Da leetla Giorgio.


Ha! w’at you theenk? Firs’ theeng he see
Where leetla boy he stan’,
All tangla up een cherry tree,
Weeth hatchet een hees han’.
“Ha! w’at you do?” hees Pop he say,
“W’at for you busta rule
An’ stay away like dees for play
Eenstead for gon’ to school?”
Da boy ees say: “I no can lie,
An’ so I speaka true.
I stay away from school for try
An’ gat som’ wood for you.
I theenka deesa cherry tree
Ees goodda size for chop,
An’ so I cut heem down, you see,
For justa help my Pop.”
Hees Pop he no can gatta mad,
But looka please’ an’ say:
“My leetla boy, I am so glad
You taka holiday.”

Ees good for leetla boy, you see,
For be so bright an’ try
For help hees Pop; so den he be.
A granda man bimeby.
So now you gotta holiday
An’ eet ees good, you know,
For you gon’ do da sama way
Like leetla Giorgio.
Don’t play so mooch, but justa stop,
Eef you want be som’ good,
An’ try for help your poor old Pop
By carry home som’ wood;
An’ mebbe so like Giorgio
You grow for be so great
You gona be da Presidant
Of dese Unita State’!