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Welcome, all! It's my privilege and pleasure to host Poetry Friday this week. Seeing as it's the day after Thanksgiving, I'm particularly, well, thankful you've found time in your busy schedule to drop by.

As you may know, I've been working through the exercises in Stephen Fry's poetry book The Ode Less Travelled (highly recommended). I ought to be writing a Ballade this week, but I'm skipping ahead to the Rondeau because it seems well-suited to jolly holiday poems.
 

Thanksgiving Rondeau

We give our thanks for autumn sun,
for turkey smells and cinnamon.
With open arms, our friends we greet
and guide each to a comfy seat.
We drink a toast to everyone,

and now, at last, our feast’s begun.
For every drumstick, corn cob, bun,
and slice of pumpkin pie we eat,
we give our thanks.

And when our bellies weigh a ton,
and Dad can’t make another pun,
we stagger back onto our feet.
At last the yawning guests retreat.
For quiet house and chaos done,
we give our thanks.
 

OK, yeah, that's the Hallmark card version of the day's events. Just the same, I am deeply thankful to have shared a delicious Thanksgiving meal with friends and family (my father's puns and all). I hope you were able to find some joy and comfort in your own life this Thanksgiving and that those good feelings warm you into the winter.

If you would like to be included in this week's round-up, please leave a comment with a link to your contribution. I'll check in throughout the day and add you to the list below!

Original Poems

- Stacey at Two Writing Teachers shares "In One Year," a list poem inspired by The Aspiring Poet's Journal.

- Janet at Across the Page shares "Obituary for a Stranger," inspired by a tragedy last Thanksgiving.

- Schelle at Brand New Ending shares "Giving Thanks," written in Seussian anapestic tetrameter.

- Lorie Ann Grover shares a haiku, "Tea Flower."

- Anastasia Suen shares the story of her picture book poem, Subway.

Poems We Love

- HipWriterMama shares "Colors Passing Through Us," by Marge Piercy.

- Julie Larios shares "Starfish," by Eleanor Lerman.

- PoetLoverRebelSpy at Less Than a Shoestring shares "The Blindmen and the Elephant," by John Godfrey Saxe, illustrated with original photos from the Garden for the Blind in Bonn, Germany.

- Laura at Author Amok shares "Eliza's Jacket," by Calef Brown (one of my own favorite writers of poetry for children) and ideas for using it in the classroom.

- TadMack at Finding Wonderland shares "In memory of George Lewis, Great Jazzman," by Lou Lipsitz.

- Mary Lee at A Year of Reading shares "Grace," by Wendell Berry.

- Ruth shares "My Deliverer," by Rich Mullins and Mitch McVicker.

- Janet at The Write Sisters shares two poems by R. G. Vliet.

- David at The Excelsior File shares "anyone lived in a pretty how town," by e. e. cummings.

- Laura Salas shares "Michigan Sahara," by Lisa Westberg Peters.

- Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect shares "Thanks," by W. S. Merwin.

- Sherry at Semicolon Blog shares "The Prodigal Son," by James Weldon Johnson.

- Little Willow at Bildungsroman shares "November," by Elizabeth Stoddard.

- Sam Riddleburger shares a nasty poem by his young friend Sweet Daisy.

- The bloggers at PaperTigers share "Snow," a haiku by Sei Shonagon.

- Carol at Carol's Corner shares an anonymous poem, "A Thanksgiving Blessing."

- Anne Shirley shares "Avonlea," by Tammie Lynn Vaughn.

Poetry News & Reviews

- Sylvia at Poetry for Children shares information about Lee Bennett Hopkins, who recently received the NCTE Award for Excellence in Poetry for Children.

- David at The Excelsior File also reviews My Letter to the World, and Other Poems, a new Emily Dickinson collection.

- Cloudscome at A Wrung Sponge reviews When Louis Armstrong Taught Me Scat, by Muriel Harris Weinstein, illustrated by R. Gregory Christie.

- Karen Edmisten shares a list of poets for whom she is thankful.

- On the Just One More Book podcast, Andrea and Mark discuss Snow, by Cynthia Rylant.

Thanks for sharing, everyone!

After weeks of avoidance, I finally tackled the sestina which, Stephen Fry says, "is a bitch to explain but a joy to make." (This kind of commentary is why I love The Ode Less Travelled.)

I feel like I'm jumping the gun with the snow poetry, seeing as Chicago's only seen a light dusting that melted within a day, but snow's definitely on folks' minds. And I'm generally weather-obsessed. And to get "meta" for a moment, the sestina's strict form seems quietly oppressive—sort of like being snowed in.

Without further ado...
 

Snowbound

It’s January, and my family falls
asleep to storm warnings, drifts
through warm dreams, our blankets
shielding us a little longer. Still,
morning brings the truth. Close
to seventeen inches has stuck

to the streets, leaving us all stuck
at home. All day the snow falls.
We sigh and layer on warm clothes,
as snow gathers at the door in drifts.
The world outside is hushed and still,
draped in soft crystal blankets.

The news station issues a blanket
statement: all city plows stuck
plowing “important” roads. Still,
we hope. We visualize waterfalls,
rapids, hurricanes—anything but drifts
of powdered water, heavy and close.

When bedtime comes, I don’t close
the curtains. Wrapped in wool blankets,
I drowsily watch as each flake drifts
downward. I dream that I’m stuck
in a plastic snowglobe, trapped in its false
blizzard forever. When I wake, it’s still

snowing. Life is at a standstill,
every school and church closed.
Under the snow’s weight, a pine falls
across the road. New snow blankets
it, the clouds permanently stuck
on “high,” and once again the drifts

rise. I’m past bored. My mind drifts,
wondering if there’s a lesson to distill
from these days of confinement—stuck
with no one but family, in such close
quarters. No. My mind is blank. It’s
muffled more with every flake that falls.

Then night falls again on our snowy, still
world, and we all drift together, cuddling close,
blanket to blanket—for a moment content to be stuck.
 

Stephen Fry also writes of the sestina, "You can do it, believe me you can. And you will be so proud of yourself!" I grudgingly suppose he's right.

This week's Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by Holly Cupala Brimstone Soup. Please check it out!

I'm still avoiding the sestina. If I'm ever bedridden for several months at a time, maybe I'll get around to it. Until then, don't count on it.

Meanwhile, the next exercise in The Ode Less Travelled is to write a pantoum. Stephen Fry compares it to bells tolling, but I thought that with a few more exclamation points it would suit the circular mentality of my dog Carly very well.
 

Pantoum of a Canine Spaz

I leap up from my latest nap—
ohboyohboyohboyohboy—
charge to my water dish for a lap,
jump-attack my favorite toy.

Ohboyohboyohboyohboy!
There’s so much I’ve gotta do:
slobber up my favorite toy
andchewandchewandchewandchew.

But that’s not all, there’s more to do!
Bite the heads of squirrels and rats!
Andchewandchewandchewandchew
the tails off little kitty cats!

I’ll bite the heads off squirrels and rats,
show them all that I’m the boss—
and not those stupid kitty cats.
Each of us must bear a cross,

and mine’s to prove that I’m the boss.
There’s cunning in my doggy head,
an intellect you dare not cross.
But now it’s time to go to bed;

I’ve overtaxed my doggy head.
I race to my water dish for a lap,
turn three times, flop into bed.
It’s time to take another nap!
 

That actually could have gone on another ten stanzas, come to think of it. We'll just pretend that was Carly on a 90-degree day, when her energy level is below average.

This week I also participated in Laura Salas's 15 Words or Less poetry challenge, inspired by a delicious photo of a pomegranate.

Yat-Yee Chong has this week's Poetry Friday round-up. Check it out!

Observant readers may have noted that while I love fall, with that love comes anxiety over winter. I guess this poem is me reminding myself that I get through this every year; winter's part of the cycle, not The End. (Unless we're living in Life as We Knew It, in which case the sun has been blocked out by volcanic ash and we're all screwed.)

The next task Stephen Fry sets in The Ode Less Travelled is a sestina, but I wasn't feeling that ambitious. Just the same, I decided to play with repeated end words, cycling through them like the seasons... or something.

Oh, and Mom? If you're reading this? Please note, it's happier than the last one.

Phoenix Feathers

With fall comes the phoenix, darkening the sky
with outstretched wings. It swoops down to our ash
tree for its final roost, its feathers a blaze
of vermillion, cadmium, copper—a fiery sweep
bold against the blue—until a strong wind
rips feathers from bone, stripping limbs bare,
showering shimmering flakes. The bird cannot bear
the coming winter, cannot endure the savage wind.

The fallen feathers soften our steps as we sweep
them up, rake them into rusty barrels, set them ablaze.
Our throats swell with savory smoke and flecks of ash,
as charred phoenix feathers swirl back to the sky.

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Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Check It Out!

Six weeks ago, I fell off the Ode Less Travelled wagon, all because of the stupid villanelle exercise. I tried to write one about the equinox, and it was just a misery.

Never one to shy from making the same mistake twice, however, I decided to try again. I meant to write a Halloween poem, but it turned into more of a villanelle for all seasons.

Hobgoblins

They come while you’re sleeping,
in the loneliest hour of night—
teeth gleaming, shadows creeping.

From cobweb corners peeping,
itching to claw, hungry to bite,
they come while you’re sleeping,

through your dreams slowly seeping.
They scratch deep within, white
teeth gleaming, shadows creeping

to the soft place you’re keeping
your hopes, hidden, bright.
But they come while you’re sleeping,

so you can’t stop their reaping.
Fearful, frozen, you can’t fight
the teeth gleaming, shadows creeping.

Left naked, raw, weeping,
you can’t sleep again. They might
come back while you’re sleeping—
teeth gleaming, shadows creeping.

---

Well, that was cheerful! Happy Halloween, everyone! Thanks for visiting the haunted house inside my brain!

This week's Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by Poetry for Children.

Just in the past week or so I've really begun to feel the shortening of days. I've been biking home from work at dusk. After showering I've been changing straight into pajamas. It's totally dark when I eat dinner. I've already started a countdown to spring, which is dumb because, well, it's October.

I've always loved fall—second-best after spring, anyway—but for some reason I haven't been enjoying it that much this year. The weather's been gorgeous, not a thing to complain about, but I'm so dreading winter. Last winter felt harder than usual. Of course, so did this past summer. Beautiful weather, but I was under a cloud the whole time.

Anyway, I know Dylan Thomas wasn't writing about seasonal affective disorder when he wrote this villanelle. But right now, in my own literal way, I'm feeling a lot of "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

---

You'll find this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Big A little a!

I spent some time this morning reading Walt Whitman's "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking," probably the first slow, proper read I've given it. It's beautiful. The rolling, wave-like rhythm, the image of the mournful bird singing by the ocean in autumn, the awakening of a poet's soul, the endless cycle of birth and death... Blah blah blah, Walt Whitman was a genius, blah blah.

My reason for sharing it today, though, is this stanza:

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me;
O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you;
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night,
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

The Destiny of Me is a play written by Larry Kramer, who was better known as a gay rights and AIDS activist than as a playwright. The play is about a young man grappling with being gay. This Whitman stanza is the epigraph.

When I was in high school, one of my older friends performed a portion of The Destiny of Me as his "dramatic interpretation" piece for forensics competitions. Though he didn't explicitly come out until years later, those Saturday performances in dingy classrooms, with their tiny audiences of high school and college students, were the beginning. At least, that's how they seemed to me, watching him whenever I could, wondering if I could gather the nerve to tell him I understood.

I couldn't, didn't. He went off to college, and except for a couple of notes and emails that talked around the subject, we never spoke of it. My friend is now out to his family and friends. He's happily (and legally—thank you, Massachusetts!) married to his husband. But I still feel regret that neither of us was brave enough to come out to each other in high school.

Tomorrow is National Coming Out Day. I encourage everyone, regardless of your gender/sexual identity, to take time in the next couple of days and come out in support of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and otherwise queer members of your community, your country, your world.

Don't be shy in asserting your belief in GLBTQ individuals' right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—equal rights in the workforce, in the community, and in the eyes of the law. By doing so, we create a more enlightened and accepting environment for everyone. We make it easier for the closeted teens of today to gather their nerve, come out, and embrace their destiny.

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Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Picture Book of the Day!

Trees

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

—Joyce Kilmer

---

Why this old chestnut? Well, it's the last day of Banned Books Week, and while I don't know of "Trees" ever having been formally challenged, allegedly a Citrus County, Florida, school art contest was once canceled because of the inclusion of "Trees" in its materials. (Was this mentioned in the September/October Horn Book? I know I read about it somewhere this week.)

Abby (the) Librarian also alerted readers to this Trib article about a Wisconsin school celebrating Shel Silverstein's A Light in the Attic this past week. Apparently, the book was banned from several Wisconsin elementary schools in the 1980s. Why?

[The University of Wisconsin-Rock County] says the book had been challenged at a Beloit elementary school because it "encourages children to break dishes so they won't have to dry them."

It also says a Mukwanago elementary school banned it in 1986 because some of its poems "glorified Satan, suicide and cannibalism, and also encouraged children to be disobedient."

Wow. Who knew? I guess that explains how I turned out to be a cannibalistic, suicidal satanist who refuses to dry the dishes. (I don't break them, though; I use a drying rack.)

Check out this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Two Writing Teachers! Becky at Farm School also made a special banned-book-themed contribution.

I'm still working my way through The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry, but also still have no non-terrible poems to show for it. Someday, I hope!

So far I've read about meter (both Greek and Anglo-Saxon traditions) and different kinds of rhyme (consonance, assonance, etc.) and have finally moved on to forms that combine the two. The so-called poetry units of high school English class are finally making some sense, thanks to Fry.

One of Fry's favorite poems he shares which I also quite liked is "Pied Beauty," by Gerard Manley Hopkins. It's apparently the quintessential of example of a meter called "sprung rhythm," which Hopkins himself invented and which I don't completely understand. His Wikipedia entry has a decent explanation, however.

When I was Googling for the poem's text, I found at least one page that held up "Pied Beauty" as a celebration of the power and eternity of God. I must demur. Whether or not one believes in God, "Pied Beauty" is a lovely paean to the beauty of contrast, taking diversity and idiosyncrasy as evidence of perfection rather than imperfection.

Without further, ado, here's the poem.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
    For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
        For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
    Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
        And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
    Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
        With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                Praise him.

 

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Catch this week's Poetry Friday Round-Up at Biblio File!

A few months back, Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect posted a suggestion to write "colorful" poetry based on Hailstones and Halibut Bones, by Mary O'Neill. I remembered that my own third grade teacher used that very book with us way back when, and I'd written several four-line verses on different colors. But I didn't step up to the challenge until this week, when I used O'Neill's book as part of my junior literary magazine's opening exercise. If I was asking them to write a colorful poem, shouldn't I do it, too?

So, here's the first non-doggerel poem I've written in... I have no idea how long... five hundred years? It's a rather sentimental ode on summer and the color pink. You have been warned. (Thanks to Jim Danielson for the encouragement last week. Jim, for the record, this took me considerably longer than 15 minutes.)

PINK SUMMER
Dawn smears pink fingers across the dark lake.
Fifty mosquito bites itch you awake.
The day is a strawberry, poised at your lips,
a wheel of melon without any pips.
Out to pick raspberries in the cool morn,
your legs tic-tac-toed by each saber-tooth thorn.
Now run to the beach, let the sun bake you sore.
Gobble a hotdog, then gobble two more.
A peppermint ice cream cone stickies your face
as pink sun melts away and pink moon takes its place.

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Catch this week's Poetry Friday round-up at The Well-Read Child!