A Poetry Friday Post. Seriously.

So I was talking with my mother yesterday afternoon, and she tells me that her friend, Marion, wrote a poem that very morning. This was noteworthy news in that Marion and Shirl are those best friends from high school that you read about in books, so I've been hearing about her for a while (as in all my life), and never has the subject of poetry ever come up. Forget about writing one.

"She ever done this before?" I asked.

"Not that I can recall," Mom replied. "It was good, though. It was about a dog running down the street. She got the idea when she woke up and started writing. And by the time her sister came into the kitchen for breakfast, she was done."

I found this very touching. The idea of someone who is closing in on eighty-two years old suddenly being moved to write her first poem is incredibly fascinating. I should write a short story about it, since a poem would be quite beyond me.

Really, I respect the creative urge. And I love the idea that absolutely anyone at absolutely any time can feel the need to create. I'm not talking about quality, I don't care if it was good or bad, I just am intrigued that this happened at all.

Hey, Isn't It Poetry Friday?

Forgive me. But isn't poetry always in good taste?

Yeah, you guessed it. I found this at Bookslut.

Hey, Isn't It Poetry Friday?

A poem by Sherman Alexie. Notice that he has a new book of poetry coming out next year.

By way of Blog of a Bookslut.

Does Anyone Else See A Joke About Listening To Poetry As Punishment In All This?

My Aunt Tessy, who was the first generation of Gauthiers to work at Middlebury College's Bread Loaf Campus kitchen, was outraged when she heard about the vandalism at the nearby Robert Frost home last winter. I think she may have actually seen the inside of the place, whereas I only walked up the road to the yard. I may have looked into some windows once. I did help prepare the food for the annual picnics held there a few times, though. That's kind of a connection to a famous place, isn't it?

Aunt Tessy may have actually heard Robert Frost speak once, which would explain why she got so much more hopped up about this than I did.

Anyway, part of the miscreants' punishment is to take classes on Frost's poetry. Man, I bet they're sorry now. Nothing could be worth having to listen to poetry.

The Marie Blogs

Today, Poetry Friday, I bring to your attention a new (since this past December) poetry blog called A View from the Potholes. This blog has nothing to do with kidlit, but it does carry info on literary journals and poets. Plus, it's maintained by a poet named Marie Gauthier, and this blog is maintained by a writer named Gail Marie Gauthier.*

And as I said earlier, it's Poetry Friday.

*I believe that all my Gauthier aunts were named Marie. Literally. Marie Therese, Marie Aline, Marie Cecile, Marie Simone, Marie... Well, there was a bunch of them. According to family lore, back in the day, French Canadian Catholic families gave all their daughters Marie (a variation of Mary) for their saint's name, and the saint's name came first. This was all lost on us kids who thought we had an Aunt Tessy, an Aunt Aline, an Aunt Simmy, and so on. I used to hear something similar regarding Irish Catholic girl names.

I mention all this because I've been known to cannibalize my family for work. If I can find a way to use this detail, I will.

A Sort Of Poetry Post

Friday is poetry day in the kidlitosphere, and I have a post that is not poetry, by a longshot, but about poetry. Poetry's Eternal Youths from the Guardian's The Blog Books (an awkward phrase) deals with the subject of young poets. Very young poets.

The piece rambles, and, personally, I still haven't determined exactly what point the author was trying to make. But you might get more out of it.

Misspent Youth

The child_lit listserv discussion of Twilight has morphed into some fond reminiscing about The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. In reference to Twilight someone had suggested sacrifice is usually considered romantic, but she could only think of examples of men making sacrifices in literature. I suggested Bess the landlord's daughter offing herself in The Highwayman in order to warn her lover that the law was waiting for him was an example of a woman making a sacrifice.

I didn't expect much of a response to that because child_lit is quite an academic group, and while I loved The Highwayman when I was in sixth or seventh grade, I read a few years ago that many critics consider it to be...well...crapola. But it was like a dam broke! Masses of people loved The Highwayman in their tender youths.

One person even linked to a musical version by Phil Ochs. It's not exactly something that leaves you humming. You can hear it again while looking at illustrations.

Hey, Look! Gail's Doing A Poetry Post!

Yesterday Blog of a Bookslut included a post by a guy from New Britain, which is of modest interest to those of us who know people going to college there. Said blogger linked to four essays on memorizing and reciting poetry. I chose a shorter one with large print so that I could read it on the treadmill. (That's my criteria for much of my reading material--Can I read it on the treadmill?)

So I read Preface: Recitation Considered as a Fine Art by Jerome McGann. Favorite bits:

As we know, students--most ordinary and intelligent people, for that matter--imagine poems are difficult, full of deep meanings that have to be deciphered...Above every poem we "teachers" have inscribed a hellish warning: Abandon hope, all you who enter here.

and

In my experience, many difficulties of meaning disappear when students begin to construct and perform recitations.