Poetry Friday: Creative Edition

Fuse #8 posts her mom's poetry, so I'm posting my husband's song from the Heinlein Centennial. You can also hear him singing it here.

(After he performed, a woman handed him a flyer for a group marriage organization. Hey, I can't blame her for trying but sorry, not gonna happen. Don't confuse the art with the artist.)


"Adam Selene's by-line appeared first in dignified pages of
Moonglow over a somber poem titled: "Home." Was dying
thoughts of old transportee, his discovery as he is about
to leave that Luna is his beloved home. Language was
simple, rhyme scheme unforced, only thing faintly subversive
was conclusion on part of dying man that even many wardens
he has endured was not too high a price."
- R.A.H, The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, p. 120


HOME
Music and lyrics by Evan Hunt


my name is John Porter
and I was transported
way back in the year '29
I took a long trip
and I walked off that ship
to the cot that I'd bought with my crime

and they said, keep your nose clean and hair combed
you only reap what you have sown
so be a good cobber
do everything proper
and maybe someday you'll go home

well, I sure wasn't ready
for prison work's heavy
no matter how little you weigh
working up topside
maintaining the 'locks, I'd
be risking my breath every day

but every time I stepped out of that dome
how the Earth overhead shone
I'd reach out to touch her
and loved her so much, for
I knew that someday I'd go home

I finished my sentence
filled with repentance
(and beer) and they said I was free
so I took the tube
to where nobody knew me
and looked for a job in L.C.

next thing I knew I was drilling through stone
making my way on my own
each day with the laser
I went a bit crazier
but someday, I knew I'd go home

my partner and I did some
tunneling, lighted 'em
up, and we started a farm
we met a nice woman
asked her to come in
and love us, and keep us both warm

and it wasn't long 'fore she gave us a son
then a daughter, and so on, and on
and I told the kids stories
about all the glories
of Earth, our beloved fair home

isn't it funny
how something can be
right in front of
your face, but unseen?
life passes you by
and you don't even see
'cause you're trying
to follow a dream...

well, I couldn't quite make it
to save up a stake, it's just
pushing uphill all the way
sell ten tons of rice
at authority prices
and you wind up with more debt to pay

and all the years, how swiftly they've flown
my children and grandchildren grown
but still, on I've striven
and never quite given
up saving for my ticket home

now it's been many years
and I've shed a few tears
but I've also had joy in my heart
and today I see clearly
I've loved my life dearly
and got what I sought from the start

and not even all of the work that I've done
nor all of the troubles I've known
nor all of the burdens
not even the wardens
were too high a price for my home

yes, now I know that I'm where I belong
as I say my farewells in my song
I look to the past
and I know at the last
that Luna is truly my home
I reach out to touch her
and love her so much... for
I know that I've finally come home
sweet Luna, I've finally come home

- July 4, 2007

Poetry Friday: lonesome edition

As I type this, my other half is on his way to sing filk at the Heinlein Centenniel. Aint that always the way, the woman stays home with the kid, the man returns with his guitar or on it.

Yonder Blue by Christine Lavin

I see on the news, it's raining in London
Forty-six degrees
I hope you packed your raincoat darlin'
A scarf to protect you from the chilly breeze
I'm lookin' at the balmy Pacific
A kickline of palm trees
Oh you're in London... it's raining... forty-six degrees.

I read in the paper, it's foggy in Paris
The forecast is scattered showers
I picture you standing in a light drizzle
At the base of the Eiffel Tower
I am due to arrive in Vancouver in about
A couple of hours
Oh you're in Paris... it's foggy... expecting scattered showers.

Half a world away are we
I worry about you constantly
Are you dry?
Are you warm?
Are you safe from the storm?
Are you taking your vitamins regularly?
I tried all I've got to be with you
That's something you have not asked me to do
So I travel around, I've barely touched down
When you call from Yonder Blue.

The Pilot says it's warm and sunny in New York
Skies are crystal clear
I'm descending from the West
You're descending from the East
Please let this be our year
I can't wait, to see your face
Hold your sweet body near
Oh it's warm and it's sunny in New York City
Skies are crystal Clear
The future looks rosy
Let's get cozy
Hey Stranger... over here.

Poetry Friday, concise edition

I was listening to Joni Mitchell's album "Night Ride Home" when it hit me: this is a Young Adult novel in a song.


Cherokee Louise is hiding in this tunnel
In the Broadway bridge
We're crawling on our knees
We've got flashlights and batteries
We've got cold cuts from the fridge

Last year about this time
We used to climb up in the branches
Just to sway there in some breeze
Now the cops on the street
They want Cherokee Louise

People like to talk
Tongues are waggin' over fences
Waggin' over phones
All their doors are locked
God she can't even come to our house
But I know where she'll go

To the place where you can stand
And press your hands like it was bubblebath
In dust piled high as me
Down under the street
My friend
Poor Cherokee Louise

Ever since we turned 13
It's like a minefield
Walking to the door
Going out you get the 3rd degree
And comin' in you get the 3rd world war

Tuesday after school
We put our pennies on the rails
And when the train went by
We were jumpin' round like fools
Goin' "Look no heads or tails"
Goin' "Look my lucky prize"

She runs home to her foster dad
He opens up a zipper
And he yanks her to her knees
Oh please be here please
My friend
Poor Cherokee Louise

Cherokee Louise is hiding in this tunnel
In the Broadway bridge
We're crawling on our knees
We've got Archie and Silver Screen
I know where she is

The place where you can stand
And press your hand like it was bubblebath
In dust piled high as me
Down under the street
My friend
Poor Cherokee Louise
Oh Cherokee Louise

Poetry Friday: A Writing Kind of Day by Ralph Fletcher

I forgot all about Poetry Friday, and if you'd had the week/month/year I've had you would have too, but MotherReader reviewed a book I've reviewed so in the spirit of solidarity and laziness I'll just post a rerun (it's even been raining again...):




A Writing Kind of Day by Ralph Fletcher. Illustrated by April Ward. Boyds Mill, 2005 (1-59078-276-3) $17.95; (1-590878-353-0) $9.95 pb

"It is raining today,/a writing kind of day." (Here too: a reviewing kind of day.) This is the book of a young poet, a collection of poems that encapsulate what it's like to be a young poet. There are poems abbout family, poems about school, and poems about words and ideas and thoughts that can become new poems:

"When I look at Julia
her little bald head
reminds me of the planet Earth.

I put that in my writer's notebook
to maybe write a poem later on;
it feels like money in the bank."

And indeed, the next poem is called "Earth Head."

I like the range and openness of this book, how it is not afraid to attribute complicated images and emotions to its young poet, yet also not afraid to be very simple and straightforward, as in the poem "Bill of Sale," which is about reading a poem about a girl, "the same age as me," who was sold as a slave. There is no apparent attempt to mold the poet's horror into subtle words; it just spills out:

In a country like America
how could this ever happen?
How can I go on with my life?"

Black & white illustrations treat each poem as an individual piece, with styles ranging from scrawls and doodles at the bottom of a notebook page to elegant photographs muted behind the words. It's perhaps too sophisticated a design for a book that is so much about openness and sincerity. (8 & up)

poetry Friday

Too tired to review; thank Greg for the search fib

on
the
banks of
inch by inch
(been sick, missed the bus)
I love someone with autism.

Poetry Friday: Inch by Inch

Spring, beautiful spring...


Inch By Inch: The Garden Song by David Mallett. Illustrated by Ora
Eitan. HarperCollins, 1995 (0-06-024303-1); HarperTrophy, 1997
(0-06443481-8) $5.95 pb

A small but stalwart gardener delightfully personifies the themes of this homage to gardening, taken from Mallet's classic folk song. With a little attention to the rhythm, it's almost as much fun to read as it is to sing (although I prefer the slightly altered version Arlo Guthrie performs); the music is also included. Boldly splashed with color, Eitan's pictures interpret the intimate, uplifting lyrics with imagination and verve, illustrating "Mother Earth will make you strong if you give her love and care," with a picture of the boy tugging a radish six times his size out of the ground; "In my garden I'm as free as that feathered thief up there" shows him and his faithful dog sliding down a rainbow. Gardeners of every age will love this. (3 & up)

poetry Friday: Bruno Bettleheim sucks

Thanks for all the kind comments on my Little Blog on the Prairie. I was thinking of submitting it for the next Carnival of Children's Literature, but I dunno--too much of an in-joke?

My next foray into creative writing will most likely be writing a song for the Emergency Musical Collective's production of The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs. This will take place on May 5th, in Santa Cruz, California. If you're interested in writing a song--and anyone is welcome to participate, actual talent is only considered a plus--or just in watching the show, drop me an email. (References proving you're not an insane Internet stalker much appreciated.)

For poetry Friday, here's Evan's song from the last Musical Emergency production, the Frog Prince. He is singing from the point of view of the frog, who is extremely annoyed by being in the traditional version of the song in which he doesn't get kissed. How unfair is that?!

poetry Friday: the alphabet of Nations

Kinda out of it today, so I'm just going to include a verse from one of my son's favorite songs, from the awesome kid's album Here Come the ABCs by They Might Be Giants.

It's notable for being one of the few songs to pay tribute to the lovely, but relatively obscure nation of West Xylophone.

The alphabet of nations!

Algeria, Bulgaria, Cambodia, Dominica, Egypt, France, the Gambia

Hungary, Iran, Japan, Kazakhstan, Libya and Mongolia

Norway, Oman, Pakistan

Qatar, Russia, Suriname

Turkey, Uruguay, Vietnam

West Xylophone, Yemen, Zimbabwe



copyright 2005, They Might Be Giants

Poetry Friday: Bing Bang Boing

Bing Bang Boing written and illustrated by Douglas Florian. Harcourt Brace, 1994 (0-15-233770-9) $15.95; 2007 (978-0-15-205860-9) $8.00 trade pb

Although I've enjoyed Florian's work in the past, it's always seemed a bit overwhelmed by the "one poem, facing one illustration" picture book format. This much larger collection (144 pages) has a more comfortable, balanced feel, with poems and pictures fitting into each other on the pages and working together harmoniously. The result is a very enjoyable book that expresses the many moods of nonsense poetry: some pure whimsy, some ghoulishness, and some convolutedly revealing looks at life and people. With clever rhymes and a twisted sense of humor, Florian gives us some new ways to look at familiar things.

In Bing Bang Boing we find horrible creatures that turn out to be teachers, robots that write poems, and pease-porridge that, after nine days in the pot, might eat you. We also learn what cannibals prefer to noodles and cheese ("noodles and knees"), the real problem of the old lady who lived in the shoe ("Pew!") and the best way to swallow ones pride ("fried.")

We also see some sharp contrasts between the child world and the adult world. The poems written from the point of view of children are mostly delightfully silly and carefree, like "If I Eat More Candy," in which the narrator imagines the horrible fate that will be befall him if he eats more candy, ending with "the stench of my breath/Will kill birds in the air--But This candy's so good/That I really don't care!" Views of the adult word, however, can be somber, filled with pathetic people like "Mrs. Mary Musty" who covered the sea so it wouldn't get wet and covered the sun so it wouldn't set. To sum up the overall attitude:

Don't wanna be a grown-up,
A fat and overblown-up.
'Cause grown-ups always eat their peas,
Hide their mouths each time they sneeze.
Wear big woolen suits that itch,
Work all day so they'll be rich.
Mind their minners, act polite,
Always smile, never fight.
Talk about the things they've done,
And never ever have much fun.

(That is, unfortunately, only one of a considerable number of negative images of fatness in the poems.)

The mood of the book is is mostly lighthearted, however, and the surreal black and white sketches that go with the poems add some extra bite to their humor. (5 & up)