Books, Facebook, NaPoWriMo

Well, life got in the way of that reading challenge. I still hope to catch up on posting some good books I've read. Meanwhile, I have finally joined Facebook after putting it off for years, which may actually encourage me to post more here too.

And it's April, which means it's National Poetry Month, and this year we're trying NaPoWriMo again. I'm planning to post a poem per day, and A. may post some too. They'll be on our writing blog (link in the sidebar).

NaPoWriMo 2012

Is it April again already? I don't know yet whether I'll be able to write a poem every day like I did last year, but I want to try. My efforts (and any that my children want to publish) will be over at Word Finding.

30 poems and more

Despite a few nights of almost forgetting and frantically scrambling words together at 11:45 pm, I met my goal of writing a poem every day in April! The kids didn't write every day, but they wrote more poetry than they've done before. It was a fun challenge, although it's nice to not have the pressure now of coming up with something every day. The poems, good ones and bad ones, are at Word Finding.

Month of poetry

For April we're making NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) part of our homeschool. Instead of posting our poems every day on this blog, we started a new one to put them on, along with other writing projects from our family. I'm hoping to encourage my children to write more and share more. I'm committing to a poem every day in April myself; the kids may not keep to that schedule, but I'll be happy with whatever they do produce! If you want to check in on us during the month or afterwards, the new blog is Word Finding.

Poetry 21 & 22

Why four blog posts in one day? you ask. Well, let me tell you, I reply (and if you were here in person, you'd hear the reason in my hoarse and scratchy voice). I stayed home from church, trying to recover from bronchitis, and needed something to distract me from the oppressive gunkiness. Now you know.

I came across two poems I liked in a book by John Sterling Harris. Here's the first one:


Curiosity
by John Sterling Harris

God distributed gifts.
To some he gave strength.
Others he made handsome
Or swift or let sing
Like larks at daybreak.

A last little boy asked,
Is there something for me?
God handed down an ivory box.

The boy saw the lid was curiously
Carved in a cryptic design--
It would bear some later study.
The hinges were ingeniously
Wrought, and the latch moved
With a satisfying click,
But there was nothing inside.

He stroked the surface
And looked up inquiringly.

You will have to fill it, God said
With bright pebbles and sea shells,
Maple leaves and June bugs
And red-shafted feathers.

It's a pretty thing--
I hope you find it much too small.



This second poem made me laugh. It's a confession of sorts (an unrepentant one).

The Culvert's Rise
by John Sterling Harris

Utah irrigation ditches
Have sovereign right of way
Sacred as the king's highway.

Thus Main Street accommodated--
For its hundred foot width--
The Settlement Canyon stream
With an elegant culvert.

But long culverts clog
With leaves and branches,
Apples and kids' boats.
They require poles
And fire hoses to clear.

For access this one was roofed
With cast-iron plates
So heavy the end of one
Was all a man cared to lift.

One hot night a coffee can of carbide
Floated into the culvert--
In its bottom a metered nail hole
That let it sink halfway through.
Carbide and water produce acetylene--
A smelly flammable gas.

From half a block away another can
Floated down, with a lighted oily rag--
Like a fire ship under full sail
Into the anchored frigates at Brest.

Blue flames squirted, riding a dull boom
And the heavy clang of plates
Lifted and fallen awry.

It was glorious and satisfying.
Investigators could not find the cause,
Though there was talk of sewer gas.
The miscreants were never caught--
And there is the statute of limitations.

Poetry 20

This is section 106 of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's long poem In Memoriam A.H.H., published in 1850. I think New Year's Eve is always a day of hope for a better year to come.


Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
    The flying cloud, the frosty light:
    The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
    Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
    The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
    For those that here we see no more;
    Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
    And ancient forms of party strife;
    Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
    The faithless coldness of the times:
    Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
    The civic slander and the spite;
    Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
    Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
    Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
    The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
    Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Poetry 19

I keep finding poems I like lately. I like this one for the rhythm and for the interesting picture of death as a destination.

Up-Hill
by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
      Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
      From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
      A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
      You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
      Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
      They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
      Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
      Yea, beds for all who come.

Poetry 18

The first two lines of this little poem are my favorite part because they are so true. (At least for me.)


Mr. Meant-To
Author unknown

Mr. Meant-to has a comrade,
And his name is Didn't-do.
Have you ever chanced to meet them?
Did they ever call on you?

These two fellows live together
In the house of Never-win,
And I'm told that it is haunted
By the ghost of Might-have-been.

Poetry 17

I love thinking about Emily Dickinson's poems, how the few words fit together like a puzzle box to express an idea. This one captures the moment of choice when a desire becomes -- or doesn't become -- an action.


A Deed Knocks First at Thought
by Emily Dickinson

A deed knocks first at thought,
And then it knocks at will.
That is the manufacturing spot,
And will at home and well.

It then goes out an act,
Or is entombed so still
That only to the ear of God
Its doom is audible.

Poetry 16

In 1966 a book of my great-aunt's poems was published by the Utah State Poetry Society. Here's one of my favorites.

Rain: Crayon by a Child
by Lael W. Hill

First green, gold as an edge of April
(she at the opening April of her years)
grows thick as wax across
her studied painting, a field, a grassy fill.

Beyond, perhaps a river --
white with blue currents wavering -- flows
like time, between
this green, that warming valley-and-rise
of orange road.

Centered there, house tiny as a thimble
stands pink for what she knows of love;
air's width above,
the tunneling clouds roll over, over,
dark as threat or dream.

Rain heavy with blue drops down,
boulders pouring from the sky
a stony wall of rain,
yet never dents the happy little house
nor ruts the roadway.

And look -- along the churn
of cloud, all-colors curl and shine
where twice the sun sings, in each upper corner,
before and after storm.

Poetry 15

I came across this poem in a book of hymns from various churches. It's listed as a "Sunday School Hymn," which seems appropriate for the author of Little Women and Little Men, with her interest in teaching children. (And not just children -- I'm still working on this lesson too.)


A Little Kingdom I Possess
by Louisa May Alcott

A little kingdom I possess
Where thoughts and feelings dwell,
And very hard I find the task
Of governing it well;
For passion tempts and troubles me,
A wayward will misleads,
And selfishness its shadow casts
On all my will and deeds.

How can I learn to rule myself,
To be the child I should,
Honest and brave, nor ever tire
Of trying to be good?
How can I keep a sunny soul
To shine along life's way?
How can I tune my little heart
To sweetly sing all day?

Dear Father, help me with the love
That casteth out my fear!
Teach me to lean on thee and feel
That thou art very near,
That no temptation is unseen,
No childish grief too small,
Since thou, with patience infinite,
Dost soothe and comfort all.

I do not ask for any crown
But that which all may win;
Nor try to conquer any world
Except the one within.
Be thou my guide until I find,
Led by a tender hand,
Thy happy kingdom in myself
And dare to take command.

Poetry 14

It really feels like December now, with the snow piled up in the yard and along the streets!

I Heard a Bird Sing
by Oliver Herford

I heard a bird sing
    In the dark of December
A magical thing
    And sweet to remember.

"We are nearer to Spring
    Than we were in September,"
I heard a bird sing
    In the dark of December.

Poetry 13

Here's another poem I like, told from the point of view of a child who's still adjusting to a new sibling. I know the authors' names from their book Tales from Shakespeare, but apparently they also wrote poetry together.


The First Tooth
by Charles and Mary Lamb

Through the house what busy joy,
Just because the infant boy
Has a tiny tooth to show!
I have got a double row,
All as white, and all as small;
Yet no one cares for mine at all.
He can say but half a word,
Yet that single sound's preferred
To all the words that I can say
In the longest summer day.
He cannot walk, yet if he put
With mimic motion out his foot,
As if he thought he were advancing,
It's prized more than my best dancing.

Poetry 12

We found this poem several years ago in a library book; I copied it down and then lost the paper. Last week we were delighted to find it again in a different library book. Here it is on the blog so we won't lose it again!


The Hen
by Lord Alfred Douglas

The Hen is a ferocious fowl,
She pecks you till she makes you howl.

And all the time she flaps her wings,
And says the most insulting things.

And when you try to take her eggs,
She bites large pieces from your legs.

The only safe way to get these,
Is to creep on your hands and knees.

In the meanwhile a friend must hide,
And jump out on the other side.

And then you snatch the eggs and run,
While she pursues the other one.

The difficulty is, to find
A trusty friend who will not mind.

Poetry 11

We had a star party tonight to finish off our astronomy class. It was amazing to look through telescopes and see the craters on the moon, Jupiter with three of its moons, and the far-away blur of the Andromeda galaxy. But I had just as much fun staring up into the sky and trying to pick out stars that were on my star chart. Later, after we came home and the rest of the family went to bed, I opened up A Child's Garden of Verses to find a poem I had in mind to post, and I came upon a different poem I don't remember reading before. But just look how appropriate it is after an evening of star-watching! I'll have to read it with my kids tomorrow.


Escape at Bedtime
by Robert Louis Stevenson

The lights from the parlor and kitchen shone out
    Through the blinds and the windows and bars;
And high overhead and all moving about,
    There were thousands of millions of stars.
There ne'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree,
    Nor of people in church or the park,
As the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me,
    And that glittered and winked in the dark.
The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all,
    And the star of the sailor, and Mars,
These shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall
    Would be half-full of water and stars.
They saw me at last, and they chased me with cries,
    And they soon had me packed into bed;
But the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes,
    And the stars going round in my head.

Poetry 10

This poem was written in 1915, but it seems timeless to me. The author was getting ready to enlist, so soldiers were on his mind, but I think the poem could also describe someone coming to an awareness that there are many homeless and hungry souls.

The Owl
by Edward Thomas

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

Poetry 9

When I read this poem, I think of times when nothing seems to be going well, and the difference one friend, or spouse, or child can make.


Sonnet 29
by William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
    For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Poetry 8

This poem makes me laugh. It was written by Thomas Moore in 1834, but it could just as easily be the thoughts of a young man today, lamenting how easy it is to be captured by a pretty face. What do you think?


The Time I've Lost in Wooing
by Thomas Moore

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
      The light that lies
      In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorned the lore she brought me,
      My only books
      Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
      Like him, the sprite,
      Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me;
      If once their ray
      Was turned away,
Oh! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
      Too cold or wise
      For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No, vain, alas! th' endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever;
      Poor Wisdom's chance
      Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.

Poetry 7

In the children's section of the library I once found a book of poetry called I Gave My Mom a Castle. Each poem is like a little snapshot of a child's feelings. Here's one of my favorites.


The Bulb
by Jean Little

I am the fourth daughter in my family.
They kept trying for a boy.
Since I was born on my gran's birthday,
They asked her to name me.
I used to wish they hadn't.

Most people call me Mary,
And I never used to correct them.

When Gran turned ninety and I turned nine,
She sent me a mysterious box.
It had nothing written on it, and inside it
Was this big brown ugly bulb.
Mother gave me the letter that had come with it.
"This is you," it said.
"Follow the instructions below and
You will see yourself growing up into a woman."

I was kind of mad, if you want to know.
What a terrible present!
But Mom made sure I did what Gran said.
Nothing happened for ages.

Then out of the top, which stuck out of the dirt,
Sprouted a fat green shoot.
I guessed that must be me starting to grow.
Then I turned into a tall, gangly teenager.
I kind of got interested.
There were lots of buds.

Finally, overnight almost,
The thing burst into enormous flowers.
They glowed.
I've never seen anything like them.
Wow!

Now I correct people sometimes.
"My name's not really Mary," I say.
"It's Amaryllis."

Poetry 6

I saw the last stanza of this poem on a TV show, of all places, and jotted it down. Years later I searched online and found out there was more to it. I like the calm feeling of the poem, especially toward the end.


Prayer for This House
by Louis Untermeyer

May nothing evil cross this door,
And may ill fortune never pry
About these windows; may the roar
          And rain go by.

Strengthened by faith, these rafters will
Withstand the batt'ring of the storm;
This hearth, though all the world grow chill,
          Will keep us warm.

Peace shall walk softly through these rooms,
Touching our lips with holy wine,
Till ev'ry casual corner blooms
          Into a shrine.

Laughter shall drown the raucous shout;
And, though these shelt'ring walls are thin,
May they be strong to keep hate out
          And hold love in.