The Saturday morning walk

The Saturday morning walk is
different from a weekday walk.
Some of the other dog walkers are familiar,
but the runners are not.
The streets are quieter,
with fewer people
on their way to work.

Today, it’s sunny
and the sounds of birds fill the air.
As does the staccatoed hammering
of the northern flicker
atop the telephone pole
excavating
a nest hole.

Sunday mornings
are surprisingly busier
as golf carts shuttle parishioners
to the white church
around the corner
and those fortunate to find parking
walk to the service.

But this Saturday morning
things are still quiet
as we mosey along
stopping to smell the flowers –
daffodils and crocuses –
that seem brighter than yesterday
on this sunny morning.

Al Purdy’s Snow

In my last year of high school, a wonderful English teacher introduced me to the poetry of Al Purdy. My favorite poem, “Snow at Roblin Lake” came from his book The Cariboo Horses.

Snow at Roblin Lake

The exactitude of snow is such
that even the Eskimo
achieved mere mention of the stuff
with his 20 names for snow:

the woodpile slowly disappears
all colours blur to white
the shorelines fade to infinite
distance in the white night –

In fifteen minutes more the house
itself is buried deep
in half an hour the world is lost
on a lazy nebular dead end street –

My little lake is not a lake
but endless ocean where I’ll fish
some cosmic Tonga Trench and take
Leviathan on a bent pin –

We had a very different sort of snow experience in Portland over the weekend and that inspired me to reflect on how different my experience was to Al Purdy’s.

Al Purdy’s Snow

Al Purdy’s snow
was gentle –
falling softly,
slowly,
blanketing the world
in a layer of time
and silence.

My snow comes
in a rush,
covering a layer of ice
then, itself,
covered by another
layer of ice.

There is no silence
the next morning
as limbs fall from trees,
ice snapping,
sliding from roofs
in the sudden rush
of a rapid thaw.

In his snow,
Al Purdy saw the
infinite,
the cosmic.
In mine,
I see only
the transient.

Happy National Poetry Month

Many years ago, after my dog Clara passed, I was walking a Louie, alone, in Laurelhurst Park for the first time. I was a one among many frequent walkers. Many passed us by, but several always – or at least often – stopped to talk.

One was a young woman with long, wavy hair. She had a peculiar stride, you know the one, where the walker seems to be leaning back. I have seen it in a few people in the course of my life and, whenever I see it, I am reminded of the other people with the same style.

This woman, whose name I no longer know, if I ever knew it, saw me with a single dog.  You never really know how you (or your dogs) can become part of a stranger’s life. She seemed especially moved. I don’t recall that she had tears in her eyes, but I remember that she reached deep into the pockets of her coat and pulled out a small bundle.

“I hope this brings you peace,” was all she said.

I didn’t look at the bundle until I got home, but I was so moved by her gift, that I still have it.

Here is what each of the 2″x2″ cards says

• we’re all soulmates
• loving is just recognizing your spirit in another being
• there is another way to live
• keeping company with hummingbirds
• lose your shoes
• it’s all play
• I visit a tree in the park that was my mate a thousand years ago

It is not traditional poetry, in the traditional sense, but the gesture was poetic and still touches my heart, as good poetry does.

Reading poetry with Lucy

At some point every day, Lucy and I take a walk and she lays down on the sidewalk to bask in the sun.

It can get a little annoying, but I have learned to anticipate her need for warmth. Armed with treats, I lure her to my front stoop, pull out a lawn chair and read while Lucy takes her sun bath. I choose my books carefully because, although she loves the warmth, Lucy can only take so much heat. Her sunbath last anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes, so I like a book I can pick up and put down. Lately, it has been poetry. Each poem is like a short story and I can read one or several, waiting for Lucy to get her fill of the sun.

This week, I’ve been reading Ink Knows No Borders: Poems of the Immigrant and Refugee Experience. I am already thinking about how I can use it in my classroom. It is that excellent!

Publisher’s Summary: With authenticity, integrity, and insight, this collection of poems addresses the many issues confronting first- and second- generation young adult immigrants and refugees, such as cultural and language differences, homesickness, social exclusion, human rights, racism, stereotyping, and questions of identity. Poems by Elizabeth Acevedo, Erika L. Sánchez, Samira Ahmed, Chen Chen, Ocean Vuong, Fatimah Asghar, Carlos Andrés Gómez, Bao Phi, Kaveh Akbar, Hala Alyan, and Ada Limón, among others, encourage readers to honor their roots as well as explore new paths, offering empathy and hope for those who are struggling to overcome discrimination. Many of the struggles immigrant and refugee teens face head-on are also experienced by young people everywhere as they contend with isolation, self-doubt, confusion, and emotional dislocation.

Ink Knows No Borders is the first book of its kind and features 64 poems and a foreword by poet Javier Zamora, who crossed the border, unaccompanied, at the age of nine, and an afterword by Emtithal Mahmoud, World Poetry Slam Champion and Honorary Goodwill Ambassador for UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency. Brief biographies of the poets are included, as well. It’s a hopeful, beautiful, and meaningful book for any reader.

Ode to a Banana Slug

Genus Ariolimax!
You are North America’s largest land mollusk.
With two sets of tentacles —
the bottom two tentacles for feeling and smelling,
the upper tentacles with eye spots that
can move independently to scan for danger —
and a mouth on the bottom of your head,
you travel up to 6.5 inches a minute,
scouring the forest floor for anything to eat.

Ariolimax columbianus!
Traveller of Pacific Northwest,
you thrive in the damp forest floor.
You have but one lung (on the right side)
and a body coated in slime
to prevent dehydration.
Your slime is neither solid, nor liquid.
It is a a liquid crystal,
making you a gem of a forest dweller.

 

 

This week’s book talks 4/8-12

Monday

Be Prepared  by Vera Brosgol

Tuesday

Wire and Nerves by Marissa Meyer

Thursday

Legend: The Graphic Novel by Marie Lu

Friday

Birdie  by Eileen Spinelli

An evening with Jacqueline Woodson

It’s a busy week, after the relaxing pace of Spring Break. It’s all good stuff and has me wondering why everything gets packed into one week and isn’t spread out over the whole month. The Universe can be a weird place sometimes.

Last night, wasn’t weird, it was wonderful. I hear Jacqueline Woodson speak as part of the Portland Arts and Lectures series, where authors talk about their work.

Early on she told said, ” I know I’m not supposed to re, but that’s okay because most of my books are memorized.” She started reciting “show Way and had us from that moment on.

She went on to talk about the many ways we take in narrative and told her own story, listening to the stories her family told. Her family worried she’d write about them and she learned that  how she portrayed people mattered.

In telling the story of writing Brown Girl Dreaming,  Woodson said, “if you have old people in your life talk to them, get their stories”. Those of us who have lost our parents, grandparents, and others of that generation really understand why she says that.

What I found most fascinating was her explanation of how Brown Girl Dreaming  came to be the book it is.  She said it was falling apart – that all books fall apart at some point but you have to do the work to keep it going and move on. In conversation with a friend about the problem she was having, the friend remarked, ” The South was on fire when you were born.” and that was the spark the brought it all together for her. That doesn’t mean it was easy from that point on. There were 33 rewrites, a fact I will happily tell my students.

She gave some good pieces of advice to aspiring writers.

• Know that you have a story and the right to tell it.
• Decide why you want to write.
• Show your writing to people you trust.
• Be prepared to re-write a lot!

 

Goodbye March

I don’t do much gardening anymore;
I only keep a box and
a few pots on my stoop.

But, like March,
the season of the flowering kale
has come to an end.

 

 

In its place comes April,
full of hope and new possibilities.

 

 

I have replaced the kale
with pansies for now.
Later, I’ll put my dahlia tubers in pots
and change up the pansies
for something that can take
the heat of summer.

And so, Spring Break ends,
this month of daily writing ends,
but the journey
around the sun
continues.

Taking action

The first of November has me thinking about putting flannel sheets on the bed. It’s been getting colder and I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but now I feel I can take action.

You know who else took action? Pete Seibert. He’s the subject of this biography in verse, Ski Solder by Louise Borden.

Publisher’s Summary: Ever since he first strapped on his mother’s wooden skis when he was seven, Pete Seibert always loved to ski. At eighteen, Seibert enlisted in the U.S. Army and joined the 10th Mountain Division, soldiers who fought on skis. In the mountains of Italy, Seibert encountered the mental and physical horrors of war. When he was severely wounded and sent home to recover, Seibert worried that he might never ski again. But with perseverance and the help of other 10th Mountain ski soldiers, he took to the slopes and fulfilled his boyhood dream— founding a ski resort in Vail, Colorado. The book is a dramatic recounting of a World War II experience and includes archival photos, as well as commentary on the legacy of the 10th Mountain Division, and a detailed list of sources.

It is a quick read, but sheds light on a little known slice of history.

Celebrating the signs of Autumn

All the leaves are green
except for those on the tree
that stands sentinel
at the top of the street.
Its yellowing leaves
are the harbingers of Autumn.

There are other signs.
They appear most mornings,
announcing the change of seasons:
slippered feet on cold floors,
car lights turned on
for my dark drive to work,
jackets, worn to work, but
casually carried home
on warm afternoons.

Back to school
comes long before
Fall really begins
and I long to wear
tights and sweaters
and to feel the chill disappear
as I pull on my hat and gloves.