npm2020: poetry videos day 20 "Cauldron Full of Compost"

My National Poetry Month Project 2020 is to record a short video each day in April, presenting my published poems to poetry lovers of all ages.

Today's poem is the first in a series for Earth Week. It's the 50th anniversary of Earth Day on Wednesday, and I'll be sharing some poems like this one, with some extra-earthy themes.  Also possibly my longest poem...

Cauldron Full of Compost I’m raking for dollars when I find it— my red kindergarten lunch box, buried deep under leaves and tangled ivy between the playhouse and the herb garden. I guess plastic really does last forever. I fixed a lot of food in this lunch box: boiled summer cauldrons full of onion-grass spaghetti, mixed pans of mudluscious spring brownies, scooped great heaping mountains of snow cream sprinkled with sugar, garnished with icicles. And once, on Uncle Mark’s birthday, I filled it with oozing mulberries and tiny wild strawberries tossed with encourage-mint. Everyone ate that for real. Who knows what I last cooked in here? Now nature’s doing the brewing: a dark sludgy soup, a decomposing mess of dead plants laced with worms. A few of the leaves are new enough— I can tell which are walnut, tulip, maple— But most have moldered here so long they’re part of the primeval stew. I stir it with a wooden spoon gone greenish with moss, drag up a dripping clump, spread it wetly at the foot of the maple, richer and thicker than syrup. With this dead soup I feed the tree.

npm2020: poetry videos day 15 "Solar-Powered Sun Puppet"

My National Poetry Month Project 2020 is to record a short video each day in April, presenting my published poems to poetry lovers of all ages.

Today's poem tries to capture just how powerfully the sun determines my mood and energy--and how low I go when it's cloudy and grey.  Are you like that too?

Solar-Powered Sun Puppet

the dark side of me

glowers inside

drags at the tips of my toes

it feeds on clouds

on rainy skies

and only my shadow knows:

how heavy

the day is

how low the horizon

how sodden

and sad

I am                   

then sweet sun punches a hole in the clouds

sizzles and swims in my eyes

my shadow spills out through a hole in my sole

my darker side hung out to dry

howbrilliantthedayis!

howhighthebluesky!

how sudden and mad I am!

I’m sunny side up

I’m pumped full of light 

my silhouette dances on walls

Now I can see clearly:

                           my dark doppelganger

                           freed by the sun's high call

my demon cast out, my shadow of doubt

is the shadow that shows that I am

npm2020: poetry videos day 1 "April Gale"

This month, National Poetry Month 2020, I'm using my new digital recording skills and my new YouTube channel to practice performing my poems live.  Just as teaching online and sharing recorded read-alouds is very different than classroom teaching face-to-face, performing for the camera is really different than reading to an audience, but it's practice all the same.

So here, for April 1, is my first rather amateur poetry reading video!  These are short, just one read-through, so if you're watching with children, consider playing it twice.   : )

forward...pitCH!

I'm tossing out an old pitch today, a poem from Pumpkin Butterfly that 's just full of those -CHs I love so muCH.  Without further ado (and with deep longing for more of the hint of warmth that we got in Bethesda today)....

Cherry Very

Be sneaky, be cheeky

Pinch from the kitchen

The reddest, the roundest there are

A bowl full of cherries

a bowl of the very

most cherriest bombs by far

Backbone straight

Step up to the plate

Puff up your chest and lungs

Swallow the fruit

Ready to shoot

Put the pit in the groove of your tongue

One more tip:

Round your lips

To launch it without a hitch

Don’t get tense

Aim for the fence

Wind up like you’re fixing to pitch

Now blast it hard

Across the yard

Kissing that missile goodbye

It’s over the fence!

It’s out of the park!

It’s a letloose cherryjuice

        noschool slobberdrool

        spitwhistle summerfun    home run!

HM 2009

all rights reserved

************************

And what cherry pits are you spittin' I mean pitCHing at us today?  I heard a rumor that we might have some kids' work coming our way today....CHampion!

Diane outdoes herself and just about wears out the word with her tale of a pirate taleteller:

Mr. Peeps a.k.a. the Pitch Perfect Pirate

Filthy from pine pitch and stinking
of rum still his mateys love
the timbre and pitch of his voice.
They spend hours rapt in his tales
of heroics and winsome lasses.

Like the pitch of a snake oil salesman
Mr. Peeps grabs their attention and
doesn't let go until the sale is made.

Any helmsman who dares steer
into a swell will find himself
pitched overboard if he causes
the vessel to pitch and roll.
Ship mates brought to
an emotional pitch become
testy if a story is interrupted.

The captain knows the pitched
battle will ne'er be fought when
Peeps is telling tales, but he
no longer pitches a fit, for in
the pitch black night no one
notices him sitting listening
with thumb in his mouth
thinking of his dear, old, mum.

Mr. Peeps' stories'll do that to a man.

--Diane Mayr

Charles gets in the game with a distinctly diamond-shaped pitch--love all the muscular language and the cacophony of metaphors!

PUNCH OUT

Tattered mound caked in cleated footprints,

Dirt soaked uniform clings to my flesh,

Arm dangles like spaghetti being hoisted out

Of a colander. I blink; wipe sweat out of eyes,

Identify my battery mates signal, #1,

The Heater. Fingers pressed across crimson

Colored sutures, I breathe deep, rear back, let fly

This ruby pearled orb, the pitch whizzes by

As the batter stands frozen as

An Alaskan winter, “Strike 3!” Game over.

I slouch in happiness.

(c) Charles Waters 2015 all rights reserved.

Mary Lee's taking it to the retail sector where pitching a fit might lead to a moral dilemma:

RIGHT AND WRONG

The customer is always right
except when they're wrong
and so determined to get their way
that they go over your head to your boss
and next will be your boss' boss
if you don't pitch your scruples
in order to keep the peace.
The customer who is the biggest bully is always right.
And that's just wrong.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2015

Donna returns with another how-many-pitches-can-we-fit? story (so glad not to be on this trip):

The Pitch

The salesman made the perfect pitch
and sold me on a tent ;
I called my friends they all pitched in
and in the van we went .
We drove down to the town boat launch,
put rowboat in the lake
A storm came up as we set out
which was our next mistake!
Our little rowboat pitched and rolled
more than a little bit -
We tossed our cookies in the lake
and pitched a whiny fit!
We tried to sing some sailing songs,
our voices swayed off key
Along the way to camp, I fear,
Our pitch was lost at sea!
To shore we rowed and rowed some more
and pitched the boat on land.
We tried to pitch our tent upright
But we were on wet sand.
Pitch black, and raining pitchforks
and hammer handles, too,
No flashlight, nor a candle,
What were we all to do?
The home-run pitch to pack it up
Was uttered from some lips
We crossed the water to the van
parked under pitch pine drips.
We pitched the tent into the back
to head home for a towel.
I aired the tent and washed the van -
proclaimed the pitch was foul.

©Donna JT Smith, 2015

Keeping it tight, Kate's got it right:

Wow

She sings and she plays baseball.
She really is a witch.
Cause either thing she’s doing
the girl’s got perfect pitch.

—Kate Coombs

Carol brings us just the Concluding Poem of her Spiritual Journey Thursday post:

So let me pitch an inviting plea
to find the road to positivity
and discover what falls along your way
that allows one new discovery each and every day.

--Carol Varsalona

Joy's pitch is the dark pine-type:

The night is dark,
as dark as pitch.
Mosquitoes are flying
and I've got an itch.

And perhaps most excitingly, Kim Doele, a 3rd grade teacher and Poetry Club Advisor from Wealthy Elementary School (would that they were all Wealthy!) in Grand Rapids, MI, has linked to some pitch-perfect poems by her students. Follow THIS LINK to continue reading poems by Teagan, Eli and Hania!

      Homerun!

The batter's at home.
He taps his bat.

The pitcher's arm swings
Here comes the pitch-.......


Sa-Wing bada bada

The pitch is coming down the lane
The crowd is shouting, "Sa-wing bada bada."
Bathroom using, I had ta!
Suddenly the crowd went
silent.
Was this gonna get violent?
Here's the pitch,......


Pitch Perfect

You need to be
pitch perfect
You look quite ugly to me.
Look at you.  You're a mess!
Go put on your dirty dress.......

We just love it when "The Naturals" get in on the poetry game!  Thanks, Ms. Doele and kids!

 

forward...punCH!

www.sinfulcelluloid.com

Good morning on this snowy day in suburban DC!  We're marching along briskly in our first week of the Forward...MarCH Poetry CHallenge (read the introduction to this project here) and our word today is "punCH"--another one with several meanings most delicious to the poet.

I'm posting my one previously published poem for the week, but first I'll share one from Donna of Mainely Write.  You'll see why...

A Punch of Sun

Packing a wallop

Up in the sky 
Noontime it reaches
Cerulean;                                                  
High

--Donna Smith

Really tight, really strong, really great!  And how's this for a coincidence? 

Solar-Powered Sun Puppet

the dark side of me

glowers inside

drags at the tips of my toes

it feeds on clouds

on rainy skies

and only my shadow knows:

how heavy

the day is

how low the horizon

how sodden

and sad

I am

then sweet sun punches a hole in the clouds

sizzles and swims in my eyes

my shadow spills out through a hole in my sole

my darker side hung out to dry

howbrilliantthedayis! 

howhighthebluesky!

how sudden and mad I am!

I’m sunny-side up

I’m pumped full of light 

my silhouette dances on walls

now I can see clearly:

my dark doppelganger
freed by the sun's high call

        my demon cast out, my shadow of doubt
        is the shadow that proves that I am

HM 2009
Pumpkin Butterfly: Poems from the Other Side of Nature (Boyds Mills/Wordsong)

I don't know Donna well, but clearly we have sunthing going on.  Go visit Donna's blog--there's a LOT going on there!

Diane of Random Noodling has gone in a different direction with one of her senryu.  Love this marriage of words and image! (Too bad about Punch and Judy's marriage.)

 And Charles Waters is back, too--reminding me of all the "punch buggy, no punch-backs" that I've lived through in the car.

THE GOOD LUCK ALTERNATIVE

I bash my brother on his arm

I did this as a good luck charm

Until he punches my arm, whack!

 I then decide to pat his back.

(c) Charles Waters 2015 all rights reserved.

Mary Lee gets whacked and walloped by the wind:

Pre-Dawn Walk, Winter Edition

It's more than just a punch.
I'm hit by a powerful blow
as I turn north
into the bitter wind.

It slams me back,
rakes my face,
tears away breath,
tears up my eyes.

Seventy steps,
head bent,
then I turn west
and am sheltered.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2015 

Carol's is short and light:

The storm raged on-
punCHed the sky,
letting more snow
flit and fly.

2015 CVarsalona

Joy's punch is eggnog...

Please
Use the
New
Cups to
Have eggnog.
 
And Matt's will quenCH your thirst for a laugh:

Some years ago
I met Don Ho.
He took me out to lunch.
His date was hot;
that's why I got
a nice Hawaiian punch.

-© 2015, Matt Forrest Esenwine

Join us tomorrow for "fetCH"!

Belt it out, flower--we'll join in!*

Poetry Friday here tomorrow and feeling summery at 90 degrees...

Many delights await, since I had an opportunity to do some poetry work with my son's second grade class this week; virtual permission slips are rolling in, which will allow me to share some of their really individual, skilled and charming work.

I'll collect the breakfast links around 8 am (or, if I can persuade Mister Linky, he'll do it), be back for a late lunch around 2 pm, pop off for a job interview and come back for nightcaps after 9. See you tomorrow!

*from "Botanical Jazz," Pumpkin Butterfly, 2009

autumn summer pumpkin butterfly

What's your favorite season? It's an important question; in my family we seem to review our preferences, with revisions, on a regular basis (just like we keep having to come back to the food question: "If you could have only one carbohydrate for the rest of your life, what would you choose? only one fruit? only one vegetable?").

I find it very easy indeed to pick summer, but this early fall time is a close second because of piquant overlaps like the one I tried to capture in the opening poem of last year's Pumpkin Butterfly (Boyds Mills/Wordsong). My school is full of painted lady and monarch butterflies because of the second-grade science curriculum, and the pumpkins are already on their way in, all under the mellow October sunshine. Don't forget to watch for ghosts.


Ghosts


we haul our wagon to a patch of hilly earth
weighed down with deep orange
with bigbellied, cumbersome pumpkins

“This is the one”
“And this one”
we say

we cut the tough vines and turn to load them up

behind our backs
a gust of butterflies rises and tumbles
on hot October air

yellowgreen tinged with orange
wings as weightless and angular
as the pumpkins are heavy and round:

the ghosts of our pumpkins untethered from earth

~ Heidi Mordhorst 2009

octover

October may be the 10th month nowadays

but I counted it octopodally:

I was an eight-armed creature walking on water, juggling

many odd balls, some of them flaming

with excitement, even as

I battled an eight-armed creature equipped

with powerful suckers that threatened to drag me

too deep in an ocean of constant motion

clouded with turquoise ink, bad weather and

many more than one grain of sand.

In October my long arms finally reached

the rubbery endtips of my ability to Do Things.

Surfacing, now I can breathe the word

Octover.

party poopers

No bright uploaded image here; it's wet and chilly in Montgomery County, MD and I'm in a glowersome mood.

I was looking forward on Tuesday evening to participating in the PTA-sponsored "Read-Along Pajama Party" event at my school--the perfect opportunity to introduce myself (new this year) and Pumpkin Butterfly to the community. I asked about selling copies and donating some of the proceeds to the school, and my supportive and savvy principal called to inquire what the rules might be about such a proposal.

The answer from The Office was something like, "Not only can your teacher not sell copies of her book, she shouldn't be reading it on school property. That constitutes a conflict of interest." So I went to the pajama party and read work by Calef Brown and Valerie Worth, by Marilyn Singer and Constance Levy, by Ralph Fletcher and Brian Patten--a lot of fun! And yet...

The part about selling books makes sense to me; fair enough. But the part about not reading, not teaching my own published poems to my class (or any other in the system, perhaps including those of my own children as a parent volunteer), doesn't make sense. Our curriculum emphasizes the writing process and the development of the author identity in our students, and writers and poets are invited in all the time to bring that process to life--isn't having a live, in-house model a good thing?

I think it means something that after sharing one single poem from Squeeze (which is approved for inclusion in the county's school and public libraries), half of my first-graders are working on poetry collections for our Publishing Party at the end of the month. That's the interest we want to protect and promote, surely?

pushing out pumpkins

This isn't the first time I've likened the publication of a new book to the birth of a baby, but the effort this past 10 days has gone beyond metaphoric labor to literal heavy lifting. Last Friday, when I should have been blogging about how excited my class got when I announced that they would be publishing their own books just like Kevin Henkes and...well, ME, instead I was loading the car with all manner of promotional accoutrements: a 10x10 Swiss Army canopy, three folding tables, boxes of books, rolls of plastic tablecloth, bags of candy corn and plates of Trader Joe's pumpkin bread, laminated book pages cut from the f&g's Boyds Mills sent me at the last minute, a big fishbowl (for the raffle tickets), and of course, three giant pumpkins. I should have had the epidural.

My first event was held on the front lawn of a Lutheran Church who agreed at the last minute to let me squat there in the middle of a local restaurant event called "Taste of Bethesda" when I couldn't find anywhere else. It didn't rain (hallelujah) and I had a steady trickle of customers: a good combination of people who had received my email announcements of book events and families just passing by. There was no opportunity for a reading, exactly, but I sold 16 copies of both books nonetheless--plenty to make all the bearing down worth it (and now the car is loaded for all the other events this month). Here's a "Taste of Pumpkin Butterfly," the first poem of the new book.

Ghosts

we haul our empty wagon to a patch of hilly earth
weighed down with heavy orange
burdened with cumbersome pumpkins

"This is the one"
"And this one"
we say

we cut the tough vines and turn to load them up

behind our backs
a gust of butterflies rises and tumbles
on hot October air

yellow-green tinged with orange
wings as weightless and angular
as the pumpkins are heavy and round:

the ghosts of our pumpkins untethered from earth