dactyl in poetry feet
writing in lines
How your work shines!
I love dancing dactyls :-) I was also excited to receive THE ARROW FINDS ITS MARK – A Book of Found Poems, edited by Georgia Heard. Here's a link to a post where Robyn shares another terrific found poem. Robyn likes using found objects to make visual art, too. She gave me this wonderful decorated antique letterpress T:
Starburst Cluster Shows Celestial Fireworks by NASA Goddard Space Flight Center
Credit: NASA, ESA, R. O'Connell, F. Paresce, E. Young, the WFC3 Science Oversight Committee, and the Hubble Heritage Team
I'm short on time and running off to do Christmas stuff, so I am giving you a poem even though it's Music Monday. If only it was a poem about music! As it is, it just has a lot of sounds.
Mary Lee mentioned the crazy prompt I offered for the winter poem swap. Here's a poem I wrote using the prompt...the lines all start with "T" and the last word of (almost) each line starts with "S":
The Frog Prince Tries to Catch Her Eye by Tabatha Yeatts
The prince's trembling feet clung to the well's side,
toes desperately gripping the wet stone, sliding
toward the bottom again, startled, speckled
turns, struggling hands, grunts, gulps, stopping
to breathe, listening to the swish
thump of his own heart, still
too far from the top, still
too weak, too soft
to be heard, still
Happy Holidays, everyone! I hope you are having a better time than the Frog Prince.
“When I say it's you I like, I'm talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war, and justice that proves more powerful than greed.”
“Out of the morning land,
Over the snowdrifts,
Beautiful Freya came
Tripping to Scoring.
White were the moorlands,
And frozen before her;
Green were the moorlands,
And blooming behind her.
Out of her gold locks
Shaking the spring flowers,
Out of her garments
Shaking the south wind,
Around in the birches
Awaking the throstles,
And making chaste housewives all
Long for their heroes home,
Loving and love-giving,
Came she to Scoring.”
By the way, a "throstle" is a thrush songbird. I had to look it up :-)
Finding happiness should not be seen as finding a needle in a haystack. Happiness is within...Therefore, finding happiness should be like finding a gift in a stack of gifts.
I've been working on the PTA Reflections arts program all week. This year's theme is "The Magic of a Moment," so I have enjoyed seeing the many ways that students interpret magic moments. They unwrap them like gifts, great and small.
No student art to share today, but when I put this week's post together, I was inspired by the Reflections theme:
Chinese Aviatrix Receives Gift Of New Plane From Colonel Roscoe Turner, Washington, D.C.  shared by Ralph Repo
Paralympians Jaroslav Hadrava and Rene Taus celebrate by Gaël Marziou
Christmas gift suggestions
“Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.”
photo by Leland Francisco
A bit of cheerful holiday music today. John Rutter is an English composer who was commissioned to write music for the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton. He also composed this lovely song, The Shepherd's Pipe Carol, performed by the Batavia Madrigal Singers with the Macau Orchestra:
The words of the true poems by Walt Whitman
from Leaves of Grass
The words of the true poems give you more than poems,
They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything else,
They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,
They do not seek beauty— they are sought,
Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick.
They prepare for death—yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset,
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full;
Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings,
To launch off with absolute faith— to sweep through the ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again.
We put more coal on the big red fire,
And while we are waiting for dinner to cook,
Our father comes and tells us about
A story that he has read in a book.
And Charles and Will and Dick and I
And all of us but Clarence are there.
And some of us sit on Father's legs,
But one has to sit on the little red chair.
And when we are sitting very still,
He sings us a song or tells a piece;
He sings Dan Tucker Went to Town,
Or he tells us about the golden fleece.
He tells about the golden wool,
And some of it is about a boy
Named Jason, and about a ship,
And some is about a town called Troy.
And while he is telling or singing it through,
I stand by his arm, for that is my place.
And I push my fingers into his skin
To make little dents in his big rough face.
The Telephone by Robert Frost
“WHEN I was just as far as I could walk
From here to-day,
There was an hour
When leaning with my head against a flower
I heard you talk.
Don’t say I didn’t, for I heard you say—
You spoke from that flower on the window sill—
Do you remember what it was you said?”
“First tell me what it was you thought you heard.”
“Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
I leaned my head,
And holding by the stalk,
I listened and I thought I caught the word—
What was it? Did you call me by my name?
Or did you say—
Someone said ‘Come’—I heard it as I bowed.”
When Benjamin Franklin was 22 years old, he wrote
the epitaph that he imagined might be carved on his tombstone. By the time he
actually died at age 84, he had changed his mind.
The Epitaph of Young Benjamin Franklin
The body of
B. Franklin, Printer
(Like the Cover of an Old Book
Its Contents torn Out
And Stript of its Lettering and Gilding)
Lies Here, Food
But the Work shall not be Lost;
For it will
(as he Believ'd) Appear once More
In a New and More Elegant Edition
Revised and Corrected
By the Author.
Artist Giovanni Boldini was born in 1842, the eighth of his parents' thirteen children. Boldini was born in Italy, but he lived in Paris for nearly sixty years. I can see why he was a sought-after portrait painter: