Poetry Friday - Pirates

The first grade students who visit my library love pirates - at least the pirates who are in the marvelous books written by Melinda Long and illustrated by David Shannon.

In honor of pirates:

We had buried some treasure (and bodies as well)
And was just sailin' back from the cave,
When he calls fer boiled water
And stomps down below
An' gor' but he comes up shaved.
There's a chickenish stubble and fishbelly skin
On that face once so blazin' and brave
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And things ain't the same
In the piratin' game
Since ol' Captain Blackbbeard shaved.

A selection from “Captain Blackbeard Did What?”
By Shel Silverstein In
A Light in the Attic
Harper Collins, 2001


In my book . . . Life would be good if we could retain our love of the impossible of our imagination.

Poetry Friday on Saturday

I purposefully postponed Poetry Friday until today in order to celebrate Groundhog’s Day!

The earliest reference to Groundhog’s Day in American was made by a storekeeper in his diary on February 4, 1841 referring to February 2nd as Candlemas Day which to the Germans’ is Groundhog’s Day. Candlemas Day was celebrated by early Christians as the day Jesus was presented in the Temple, traditionally 40 days after Christmas. It is also a cross quarter day, the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, and may be considered the beginning of Spring. In western Europe is was a time for preparing earth for first plantings. Since many hibernating animals such as bears and in Europe hedgehogs were thought to peek out of their dens to see if it was time to wake up, it is perhaps natural that this day became known as Groundhog’s Day by early settlers of North America. There were no hedgehogs there; but there were the chubby, furry rodents called groundhogs.

Margaret Hillert’s
“Is It True?”

The groundhog plays a little game
(Woodchuck is his other name.)
If he finds no shadow here,
Spring is very, very near.
But if he sees his shadow small,
Winter isn't done at all,
And back into his hole he'll creep
For six more weeks of winter sleep.

Robert Herrick’s
“The Ceremonies for Candlemas Day”

Kindle the Christmas brand, and then
Till sunset let it burn;
Which quench'd, them lay it up again,
Till Christmas next return.

Part must be kept, wherewith to teend
the Christmas log next year;
And when 'tis safely kept, the fiend
can do no mischief there.

Pennsylvania’s Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning. But Georgia’s General Beauregard Lee did not. General Lee’s predictions over the years have proven to be 93% to 37% more accurate that Phil’s.

In my book . . . Though I enjoyed the surprise snow day here in south Mississippi, I think that I will choose to believe the General’s point of view.

Poetry Friday - Edgar Allan Poe

A cipher - a code - secret writing - played an extremely important part in The Case of The Missing Marquess: An Enola Holmes Mystery. One of my favorite poets, Edgar Allan Poe, was a celebrated cryptographist. He is considered one of the first to write a detective story which in a sense is breaking the code of mystery surrounding a crime - solving the question of who committed it; so it is perhaps natural that he contributed to the popularity of cryptography during his lifetime. Poe’s short story “The Gold Bug” published in 1843 relates the story of a man who finds buried treasure by solving a secret code or cipher. His "Valentine" is not only contains a cipher but much word play.

Can you solve the mystery of

"A Valentine"

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! - they hold a treasure
Divine - a talisman - an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure -
The words - the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose you labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a saber,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent word oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets - as the name is a poet's too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto - Mendez Ferdinando -
Still form a synonym for Truth. - Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you
can do.

from Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Poems
(Library of Classic Poets)

Note from the text:
[To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.]

If you solved the cipher, you might enjoy knowing that the address was an American (1811-1850) poet and one of the most popular women writers of her day who exchanged romantic poems with Poe.

In my book . . . Ah - Sweet mystery! Yet, the untangled mystery hints at more mystery. It sent me searching for information about Osgood. It seems that Poe’s young wife approved of their flirtatious poetry exchange and was even friends with Osgood. A valentine can be simply a tribute or warm praise through words. So, to Poe, whose birthday was January 19th, I send this valentine!

Poetry Friday - Strange Weather

What a week here in south Mississippi - a very warm week - reaching 80° on Tuesday. It is 58° today, and the predicted high for next week, seven days from that 80° day is also 58°. How about that? Thursday afternoon the students of my elementary school spent two hours in their safe places because of tornado warnings. Heat, torrential rain, scary wind, and now extreme cold - all in one week of this new year.

Ironically, first grade students at my school started their Ezra Jack Keats study with A Snowy Day this strange week. So in honor of snow:

"Winter Morning"
by Ogden Nash

Winter is the king of showmen,
Turning tree stumps into snow men
And houses into birthday cakes
And spreading sugar over the lakes.
Smooth and clean and frost white
The world looks good enough to bite.
That's the season to be young,
Catching snowflakes on your tongue.

Snow is snowy when it's snowing
I'm sorry it's slushy when it's going.

And

"Snowy Morning"
by Lilian Moore

Wake
gently this morning,
to a different day.
Listen.

There is no bray
of buses,
no brake growls,
no siren howls and
no horns
blow.

There is only
the silence
of a city
hushed by snow.

both poems from
Snowy Day: Stories and Poems edited by Caroline Feller Bauer

I have been lucky enough during my lifetime to experience a city hushed by snow - this very self same city which experienced 80° this week.

In my book . . . the silence is preferable to the howl of the wind.

Poetry Friday

Two Poems in honor of stalagmites in my bird bath (Here in south Mississippi we had a morning with a temperature of 14°!):

"Welcome to the New Year"
by Eleanor Farjeon

Hey, my lad, ho, my lad!
Here’s a New Broom.
Heaven’s your housetop
And Earth is your room.

Tuck up your shirtsleeves,
There’s plenty to do-
Look at the muddle
That’s waiting for you!

Dust in the corners
And dirt on the floor,
Cobwebs still clinging
To window and door.

Hey, my lad! ho, my lad!
Nimble and keen -
Here’s your New Broom, my lad!
See you sweep clean.

from All the Silver Pennies
edited by Blanch Jennings Thompson

"Fire and Ice"
by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

from the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry
edited by Richard Ellmann and Robert O’Clair

Eleanor Farjeon an English author was a friend of Robert Frost whose summer home near Middlebury, Vermont was vandalized December 28, 2007. The Associated Press reported that many items were damaged or burned by vandals who apparently broke into the home for a drinking party. Frost summered at the home from 1939 until his death in 1963. Thankfully, the cabin located on the property where Frost wrote was not damaged.

The phrase “a new broom sweeps clean” was used quite frequently by my mother to encourage me to begin anew - appropriate for a new year. Farjeon’s poem certainly infers this. Frost’s words were somewhat prophetic. Hate almost destroyed his home on a cold winter’s night.

In my book . . . Our world needs a new broom.

Poetry Friday and Saturday Review of Books Challenge - Book 5

"Diving Beetle's
food-Sharing Rules"

Any type of larva is mine,
as well as all tadpoles, minnows, and newts.
Sticklebacks, caddis flies, spiders,
and small frogs of any kind - mine.
Snails, eggs, and bugs - all mine.
In short,
if it moves, it is mine.
It it's anywhere near me, it is mine.
If I'm hungry (and I'm always hungry),
it is mine, mine, mine.

And if, by chance, I choose
to crawl up yonder smartweed,
bask for a bit,
open my armored wings,
and fly about my kingdom
(within which everything is mine),
do not forget what is mine.
For if I return
and you have taken it,
YOU
are mine.

from Song of the Water Boatman & Other Pond Poems
poems by Joyce Sidman
illustrated by Beckie Prange

This is a wondrous book - every entry more special than the last, every page more beautiful than the last. It was a Caldecott Honor Book for good reason. It is informative, entertaining, entrancing. A young reader would never realize that she was learning at the same time as she was reading or hearing these amazing poems.

What youngster doesn’t love a cumulative poem?

concluding stanza of “In the Depths of the Summer Pond”

Here hunts the heron, queen of the pond,
that spears the fish
that swallows the frog
that gulps the bug
that nabs the nymph
that drinks the flea
that eats the algae, green and small,
in the depths of the summer pond.

Word Joy!

My young library visitors love Melinda Long’s How I Became A Pirate so I think that their favorite song would be the title poem.

concluding stanza of “Song of the Water Boatman
and Backswimmer’s Refrain”

I guess by now, it’s clear to see
the boatman’s life is the life for me;
among the weeds I’ll always be
. . . on a sunny summer’s morning.
Yo, ho, ho,
the pond winds blow;
the backswimmer’s life is the life I know!

In My Book . . . Sidman’s extraordinary book reminds me of Paul Fleischman’s Newbery Award winning Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices - a favorite at my house with my once-upon-a-time young son - irresistible!

Poetry Friday - Passing Away

This day is a national day of remembrance for those who gave their lives for our country, the day Pearl Harbor was attacked and the United States officially engaged in war - World War II.

It is also a day of remembrance for my family. We lost a dear member of our little group this week.

a poem by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too
For His Civility -

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess - in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us -
The Dews drew quivering and chill -
For only Gossamer, my Gown -
My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground -
The Roof was scarcely visible -
The Cornice - in the Ground -

Since then - ’tis Centuries - and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity -

a poem by Emily Bronte

"No Coward Soul Is Mine"

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And Faith shines equal, arming me from Fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life, that in me has rest,
As I, undying Life, have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain:
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years.
Pervades and broods above.
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears.

Though earth and moon were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And thou wert life alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou-Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

In My Book . . . Ecclesiastes still has the last word. There is a time

to be born and a time to die,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time
to dance,

Poetry Friday - Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day brought a new experience for me this year, one which inspired the continuation of my thoughts about time and personal introspection.

A Thanksgiving time of year remembrance by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

"The Harvest Moon"

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

You know that I have to get back to my dictionary obsession every once in a while, and today is the day. The etymology of thanks according to my trusty dictionary states that is derived from Old English from Old High German from the Latin word for to know. Now that is interesting. A search of to know led to thought which led to think which among its definitions is to reflect or ponder, to weigh in the mind which brings me back to my thoughts about time. As Longfellow said:

All things are symbols: The external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind

In my book . . . I have to remember my posting on time:
There is a time for everything . .
A time to throw away, a time to tear down, and a time to weep
but conversely
there is time to keep, a time to build,
and most importantly
a time to laugh!

To prevent becoming completely maudlin, a beloved memory

Five fat turkeys are we.
We slept all night in a tree.
When the cook came around,
We couldn’t be found.
That’s why we’re here you see!

This is from memory, so I am sure that it is only a paraphrase; but it was a favorite of my once upon a time kindergarten aged son and so brings about a time to laugh!

Poetry Friday - Time

There are many axioms about time. Time flies when you’re having fun. The older you get, the faster time goes.

The older I get, I realize that what my mother always said is true - especially about time going faster, the older you get!

Kate Greenaway’s

“When You and I Grow Up”

When you and I
Grow up - Polly -
I mean that you and me,
Shall go sailing in a big ship
Right over all the sea.
We’ll wait till we are older,
For if we went to-day,
You know that we might lose ourselves,
And never find the way.

Ecclesiastes has the final word on time.

There is a time for everything.
and a season for every activity
under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to
uproot;
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to
build
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to
dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time
to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to
refrain,
a time to search and a time to give
up,
a time to keep and a time to throw
away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to
speak
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

In my book . . . Following the proverbial wisdom of Ecclesiastes will prevent the possibility

that we might lose ourselves,
And never find the way.

Poetry Friday - Poe

This week traditionally marks a time of change - at least for me, a month after the autumnal equinox , the week of All Hallow’s Eve - a perfect week for the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. Poe has always been a favorite of mine. For one thing, my favorite genre is the mystery; and Poe is credited as one the first authors of detective/crime fiction; and Poe’s life itself was a mystery.

I love Poe’s best known poems:
The exquisite "The Raven"
the tintinabulation (word joy!) of "The Bells".

Poe believed that the purpose of a poem was it’s effect on the audience, it’s ability to elevate the soul. This is very close to the definition Emily Dickinson gave to poetry:

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can every warm me, I know it is poetry.

From Modern American Poetry
Edited by Louis Untermeyer

Winter is in the air. Of course, the temperature here in the South doesn’t register winter; but some leaves are turning brown; and acorns are being gathered by the squirrels. In the cycle of life, winter is a time of death and sleep - perfect for Poe’s:

"The Conqueror Worm"

Lo! ‘tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years -
A mystic throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly -
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast shadowy things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama - oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased forevermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued!

Out - out are the lights - out all!
And, over each dying form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the seraphs, all haggard and wan,
Uprising, Unveiling, Affirm
That the play is the tragedy “Man,”
Its hero the conqueror Worm.

From Edgar Allan Poe: The Raven and Other Poems
Selected and Introduced by Richard Kopley

In my book . . . I’m cold!

Poetry Friday - Germs

After a weekend of introspection, I had a week of “no spection” - meaning muddled thinking. I was attacked by a germ.

I have mentioned my love of dictionaries. Well, I couldn’t help looking up the definition of the word introspection again which led me to musing which led to germ - I promise it does!

Ogden Nash’s
“The Germ”

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my popet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

Germ has many meanings, of course. It can mean a minute life form, especially a disease causing bacterium. It can mean a small electronic listening device - a bug. By the way, part of the etymology of introspection is specere - to look - which leads to spy. And we know that spies are very fond of bugs! But one of the meanings of germ is something that may serve as a basis of further growth or development: the germ of a project.

In my book . . . I can only hope that my "muddled thinking" causing germ will soon give way to that one which allows developing a real project!

Side note I: Definitions were taken from The Free Dictionary (Online) and Merriam-Webster Online.

Side note II: Last week some 6th grade boys actually asked me about dictionaries. I was thrilled! As I have said, and as you can see by my last two blog entries, I love dictionaries!

Poetry Friday - Introspection

In honor of a weekend for introspection:

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog,
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

By Emily Dickinson
From I'm Nobody! Who are You?: Poems of Emily Dickinson for Children

"Nobody"

Nobody loves me,
Nobody cares,
Nobody picks me peaches and pears.
Nobody offers me candy and Cokes,
Nobody listens and laughs at my jokes.
Nobody helps when I get in a fight,
Nobody does all my homework at night.
Nobody misses me,
Nobody cries,
Nobody thinks I'm a wonderful guy.
So if you ask me who's my best friend, in a whiz,
I'll stand up and tell you the Nobody is.
But yesterday night I got quite a scare,
I woke up and Nobody just wasn't there.
I called out and reached out for Nobody's hand,
In the darkness where Nobody usually stands.
Then I poked through the house, in each cranny and nook,
But I found somebody each place that I looked.
I searched till I'm tired, and now with the dawn,
There's no doubt about it -
Nobody's gone!

from A Light In the Attic
by Shel Silverstein

My trusty dictionary defines introspection as self-examination, given to private thought, contemplative. A study of contemplative leads to pensive defined as deep thoughtfulness suggesting melancholy thoughtfulness. And melancholy means sadness or depression of the spirits, gloom.

In my book . . . sometimes I have to remember another of Silverstein's poems - "There's a light on in the attic. . . And I know you're on the inside . . . lookin' out."

Poetry Friday (On Monday) - Fall Break

Another Poetry Friday Monday

My school had fall break over the weekend. The students had no school Friday or today - a four day weekend. However, faculty had “staff development” today with a very interesting topic but still not a four day weekend!

In honor of school breaks:
Charles Ghigna’s
“School Daze”

From algebra to English class,
I've lost my mind, I swear;
One teacher says that pie is round,
The other - pie are square!

From A Fury of Motion: Poems for Boys

My trusty dictionary tells me that daze means to stun, to stupefy and stupefy means to amaze, astonish

In my book . . . I am astonished that the first 9 weeks term has gone by so fast! Bring on the pie!

Poetry Friday - Stars

In honor of stars - as in reaching for!

Sara Teasdale's
"The Falling Star"

I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinding the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold,
Good only to make wishes on
And then forever to be gone.

And . . .

Sara Teasdale's
"Night"

Stars over snow,
And in the west a planet
Swinging below a star -
Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,
It is not far -
It never will be far.

Poems from
All The Silver Pennies
Edited by Blanche Jennings Thompson

In my book . . . what we wish for might be soon and forever be gone - reach for those stars! "Look for the lovely" . . . It never will be far."

There's nothing half so real in life as the things you've done . . . inexorably, unalterably done.

Sara Teasdale

Poetry Friday - Tigers

Yahoo News continually amazes me. I am not a big fan of wading through masses of newsprint; so I sometimes click on Yahoo’s access points and follow where they lead, thus tigers.

“Tigers rediscovered in Indian rainforests” caught my eye. In early September it was reported that, perhaps miraculously, at least 20 tigers were detected in a rainforest of western India - a place where all tigers were reportedly killed by poachers.

O course I accept the fact that humans have to come first in survival, but I have great hope that a means can be found that allows humans and God’s other creatures to coexist - no more extinctions.

In honor of tigers:

The Tyger
by William Blake
from The Norton Anthology of English Literature
Fourth Edition

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning braight
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

In my book . . . a beautiful balance has been restored.

Poetry Friday (On Monday) - Autumn

Again - Poetry Friday on Monday

Autumn at last. September 23 marked the autumnal equinox - fun words to say! And words that give hope for a cooler temperature in south Mississippi!

Using my favorite reference book, the dictionary, I find that autumn means a period of maturity. Maturity means a state of ripeness, and ripeness means fully prepared to something. So . . . Those of us who can be described as mature in age are just now fully prepared to do something - maybe something great!

In honor of Autumn:

Gathering Leaves
by Robert Frost

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons.
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.

But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace.
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.

I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed.
And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth.
Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?

One of my favorite uses of the word leaf is in the phrase turn over a new leaf -to start anew.

So

In my book . . . It is never to late to live. "And who's to say where the harvest shall stop?" Autumn can mean life joy!

Poetry Friday - Hummingbirds

I have a friend who is dedicated to hummingbirds. She feed 100's of them many, many gallons of what they love. And they love her. They seek her out each spring. I have known one to sit on her shoulder.

In honor of hummingbirds:

A route of Evanescence With a revolving Wheel -
A Resonance of Emerald -
A Rush of Cochineal -
And every Blossom on the Bush Adjusts its tumbled Head -
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning's Ride -

And

Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel -
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill -

He Never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose -
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted -
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres -
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us,
If positive, twere we -
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity -

But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye -
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply!

Both poems by Emily Dickinson
(I told you she is one of my favorites!)

Fact: The hummingbird heart is about 20% of its body volume and beats about 500 times a minute.

In my book . . . a heart that beats for these tiny miracles vibrates with a joyful noise.

Poetry Friday (On Monday) - Spiders

Internet problems puts Poetry Friday on Monday!

Spiders are one creepy crawly that I am not afraid of. If they leave me alone, I leave them alone. In fact, one of the best pets ever in my home was a tarantula - no vet trips, no baths - just a cricket every now and then, a cage clean out, and she was set. She was a beautiful rose tarantula named Bug. However, there are those who suffer from arachnophobia. These poor souls would not find the gigantic web located in Texas as interesting as I did. Spiders spun a web covering over 200 yards of a nature trail in Lake Tawakoni State Park. While the web itself I would find as beautiful as that described in the following poem, what it now holds I would find horrifying. Millions of mosquitoes are caught in the web!

The spider spun a silver web
Above the gate last night
It was round with little spokes
And such a pretty sight
This morning there were drops of dew
High on it, one by one;
They changed to diamonds, rubies red.
When they were lit with sun.
A spider's nice to have around
To weave a web so fine
One which to string the drops of dew
That catch the bright sunshine.

By Truda McCoy
From Poetry Place Anthology

And of course, there is:

"The Spider and the Fly"

The Caldecott Honor book adaptation by Tony DiTerlizzi is a dazzling rendition of this cautionary tale.

And let's not forget:

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a big spider,
And sat down beside her.
And frightened Miss Muffet away.

From The Real Mother Goose

In my book . . . We should all remember the well known adage about weaving a tangled web.

Oh what a tangled web we
Weave,
When first we practice to
Deceive!

Sir Walter Scott Marmion, Canto vi. Stanza 17

Poetry Friday - Robert Frost

Trees seem to be on my mind this week. My favorite trees are the willow and the dogwood, neither of which can I keep alive! In fact I have discovered that my treasured elderly dogwood is dying. Poet Robert Frost wrote about many things in nature including trees.

Some lines from Frost’s

“Birches”

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
. . .
He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
. . .
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
. . .
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Frost said about poetry: “Poetry provides the one permissible way of saying one thing and meaning another.”

In my book . . . A swing in or on or around a tree is a fine thing. Swing away!

Quote and Poem from:
The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry
Edited by Richard Ellmann and Robert O’Clair

Poetry Friday - Father Goose

We are truly experiencing the “dog days of summer” and are in need of some:

"Inspiration"

It is everything
you think it is.
It is the end
of the tunnel
and the light
up ahead.
It is the sound
of the wind
and the silence
of the night.
It is the sun
and the moon
and the memory.
It is the eye
and the hand
and the mouth.
It is the present
and the future
and the past.
It is here.
It is there.
It is gone.

from A Fury of Motion: Poems for Boys
by Charles Ghigna aka Father Goose

Charles Ghigna has spoken at USM’s Children’s Book Festival several times - a very interesting speaker! He believes that “poems look at the world from the inside out.”

In my book . . . These are definitely days to be looking at the world from the inside! It’s too hot to be out!