Irene Latham's Blog, page 72

I'm Just No Good at Rhyming and Other Nonsense

Hello and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Diane at Random Noodling for Roundup.

I'm in today with a look at I'M JUST NOT GOOD AT RHYMING AND OTHER NONSENSE FOR MISCHIEVOUS KIDS AND IMMATURE GROWN-UPS by Chris Harris, illus. by Lane Smith.

How's that for a title? This book is really a throw-back to Shel Silverstein, except with more structure? (I've been trying to figure out how best to describe it!) It's fun, irreverent, witty, and gets high high marks for its kid appeal.

The author actually is very good at rhyming, and I liked how "The Door" poem kept showing up, serving as a narrative thread. And the fun continues through the back matter.. ever heard of an "Outdex"? "For titles that did not make the final cut," of course! (My favorite: "Unpoemed Title".... NOT IN BOOK) Ha! The Acknowledgments page actually has a measure from "not very grateful at all" to "extremely grateful." I especially like one that falls somewhere in the middle: "- That guy who told me this book would never sell. (It kind of motivated me.)"

Probably NOT surprising to regular readers of this blog, my favorite poem of the bunch is not a silly/clever one, but a lovely unexpectedly tender one I'd like to share here:

Under My Dragon's Wing

Nothing can hurt me,
Nothing can sting,
When I'm hiding under my dragon's wing.

No one can find me,
No one can fight.
Under my dragon's wing, all is all right.

I hear them outside,
Asking, "Where can she be?
Look in the car! Now look in the tree!

Check the gazebo,
Peek in the wagon.
Search everywhere - but don't bother that dragon..."

And they'd never guess
That the dragon's my friend
And I'll hide by his side till the day meets its end.

I feel all his strength
And his warmth and his guile,
And I hear them all calling for me... and I smile.

For no one says "No" here,
And no one tells lies,
And here I can dream and I'm just the right size.

I'm all that I want;
I don't need a think,
Here at home... under my dragon's wing.

- Chris Harris
-----------------
We all need a dragon's wing, don't we?

A Black Naturalist, A Book, and Hair

I've just been reading THE HOME PLACE: Memoirs of a Colored Man's Love Affair with Nature by J. Drew Lanham. It's a memoir in which the author talks about his connection to the land and nature, and what it's like to be a black naturalist.

So many passages spoke to me! About being possessed by the land and fascinated by flight. About the power of nature to erase racial (and other divides). About wildness and water, and yes, also the impact of TV!

The author describes how watching ROOTS as a child changed his life. First he was filled with pride -- these were his people. But as the miniseries continued, those feelings got more complicated. He felt out-ed, and "even blacker." He understood, suddenly, racism.

Here's the passage I'd like to share today, in part, because it includes a "hair" experience -- and something I'm learning from early readers of CAN I TOUCH YOUR HAIR? is that pretty much everyone has a hair story.

“It was the first time I'd had to grapple with race in a significant way. The most racist slights I'd dealt with to that point often took form in people not anticipating or misunderstanding the differences that made me me. I'd learned quickly, for example, that the brittle plastic combs handed out on picture day weren't meant to groom tightly packed black-boy hair. When one of the combs broke off in my little Afro, classmates laughed. Afterward, I asked to wear my hair cut short so that grooming wasn't an issue. And for as long as I can remember others had observed that I “talked white.” This somehow was supposed to make me better or smarter? For a few it make me a “sellout,” an Oreo – black on the outside and white within. But up to that point in my life, I hadn't yet taken a full-on gut punch of racism or truth and questioned my reality.

Roots set me- and the country- straight."-------------If you love nature -- and even if you don't -- read this book!

Whatever you feel, it's okay.

I've been reading like a madwoman lately -- so many amazing fall releases! One of my favorites so far is THE WAR I FINALLY WON by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley. This should come as no surprise, as I loved THE WAR THAT SAVED MY LIFE... and everything else that Kim has ever written! See my post from earlier this year on JEFFERSON'S SONS.

Here's the thing about Ada: she has a hard time trusting. Being unloved by her mother -- the one person who is supposed to love you no matter what -- has done quite a number on her feelings of worth and loveability. Even when adoptive mother Susan's love is steadfast, Ada still doubts and does things to self-sabotage.

I am no expert, but I do have loved ones with exactly this issue! Which is why Ada feels so real to me. I love that Kim takes us into the confusion of Ada's emotions. Ada's such a strong heroine -- and yet so needy! It reminds me to reach out to those people in my life who appear strong, but maybe need love. And when they reject my efforts, to reach again. To never stop reaching.

Here's a favorite passage:

"On May 13, 1941, I celebrated my real birthday for the first time. I was twelve years old.
I hadn't known my birthday until I'd found my birth certificate last September. Susan had made up dates to put on our identity cards. She had celebrated our pretend birthdays too.
Mam never celebrated birthdays. Mam never celebrated anything.
Maggie was back at school, but Ruth and Jamie picked flowers from the hedgerows and covered the breakfast table with them. Susan gave me a piece of bacon and a whole fried egg for breakfast. She and Lady Thorton stacked presents by my plate – new books, three of them.
It was too much. Church-steeple panic crawled across my skin. I handed the bacon to Jamie. I pushed the books out of sight. I made myself choke down the egg. Susan would be angry if I wasted it. I should have been used to birthdays. Man should have celebrated my birthdays.
“It's okay,” Susan said, watching my face. “Whatever you feel, it's okay.” She put her arms around me.
“Why didn't she love me?” I whispered.
“Because she was broken,” she said. “Remember that. She was broken, not you.”

I had the bad foot, but the foot worked better now. The foot wasn't the reason. Something else must be wrong with me. Most mothers loved their children.”"
Please don't miss this wonderful book!

Let it Snow!

Hello and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Lisa at Steps and Staircases for a tumblr Roundup.

We woke this morning to snow, which is always a newsworthy happening in Alabama! In anticipation, last night many schools instated a 2 hour delay. Now that the snow has actually arrived, some schools are calling it a complete "snow day." Love it!

Of course I had to take a few photographs... tears blurred my eyes because watching the snow drift so gently down fills me with hope for the world.



And then I remembered two new snow books I want to share:

WHEN THE SNOW FALLS by Linda Booth Sweeney, illus. by Jana Christy

This one features a sleepover with a lively Grandma and tight two-word sentences with a rhyming pattern. Here's the opening:


When the snow falls...
Frost paints.Skies gray.Windows sparkle.Snow? Yay!
A lot of strong rhymes and great energy make this one score big points in the re-readability charts.
Also, SNOWBALL MOON by Fran Cannon Slayton, illus. by Tracy Bishop. I confess I haven't read this one yet, just some teasers, but I loved Fran's middle grade novel WHEN THE WHISTLE BLOWS, and this one promises rhyming wonder, and hello "snowball" moon! Isn't that brilliant?! I'll never think of a winter full moon now as anything else. 

If I was really on top of things I would share a fresh-penned original snow poem, but hello, it's snowing, I'm living my poem today! 
I did, however, enter "snow" into the search engine and found a few snowy lines I wrote who-knows-how-many years ago on a morning just like this one. Maybe I will work with them later today? Meanwhile here they are in all their rawness:
When it snowsyou prop the window sashwith a book, 
invite the clean air insidewhere you warm the piano benchwithout him.
The still air ghosts into the roomand carries out with it strands of Schubert.
Your eyelids drift as snowflakes,your cheeks pinkenas your fingers dance --
stillness needs music and music needs stillness,and if he asked you to come back,
you would.
- Irene Latham-----------------------Happy Snow Day! xo

One Last Look at Abundance, My 2017 One Little Word

Hello and welcome to Spiritual Journey Thursday! On this, our final roundup for 2017, we are discussing our experiences with our One Little Words.

My word for 2017 has been ABUNDANCE. When I selected the word I could not have imagined what abundance was in store for me -- I didn't know we would get a lake house and travel to far-flung spaces and write so, so many words... I didn't know I'd spend so many hours poring over old letters and photographs, emptying drawers and filling up boxes to donate or give away... I didn't know the wide expanse of emotions I'd experience this year -- grief and joy and love and hope and despair ... what an overflowing year this has been!

It's interesting to me how one of the big things I've learned this year is about how little I need. And how much easier it is to enjoy my life when it is simple. Even something like getting dressed to go somewhere is a better experience when the closet isn't jammed up with so many someday-clothes. I like the simplicity that comes from having less, and how this opens me to the abundance of other things: nature, time with loved ones, my writing.

One of the lessons I find I must learn over and over again is my own worth -- I am enough. This year's focus on abundance, on trusting that I will --and have been-- so well cared for in my life, in spite of our because of hardships, has brought me peace and confidence. I AM enough. I am exactly where I need to be. It's the strangest thing how what seems like such a simple shift turns out ot be monumental in how I engage in my own life!

photo by EricSomething I can always fall back on, something I constantly return to, is gratitude. How powerful to see -- and shape!-- one's life through a sense of abundance. All those pesky problems and worries shed themselves with no thorns to cling to. Life flows, like water, which brings us back to the lake, our lake house, how this thing we didn't plan for, couldn't have anticipated, has changed us in such profound ways! So much so that we've decided to move to the lake permanently. Why wait?

So, oddly, sitting in gratitude and abundance this year has helped me believe that I, we, deserve this abundance not just on the weekends, but all the time. And it is right there waiting for us. All we have to do is open ourselves to it.

Here's a poem from Linda Gregg's book THE SACRAMENTS OF DESIRE:

Singing Enough to Feel the Rainby Linda Gregg
I am alone writing as quickly as I can,dulled by being awake at four in the morning.Between the past and future, without a life,writing on the line I walk between deathand youth, between having and loss.Passion and bravery absolutes, and I don'thave anything but the memory of Aphrodite's elbow pushing up through the dirt, goldenwith the sunlight on it. I am far from therein a hurry not to miss the joining,struggling to explain that this worse timeis important. It is just past autumn nowand the leaves are down, wet on the road.Some of Her shoulder showed, but not enoughto tell whether She was facing my way.Any of it is most of it, as any partof Cezanne is almost all of Cezanne. Nowis so late in the world that there is silence.Heart is as beautiful as ever. What can we expect of a woman buried in the earth?Most of it is enough. Some of it is almostenough. Just as I am a body too, and if heleans down over me there will be a world.A train goes past making an incidental sound.Something is nourished by the loss. An endingand beginning at once. The world does not sing,but we do. I sing to lessen the suffering,thinking of the factory girl Hopkins saidlived a long time on the sacrament alone.
But I also sing to inhabit this abundance.
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2018 Spiritual Journey Thursday Sign Up

Please sign up to host next year! Please leave your chosen date, blog url, and topic in comments. (If we are not yet email buddies, please send me an email: irene (at) irenelatham (dot) com so I can get in touch with you!)

January 4 - Margaret (choosing your One Little Word)
February 1 - Donna (the heart)
March 1 - Karen
April 5
May 3 - Violet (Special Days)
June 7 - Margaret (summer)
July 5 - Doraine
August 2 - Pat
September 6 - Donna
October 4
November 1 - Karen
December 6  - reflections on 2018 One Little Word with Irene at Live Your Poem
----------
Finally, please leave your link below! ');

A Gee's Bend Christmas

One of the sweet moments for me at NCTE in St. Louis was attending the Awards Luncheon and hearing THE QUILTS OF GEE'S BEND by Susan Goldman Rubin named an Orbis Pictus Honor book. I couldn't wait to get home and order a copy for myself!

And I *meant* to mention the book in my talk later that day, that focused on how the practice of poetry influenced my writing of LEAVING GEE'S BEND.

Me, speaking.LEAVING GEE'S BEND actually started as a poem entitled "The Quilts of Gee's Bend." That was the first piece of writing I did as I was first feeding my obsession with the quilts and the quilters and their stories.

Later, when I was struggling to find the narrator for my story, I used poetry to learn more about Ludelphia -- and that exercise was the key to me finding my way. I used George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From" and allowed Ludelphia to write her own version. Here it is:

<!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } </style> <br />--> <br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: always;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G8HL-A5yly..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1035" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G8HL-A5yly..." width="257" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I Am From</b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>by Ludelphia Bennett</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am from Mama’s wide hips</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">and a sliver of hickory</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">that went flying from Daddy’s ax, </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">then had to go and land</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">square in my eye.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am from a cornshuck mattress,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">afterbirth buried beside the cabin,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">newspaper plastered walls,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">rain running straight through the roof,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Aunt Doshie and broken eggs.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am from a curve in the Alabama River</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">orange dirt that likes to settle</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">right between your toes,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">cotton and sorghum and corn</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Swing Low, Sweet Chariot </i></span><span style="font-size: small;">on Sundays.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am from quilts strung on a line</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">a triangle of denim over my right eye</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">scraps of cloth and feed sack,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">the sash torn from Mama’s calico apron</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">and ripped into strips.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am from E</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>very quilt tells a story</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ruben’s fishing pole</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">and Etta Mae’s yellow dress,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">Big Mama’s story</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">about them red flags on the slave ship.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am from Delilah braying</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">like there’s no tomorrow</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">and in my pocket a needle</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;">and thread and bits of cloth</span></div>giving me a reason to keep on going.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f-4nZ2NyzA..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1410" data-original-width="1600" height="281" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f-4nZ2NyzA..." width="320" /></a></div>Also, my background as a poet has everything to do with my (heavy!) use of figurative language in LEAVING GEE'S BEND. I shared with the group a book gifted to me by Homewood Middle School entitled "The Language of Gee's Bend." Even I hadn't realized how much figurative language was in that book!<br /><br /><b>Here are some examples:</b><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Mrs. Cobb... looked just like a hog that's done ate too much.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Then the door swung wide creaking like a chorus of frogs.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">A sharp breeze caught the tail of her apron and made it fly up like a kite. </span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">"Delilah can wait just a minute," Mama said, her voice coming out jagged as a saw blade.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">She was holding herself tall and stiff, her face blank as a cotton field that's ready for seed.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">My mind was empty as a plate that has been licked clean.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Her voice turned to syrup.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Her hair... was caught up in the short braids she liked, the ones that always reminded me of blackberry brambles.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">It was like the sky opened up and poured sunshine out of a honey jar.</span><br />-------------------<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tg66Oy-hqT..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tg66Oy-hqT..." /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, quilting.</td></tr></tbody></table>So, obviously, poetry and Gee's Bend is a big part of my writing story, and my LIFE story. Which is why I am thrilled to see this beautiful book receiving recognition and hopefully finding a bigger audience. It features many of the FSA photos that I share when I give presentations. It includes a pretty comprehensive history of the area -- the struggles and successes -- told in an accessible way. It's got actual words from actual quilters. And there's a 'how to make a quilt square' tutorial in the back. I so hope this inspires some young folks to learn to quilt!<br /><br />And guess what book is the perfect companion? Yep. LEAVING GEE'S BEND. Happy reading!

Poetry Friday: Let's Go to London!

Hello and happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Mary Lee at A Year of Reading for Roundup.

I've been reading A LOT. See this week's earlier post on MOZART'S STARLING, which includes a wee interview with my bird-loving nephew Matt (and Frosty).

Also, Shelf Awareness did a lovely write-up about CAN I TOUCH YOUR HAIR? You can read it here.

Thanks to the CYBILS, I have quite a few poetry titles I'm excited to share with you, including today's feature: ALL ABOARD THE LONDON BUS by Patricia Toht, illustrations by Sam Usher.

wee Daniel, our London
traveling companion!It's been more than twenty years since I was last in London, and this book took me right back there! The book begins with a family boarding one of those famous hop-on/hop-off double-decker buses to explore the sights. And then there are poems about Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, museums. The River Thames poem weaves across a double-spread. We find ourselves standing at the famous Globe Theater. There's even a seek-n-find poem at Trafalgar Square! There are lots of strong analogies and unexpected images... I have quite a few favorites! But since London is known for rain, I'd like to share with you the Piccadilly Circus stop:

RAIN
by Patricia Toht

Sun slips,
dips behind clouds.
A drip.
A spritz.
Carts sport spots.
Watery window polka dots.
Fatter drops
in plips and plops,
bounce off bright
umbrella tops.
Window ledges,
awning edges
trickle with streams.
Rain fills pavement
cracks and seams.
Waters flow.
Puddles grow.
Traffic splashes --
spills a chill
that climbs your spine.
Just in time,
you find a door.
Lashing,
Crashing,
DOWNPOUR!

.... and also the Tower Bridge poem, which employs an epistolary form and features the voice of the Bridge itself:

REGISTERING MY COMPLAINT
by Patricia Toht

Dear Visitor,
I grow weary of being
called by the wrong name.
I tell you, 'London Bridge'
and I are NOT the same!
Years ago dismantled, he
was shipped across the sea.
And without a doubt,
he's not as GLORIOUS
as me.
I decorate the city like a
fancy wedding cake,
while unadorned,
he plainly spans
an Arizona lake.

Sincerely,
      Tower Bridge

I really want to share with you the final poem in the book, which reminds me of the book GOODNIGHT MOON, but I'm out of time, so you will have to check the book out for yourselves. :) Happy reading!

Mozart's Starling, Matt's "Frosty" and a Wild Summons

I've just read MOZART'S STARLING by Lyanda Lynn Haupt.

In it Haupt introduces us to Star, Mozart's pet starling, and to Carmen, her own pet starling -- and she presents some insights about how life with a starling might have impacted Mozart's music.

Here are some things I learned:

If you Google 'America's most hated bird,' the top results all refer to starlings. Because starlings aren't native to America and have run off other birds. They are invasive and aggressive, and they are EVERYWHERE.

When Star died (after living with the maestro for 3 years), Mozart wrote an original poem and staged a funeral.

Mozart's piece "A Musical Joke" (a playful piece with a wildness that critics never warmed to) sounds very much like a starling's song. And it's the only piece by Mozart that the author's starling Carmen responds to with excitement.

Mozart and his bird actually had a lot in common. Here's Haupt:

"Both maestro and starling shared an astonishing likeness in talents (mimicry, vocal play, musical gymnastics), personality (busy-ness, silliness, flirtatiousness, tomfoolery), and social priorities (attention-seeking!)."

Haupt loves birds. Clearly. How else could one tolerate -- and love -- a pet starling? They are social and fragile and loud. And they poop a lot. Not for me, I say! Not for me!

Frosty!But. My almost-15 year old nephew Matt has a pet cockatiel. His name is Frosty. My sister says that Frosty perches on Matt's shoulder while he (Matt) sleeps!

Here's Matt:
"I loved the uniqueness of having a pet bird and I enjoyed the idea of an independent pet. Frosty has an attitude of a human -- he’s a human stuck in a birds body. The most important thing to know about Frosty, feasting.having a bird is that all they want is for you to feed them and love them. Frosty sings all the time but mostly when he’s happy. I love it when he whistles 'pop goes the weasel.'"p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica}


Thank you, Matt, whom I adore!

And now back to Mozart. Not only did Wolfgang enjoy musical play, but also wordplay. Here's a fun Jabberwocky-ish excerpt from a letter Wolfgang wrote to his wife:

"I have received reprieved your highly esteemed writing biting, and I have noted doted that my uncle gafuncle, my aunt slant, and you are all well mell. We too, thank god are in good fettle kettle. Today I got the letter setter from my Papa Haha safely into my paws claws."

More from Haupt:
"Poet Gary Snyder wrote that wildness is 'a quality of one's own consciousness,' an elemental characteristic that ran deep in Mozart -- he had a way of being, a habit of imagination that belonged int eh realm of wildness and nature, regardless of where he lived. It is a quality that, at some level, we all share."

Here's another quote I love from the book, about being a writer:

"People always ask how I get the ideas for my books; I think all authors hear this question. And, at least for me, there is only one answer: You can't think up an idea. Instead, an idea flies into your brain - unbidden, careening, and wild, like a bird out of the ether. And though there is a measure of chance, luck, and grace involved, for the most part ideas don't rise from actual ether; instead, they spring from the metaphoric opposite - from the rich soil that has been prepared, with and without our knowledge, by the whole of our lives: what we do, what we know, what we see, what we dream, what we fear, what we love."


And I love Haupt's conclusions about "the river beneath the river" -- that something below the surface of any art that teases, prickles, stuns...
art by http://melissashultz-jones.com/
"And what is this wild summons? What art is asked of us?" 

To live our poems, methinks.

Says Haupt: "To wander paths, nibble purslane, notice spiders. To be rained upon. To listen with changed ears and sing back what we hear."

Read this book! It's a good one. And if you're a bird person, I'd love to hear more about that in comments!
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Movie Monday: COCO

One of our Thanksgiving family traditions is to see a movie together. This year the pick of the day was COCO. And I loved it!

I was worried at first -- the trailers we saw were all ho-hum predictable... until the very last one: THE INCREDIBLES 2. (How often does the quality of the trailers represent the main feature? In my experience, quite a lot.)

By the way, is it just me or was THE INCREDIBLES a long, long time ago? (2004!!!) Well, this trailer filled me with so much joy that I have to embed it here for all of you to enjoy as well. I think the sound featured in this trailer may be the best one ever. It may me weep with laughter and joy! Watch it. You'll see (hear).




And now back to COCO. Take a little boy who loves music and throw in a family ban on music and dia de Muertos, and you've got a rich and visually stunning movie.

I loved our young hero and felt invested in his adventure across the bridge... and most of all I was touched by how this movie showed so much of the magic and warmth of the Mexican culture -- especially in its appreciation for the elderly.

Here is a picture we don't see often in American movies: great-grandmother Coco beloved and valued, a vital part of this multi-generational family. No putting Grandma in a corner here! No stashing her in a nursing home! Her life is important, and all the younger members love and include her, even as she nods off and forgets things.

Grandma Dykes - cooking, of course!
(She never did like her picture taken.)It made me wish for one more kiss on my Grandma Dykes' papery cheek.... I could have done more. I wish I'd done more.

And the movie also filled me with the spirit of all my loved ones who have already crossed that bridge. I miss them, yet they are here with me.

Beautiful, meaningful movie. Hats off to Disney for bringing a quality multicultural film into the mainstream. Go see!

This Choir #NCTE17

Charles Waters, (editor) Carol Hinz,
Irene LathamIt's been a few days now since I returned from NCTE, and I am still as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey -- with gratitude. And poetry!

I'm grateful for all the words I heard, the old friends I hugged, the new friends I made... along with so many lovely educators/humans, I met for the first time 3 poetry heroes: Marilyn Nelson, Ralph Fletcher, and Allan Wolf!

Charles Waters and I signed books and presented together and plotted future adventures. I met with some of my editors, presented alongside people I admire, and came away exhausted and recharged.

Jeannine Atkins, Irene Latham, Mary Ann Sacco,
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater, Kim Doele, Emily CallahanHere are a few favorite moments that somehow made it into pictures:

Spotting a new friend sporting rainbow shoelaces in support of diversity and individuality and CAN I TOUCH YOUR HAIR?


Witnessing Jeannine Atkins meetup with one of Edmonia Lewis's sculptures at St. Louis Art Museum. (Edmonia is the heroine of Jeannine's beautiful verse novel STONE MIRRORS.)



Seeing my poem "Music Teacher" in SCHOOL PEOPLE, a book of poems selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins, illustrations by Ellen Shi and published by WordSong/Boyds Mills Press -- my first time to have a poem included in one of Lee's anthologies!


Photo-op with the one and only Nikki Grimes! Nikki appears in our book, so Charles and I were delighted to present to her a copy AND also collect her signature on the pages in our reading copies where she appears. Joy!

Charles Waters, Nikki Grimes,
Irene Latham
The Awards Luncheon. How much do I love attending this luncheon?! This year Lerner sponsored Charles and me at tables, where our seat-mates got free copies of CAN I TOUCH YOUR HAIR?... and oh wow, what a great group! "Can I touch your hair? HAIR, No!" (You had to be there. :) And then all the amazing words from Marilyn Nelson and Jason Reynolds and Melissa Sweet... I walked away so full of the book-love! (And the cake wasn't bad either.)



And now, here's a poem by Rabia of Basra, and female Islamic saint (who preceded Rumi by 500 years) from a book called LOVE POEMS FORM GOD, edited by Daniel Ladinsky.

This Choir
So amazing this choir ofsocks, shoes, shirt, skirt, undergarments,
earth, sky, suns, andmoons.
No wonder I too, now,sing all day.
- Rabia
To my U.S. friends, Happy Thanksgiving! xo