Melissa Wiley's Blog, page 152

Poetry Friday: The Huck Edition

Today's Poetry Friday contribution is brought to you by my 22-month-old. Visit Random Noodling for this week's roundup.

Olympian Heights

Four blocks. Five. Six. Seven.

Look, universe, and marvel: Heaven

Is closer now.

Nothing's not in reach.

Eight, and if the crash

Comes, all the better.

Hold construction for a moment!

Mom's phone, her full mug—

The fit is perfect, the splash

Spectacular.

Not to seem smug

But I'm confident

She'll be pleased

Or lively, at least:

Her fire-red wail

Loud as my fine red truck

They flew to fridge-top

Last night at dinner.

Now I see: I'm Hercules;

That truck's my next labor,

Since I've conquered the blocks.



………………………….Amazon box.

…………stepstool—

Chair—

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Try Next to the Fwiday Ones

Rilla: What day of the week is it that starts with a T and an H?

Me (pointing at the calendar): Thursday.

Rilla (skeptical): Really?

Me: Yup! When you see a T and an H together, they make this sound: thhh. Like in Thhhhursday.

Rilla (tries it):  thhh thhh thhh

Me: That's it!

Rilla: OK. Can you help me find my socks that say Fursday?

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November Rillabooks

Her current favorites.

The Tiger Who Came to Tea by Judith Kerr. A tiger shows up at teatime and eats all the food in the house. What's not to love? Young Sophie and her mother are unfailingly polite to their ravenous guest, and at the end of the day there's an outing to a cafe—with Sophie in pajamas, which Rilla thinks is just about the best thing she ever heard. Pretty sure it was The Bookworm who introduced us to this gem: much obliged.

Shark vs. Train by Chris Barton, illustrated by Tom Lichtenheld. I raved about this one a while back: Two little boys run for a toybox and brandish their selections in triumph and challenge. Shark vs. train—who wins? It depends…what's the competition? Pie-eating? Diving? Marshmallow roasting? The stakes keep escalating, to hilarious effect. Rilla and Wonderboy sit and pore over the art, which is sharp and comic and enchanting. I predict numerous awards for it this year, just you watch and see.

Mirror Mirror by Marilyn Singer. I read about this one at The Poem Farm and tracked down a copy straightaway. You guys, it's amazing. Each spread is a poem based on a fairy tale—a form called a "reverso," invented by Singer. You can read it from two directions: top down and bottom up. This isn't just for little kids; my older girls passed it around the day it arrived, all of them intrigued. Fun, clever, inspiring. Thanks for the tip, Amy. (Great review at A Year of Reading, too.)

I could add more books to this list, but breakfast beckons.

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Betsy-Tacy Interview Link

That was so much fun! Thanks to everyone who called or wrote in with questions. Here's the podcast for those of you who couldn't listen live:

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Betsy-Tacy Blogtalkradio Interview Today

At 7pm Eastern time, 4pm my time, Mitali Perkins and I will join Jennifer Hart (aka BookClubGirl) on air for a discussion of all things Betsy-Tacy. Emily of Deep Valley! Carney's House Party! The true color of apple blossoms!

You can even call in and ask questions. I am really hoping you will call! From Jennifer:

Be sure to register on the site before 7 on Monday so that you can participate in the chat from the beginning. You can also call in and ask questions directly by dialing 347-945-6149 during the show.

Click here for more info.

Now I just have to figure out what to wear.

(Kidding!)

(Although actually there is a right way to dress for radio, or a wrong way at least. On my first radio interview ever, back in 1998—this was before internet radio, so I mean radio-radio in a radio station—I happened to be wearing a bead necklace and when I leaned forward, the beads clickety-clacked against my mic and made a horrible racket. Fortunately we weren't live. They had me take off the necklace and redo that part of the interview. So note to self: no beads tomorrow. Hahaha. As if any necklace could survive the grabbyhands of Huck.)

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Nonfiction Author Kelly Milner Halls

Yesterday was the monthly meeting of the San Diego chapter of SCBWI. (Which in my head I pronounce Scwibby even though a) no one ever says that acronym as a word, they always spell out the letters; and b) if they did turn it into a word it would logically be pronounced Scibwy or Scubwy, something like that, not Scwibby, which mixes up the order of the initials. And yet to me, and to my family who hear me say it, Scwibby it is.)

Anyway: the guest speaker at yesterday's meeting was nonfiction author Kelly Milner Halls. Her presentation was fantastic. Erm, wait, that doesn't work, because it was all about real stuff, not fantasy. Fascinating, then. Excellent. Informative. Yeah.

Halls tells a great story—I can see why she's in demand for school visits—and shared a bunch of interesting anecdotes about the research and writing of her books. She writes the kind of books my kids go crazy for, about weird, creepy, truth-is-stranger-than-fiction topics. After hearing Kelly's stories, I'm eager to read these books myself, especially her Sasquatch book and the one about the Baghdad Zoo rescue mission.

At the end of her talk, she said she had a few copies of her books to give away to audience members and decided the winners would be the three people with birthdays closest to hers. "So who has a December birthday?"

Guess whose birthday was closest.

I was thrilled because when I she spoke about that book,  I thought OH MAN MY KIDS WOULD LOVE THAT.

And two of them have already read it, and they do.

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Author Stuff

I finally found time to create a Facebook author page—this is something writers are strongly encouraged to do these days, and it'll be a help, I think, in keeping my personal Facebook stuff separate from the professional. So if you feel inclined to visit it and maybe even give it a Like, that'd be swell.

Don't forget to tune in this Monday evening at 7pm Eastern time for a blogtalkradio conversation about all things Betsy-Tacy and Maud Hart Lovelace between Jennifer Hart, Mitali Perkins, and me—and you, if you call in!

And if you're in the San Diego area, please visit Readers Inc, that wonderful children's bookshop in La Mesa Village, next Saturday, Nov. 20th, from 3-5 pm and join in our Betsy-Tacy Celebration. I'll read from one of Maud's books and we'll talk Deep Valley to our hearts' content.

Now back to my tower of CYBILs nominees!

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Poetry Friday: Wind. Fields. Night. Left. Again. Need.

For Poetry Friday this week, another one of mine. Like Lena, it's an old one, written during grad school. It came to mind recently because I realized I'd borrowed an image from this poem for a newer manuscript.

When I wrote this poem, I wanted to try my hand at a sestina, which is a strict form comprised of six six-line stanzas, each line ending with the same six words but arranged in a different order in each stanza, ending with a final three-line stanza in which every line contains two of the repeated words. Um, did you follow that? It sounds more complicated than it is—it's a simple form, though devilishly hard to write.

For the narrative of the poem, I wanted the speaker's reality to reflect the repetition; I wanted to place someone in a situation where a few stark elements would be dominating her world. Thus the prairie homestead setting.

In the Dugout

July 15, 1892

Hard to write with my arm so sore but right now I need

the comfort of this dear book. I'm burning what's left

of the oil but Lucas he won't know, he's out in the fields

and he's like to stay there all night.

It's cool in here this evening, a nice wind

singing in the grass on the roof, but again

no sign of rain. Looks like we're in for it again.

Another dry year. Oh dear Lord how we do need

some rain, with the land dry as burlap, blowing off in the wind

till I don't believe we'll have any topsoil left.

And I can't keep Lucas from straying out night after night

to dig holes between the rows in all our fields

because he thinks if he frees the moisture, the fields

will produce, pushing up corn and potatoes again

like in the good years. I remember the nights

we used to spend catching stars for each other, no need

for neighbors. But those times left

so long ago, carried away by this never-ending wind

and dried up by the summers. And maybe the wind

is what whipped that parched man in the fields,

took his grand schemes and his spark and left

him slack-eyes and broken, muttering those fool words again

and again about rainfall following the plow. All we need,

Lucas says when he's clear, is a few nights

of good solid rain, the kind to soak a sod roof overnight

which I'm sure wouldn't take much with this place. The wind

shrieks in through a dozen holes as it is. I need

a new cloth to hang above the table so bits of field

won't sift into the food again.

But that muslin I used for my sling was all I had left.

I know it's wrong but I've got so I wouldn't care if he left.

The way he flew at me all wild last night

because I killed a broody hen again.

We got to eat, don't we? Can't live on dirt and wind

and we certainly ain't getting anything else from those fields.

But—sometimes I think maybe that is all I need—

just what we've got left: earth and wind.

One night I'll go out and plant my own self in the field

and drink wind till I'm full again, with no burning need.

This week's Poetry Friday roundup can be found at Scrub-a-Dub Tub.

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It Takes a Rillage

This afternoon, I was out in the backyard, enjoying a long overdue telephone chat with a faraway friend. I heard Huck squawk and looked up from the flower bed to see Rilla clutching him by the head, both hands locked in his curls. She was attempting to yank him upward and he was quite understandably outraged by this.

I called to her to let go of him. It really looked like she was hauling hard on his head. She gave me a sharp look, a frown of confusion and disbelief, as if she were aghast at my interference. But she let go and took a step back, leaving the baby in peace.

At which point Huck ducked his head down to a puddle of dirty rainwater pooled in a hollow in the base of the kids' basketball hoop. And began slurping.

Um, as you were, Rilla. My bad.

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It Takes a Village (Or a 4-Year-Old)

This afternoon, I was out in the backyard, enjoying a long overdue telephone chat with a faraway friend. I heard Huck squawk and looked up from the flower bed to see Rilla clutching him by the head, both hands locked in his curls. She was attempting to yank him upward and he was quite understandably outraged by this.

I called to her to let go of him, and if I hadn't been on the phone I would probably have been much sterner—it really looked like she was hauling hard on his head. She gave me a brief look, a frown of confusion and disbelief, as if she were aghast at my interference. But she let go and took a step back, leaving the baby in peace.

At which point Huck ducked his head down to a puddle of dirty rainwater pooled in a hollow in the base of the kids' basketball hoop. And began slurping.

Um, as you were, Rilla. My bad.

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