photo-146

 

Whose woods these are I think I know,
Which is why I think I better go.

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
All I can say is you’re hotter than May.

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Scream and cry and beg for light.

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
One for the nights. Two for the days.

 

Because I could not stop for Death—
He sent a snake to steal my breath.

 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Beastly creatures sat beside me, hissed my verse, and left me teary.

 

I ask them to take a poem,
Ball ‘em up and throw ‘em.

 

The art of losing isn’t hard to master—
All you have to do is race someone faster.

 

Earlier this week J. Patrick Lewis posted a poetry challenge on David Harrison’s blog. The challenge was to write a “tailgater,” a couplet that begins with the first line of a famous poem and ends with an original second line, in the same meter, which puts a quick end to the poem. The form would appear to take its name from the metaphorical slamming of the back gate of the pick-up truck before any more words can get in. A number of us found the challenge both fun and addictive.

For more Poetry Friday, please visit A Teaching Life at http://tmsteach.blogspot.com.

As you can see, I’ve moved to WordPress and reinstated the name my parents gave me. Thanks for following me over here and for bearing with me while I get used to my new home.

petits fours by Erica

 

The Sparrow at the Store

I saw a sparrow at the grocery store.
I offered to show him the way to the door.
“Thanks,” he said, “but there’s one thing more.
Do you know where they keep the petits four?”

 

 


 

The Secret of the Cat

What’s the secret
Of the domesticated cat?
She understands you perfectly,
But doesn’t care to chat.


Goodness, I’ve been grumpy. I hope it’s just the weather and the gray skies. I thought I’d use this week’s post to try to improve my mood. I got out my Ogden Nash poems. They always do the trick. Then I decided to write some of my own silly animal poems. I’ve posted yesterday’s work above. I hope it brings a little warmth to your winter.

 

For more Poetry Friday, go to Teaching Authors.

(c) 2013 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved


winter morning
walking to school we see
our words

flurries—
a sudden accumulation
at the window

winter storm warning:
ninety percent chance
of freedom!

I’ve been drawn to haiku again this week. It’s like standing by the door frame in the kitchen to be measured. Maybe if I go back to the same place, I’ll be able to see how much I’ve grown. This time I’ve been thinking about the challenge of writing haiku that are both surprising and meaningful. Sometimes I come up with interesting images and words, but even I’m not sure what they add up to. Other times, the meaning is too clear and too familiar. The trick is to set up fresh images that give the reader an experience of unfolding understanding. And, as always, there’s the question of audience: will these images, these words, these meanings speak to kids?

For more Poetry Friday go to Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference.

(c) 2013 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved


Dear Teacher,
Please, never
The red
Of stop and blood.
How about blue?
The color of endless skies…
Be sure to write
So I can read.
Read so I can write
Better the next time.
Tell me,
How did I do? Not
Did I do
What I was supposed to do. Not
Did I write
Your point of view.
What effect did my words have on
You? Did I
Amuse? Did I
Confuse? Did I
Persuade you to think another way or lose you
When I took a sudden
Turn? Show me where
I went right
So I know
To do it again.
Yes, I want to spell and punctuate
But not until
My story’s straight.
Remember, I’m learning.
Remember, this is hard.
Ask yourself
How would you like me
To grade you?

 


Last Friday, Tara at A Teaching Life wrote about the devastating effects that unsupportive comments and grades can have on young writers. I was really touched by the crumpled student paper she found on the floor. Only days before, my son had brought home a paper with a confusing grade and comments he needed help to decipher. I did appreciate that the comments supplemented the circled numbers on a rubric. I can see the advantages of rubrics, but even as a parent (and not the actual writer) they seem unsatisfying, and a very different approach to student writing than I was taught when I went to graduate school years ago. All of this mixed together inspired the poem above.


For more Poetry Friday, visit Violet Nesdoly.

(c) 2013 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved


Photo: Jerome Liebling, Mt. Holyoke Art Museum

Your dress hangs
At the top of the stair
A ghost
Without a soul
Preserved
So we can compare
Your pleats and stitches
To the dress of the day
With its bunches and bulges
And know your every day
Was your own
Housecoat.

 

In the next room
The docent locks the door
With an imaginary key,
“Ah, Maddie—“
She recites,
“Freedom is here!”
Then she points
To the bare table,
The made bed,
The empty basket,
The Franklin stove
Pulled from the wall.

 

Making my excuses,
I slip
Through the door and stare
At the place
Where you aren’t
Anymore.
I want to grab
Your gown
Run to the garden
Let it fly—
But in my mind
I find it
Hooked on a branch
Floating, going
Nowhere.
Instead
I stuff my ticket stub and the nub
Of an old pencil
In your pocket
Before going
Home.

 


In December while visiting friends in Amherst, I went on a tour of the Emily Dickinson Museum. Our guide was lovely and incorporated Dickinson’s poetry into her description of the home and Dickinson’s life and times. The contrast between the living woman and the lifeless house was disconcerting, yet it seemed somehow resonant with the poet’s feelings of being most free within the confines of her home, her room, her words.
If you’re ever in Amherst, I highly recommend the Museum and the tour.

 

For more Poetry Friday, visit Renee at No Water River.


(c) 2013 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved

All day long
He hides
From view,
In the darkness
Under beds,
In the corners
Children dread.
Then at night
He skims
The walls,
The shadow
Of a cat
Long gone.


Three of the best things about visiting Grandma are her two large dogs and her cat, Houdini. Unfortunately, Houdini doesn’t seem to enjoy our visits. He hides day and night, so seeing him is a special treat.

For more Poetry Friday visit Matt at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme.

(c) 2013 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved

Oh, the night has been nibbling the day!
We barely notice it slipping away,

Until the morning’s been swallowed by night,
And we stumble to breakfast, starving for light.

We wonder what happened to sunlight at dinner,
Finally aware that the days have grown thinner.

That’s when we welcome our families to feast,
To light the candles, and look to the east,

Knowing the night has finished its snack,
And tomorrow the day will start biting back!


For me the worst thing about winter isn’t the cold. It’s the dark. The early dusk makes me tired and ready for bed. Our ancestors were wise to establish traditions that bring light and warmth to the winter darkness. Imagine how terrible the depths of winter would seem without the candles, the cookies, and the togetherness.

Thanks to Heidi for organizing a new celebration of light and togetherness and for hosting today’s Poetry Friday.

Happy Holidays.

(c) 2012 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved


Red Dress by Tatyana Ostapenko

1.
I remember
I had to have it,
Sensing somehow
It was already mine,
Sewn to my heart
Torn from me and
Set in the window
For others to claim.
I was desperate
For mending,
Desperate to have that dress
Knitted to my skin.
You understood.
You bought it for me,
Let me wear it home,
Let me wear it everyday
As I skipped through the woods,
And every night you washed it
And told me the story
Of the girl and the wolf.
2.
I thought it was a story
About a girl and a wolf,
Until I met the wolf
And he ate me.
He told me he loved
That red dress,
The way I wore it
When I walked,
Like it was part of me,
Like it was my skin
Flush with the blood
Of my heart.
When you pulled me out,
It didn’t feel like saving
Because I’d already died.
You claimed the body,
Filled it with food
And words,
Until it stood up,
Teetering
In high heels,
And set off across the land.
It took me a long time
To see the earth
As it is,
As you knew it,
With its dark holes,
Harrowed soil,
Restless waters and
Perennial forests.
3.
Before I enter the room
I see you
Looking out the window,
Seeing yourself
Out there
Rooted
Among the trees.
I am tempted
To leave you there,
But then I hear your voice
Telling me to do
What I’m supposed to do.
I think you know me,
Though you call me the wrong name,
Because you ask why
I’m not wearing
My red dress.
I tell you I’m grown up,
It doesn’t fit,
It’s been gone a long time,
But you shake your head,
As if I don’t understand
And ask me again.

Last week I participated in SPARK, an internet event in which visual artists and writers share their work to inspire new work. My partner Tatyana Ostapenko sent me the painting above. Over the next ten days I wrote my poem in response. My goal wasn’t to illustrate the painting but to allow it to spark my own creative journey. At the same time I sent my poem “Frog Woman” to Tatyana to inspire a new painting by her.

My favorite part of the process was opening Tatyana’s painting. I had absolutely no idea what I would see. I was immediately captivated by the little girl in her red dress, standing just in front of a deep, dangerous chasm and then far in the distance, a beautiful forest. As I sat down to write I drew on these experiences—sometimes feeling the need to own a piece of clothing as if it were somehow already mine, the innocent joy of Little Red Riding Hood as she set off into the woods, my father’s last days which he spent looking out the window at a beautiful field and forest, and, of course, my relationship with my mother.

SPARK happens four times a year, each time with more participants. For more information and to see more inspired art, go to the SPARK website.

To see more of Tatyana’s art, please go to her website or to her flickr gallery.

Finally, to enjoy more Poetry Friday go to Jama Rattigan’s Alphabet Soup.

(c) 2012 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved

 

You might think
This mobile home’s
A perfect fit
For those who roam,
But this big wheel
Tends to sag,
So, actually,
It’s more of a drag.

I confess I have this fantasy that somewhere there’s a writer who is so amazing, he or she doesn’t have to revise. But I know in my heart of hearts that this perfect first-draft writer doesn’t exist. Everyone revises. Revising is part of writing. It’s necessary, and sometimes it’s even fun. It can be a process involving play, exploration, and discovery. I like looking back at what I’ve written to see what I’ve said, what seems to want to be said, and then revising to say it more clearly or artfully. As someone who enjoys revising and as an observer of kid-writers who tie themselves in knots trying to write perfectly the first time, I’ve been wanting to share some of my revisions. So below is the first part of what happened between finding the snail and this week’s poem. This is straight from my notebook:

Maybe you think
It’s so convenient
To have a mobile home?
Actually, if it has no wheels
It’s actually kind of a drag.
Drag sag wag brag tag flag bag gag hag jag lag nag rag stag
Actually it’s hard to wag
And since it’s heavy
It’s more of a drag.
Actually
it tends to sag
and it’s hard to wag
So having a shell
Is honestly,
More of a drag.
And it has no wheels
So it’s more of a drag.
You might think
I have cause to brag

I think you can see that my first attempt wasn’t so much about writing a good poem as it was about getting an idea going—discovering a seed that I could tend and grow. I also think you can see that I found that seed there right in the first five lines—the snail’s point of view, the misconception, and the word drag. Where did these ideas come from? The snail. This poem started when I leaned over to get a good look at the little guy, and I was struck by how hard he seemed to be working to drag that shell around.
I think you can also see that I pretty quickly settled on the word drag because of its double meaning. Once I decided to go with drag, I had the voice of the poem, and I had the beginning of the rhyme scheme. I then started exploring different options that rhyme with drag, like wag and brag. You can see that after a bit of experimenting, I went back to some words I had early on—mobile home, wheel, and sag. Once I had these pieces, the rest came together without too much trouble.
When I look back at my process, I think maybe I don’t need that fantasy of the perfect first-draft writer. I think maybe that perfect first-draft writer is missing all the fun.
For more Poetry Friday see Robyn Hood Black at Read, Write, Howl.

(c) 2012 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved