Sunday: a love story

I know all I write about it kids and poop and tantrums and I know that you, faithful and devoted readers with exceptionally good taste, never tire of these subjects which are endlessly fascinating. But this Sunday was so lovely and I was thinking about how great Sundays can be and I remembered this poem I read in a poetry class in college, by Gwendolyn Brooks, about the kind of Sunday you used to have, before kids. There are several reasons I love Gwendolyn Brooks and the first reason is that she reads her poems like she means it, and not in the usual staccato, totally lifeless, nasally voice most poets read their work that puts way too much emphasis on their peculiarly-placed line breaks. Brooks performs her poems, which is to say, delivers the lines with flourish and feeling -- almost sings the poems, really -- and she has a very pronounced lisp which is incredibly endearing. You can hear her if you listen to that poetry collection I am always going on about, Poetry Speaks to Children - she's on the CD. But the real reason I love Brooks is she knows how to make a poem that punches you in the gut -- in a good way. She puts things in such a way that you have to wonder, "Why don't we ALWAYS use the expression a 'limping afternoon' or 'my heart playing hopscotch'?" She gets it just right. See for yourself.

when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story

by Gwendolyn Brooks

—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,

And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—

When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,

Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon

Looking off down the long street

To nowhere,

Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation

And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?

And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—

When you have forgotten that, I say,

And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,

And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;

And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,

That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner

To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles

Or chicken and rice

And salad and rye bread and tea

And chocolate chip cookies—

I say, when you have forgotten that,

When you have forgotten my little presentiment

That the war would be over before they got to you;

And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,

And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end

Bright bedclothes,

Then gently folded into each other—

When you have, I say, forgotten all that,

Then you may tell,

Then I may believe

You have forgotten me well.

Through the Burning Rings of Fire We Go

This morning Primo stood in the doorway of his bedroom and told me that he had written a poem which he wanted to recite. The title, he said, was “What kind of milk is this?” I swear I’ve not changed a word.

What kind of milk is this?
That is the question.
Through the burning rings of fire we go
Our whole life is made to be helpful
That’s why we go to sleep and wake
And night is the prettiest time
Amen

When the sun sets and the sun wakes
Living is only to have fun.
Babies and grandpas are different
but they have been the same.
Amen.

Through the burning rings of fire
Weather cold or hot
Days are always the best

Through the burning rings of fire life goes
Reduce reuse recycle
Trash goes in the dumps
And that goes to a place I don’t know.

Dying and being born is only experience
Amen


Oh, my little Rilke. Night is the prettiest time? I think if there was any doubt, the matter has been settled. I've birthed an artist.

"Do you like it Mommy?" he asked.

"Oh honey," I said, "you wrote in iambic pentameter!"

He looked at me blankly. After all, he's only four.

"I loved it."

Wierd sisters, wacky accents, and a poem so good its like nitrius oxide

It’s Poetry Thursday and I offer to you another selection from my favorite anthology, Poetry Speaks to Children. This one is beloved by both my kids, but especially by Seconda who holds it so dear that she has ripped the page that features this poem to shreds.

Every time she opens the book to this, her favorite page, taped back together is four different places, she does the same routine. First she shrieks, “Oooooh Isabel!! It’s my FAVORITE!” Then she makes her faux-sad face and says, “I hope I didn’t rip it!” Like someone’s been slipping her, too, AmbienCR on the sly and she’s performing strange acts of destruction at night that she has no knowledge or memory of. My daughter is what Shakespeare liked to refer to as a “weird sister.”

So here is Odgen Nash’s “Adventures of Isabel.” It is almost a crime to post this without a recording of Nash reading it because he has got, hands-down, the best poetry reading voice in the history of mankind. He was raised in Rye, NY and Savannah, GA and I can’t tell where the hell his accent is from, kind of a Louisiana/ Boston blend with a pinch of wacky thrown in. But with his accent the title sounds like “The Ahhhd-vaaan-tures of Isabaaaal.” It is so friggin’ delightful to hear him describe how she met an enormous “bea-yare” – seriously, its like taking nitrous oxide. But here’s the text to start. Read it to your kid. I think besides being funny it’s got a healthy dose of grrrrrl power.

Adventures of Isabel
By Ogden Nash

Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor

"Happiness was hiding in the last tear"

When I was preggo with Primo, I picked up this collection of poetry for kids called Poetry Speaks to Children, and then I more or less forgot about it for 3 ½ years. But for the past year or so, the tots and I have been making up for lost time, reading and re-reading the lyrical gems in there. The great part about the collection is that its not “children’s poetry” but grown-up poetry that works for children. There’s Edgar Allan Poe in there, Langston Hughes, Shakespeare, Gwendolyn Brooks . . . and the selections are all well-chosen, dynamic, funny, interesting for little readers. But the best part is that the book comes with a CD which includes readings of the poems by their authors. It is a MUST for a long car ride. Not only does it engage your mind as well as your kids’, you will feel like an uber-parent when your 2 year-old spontaneously recites William Blake.(best party trick ever when Seconda shouts "Tyger Tyger burning BRIGHT in the FOREST of the NIGHT!")

Enough free advertising. Here’s my current favorite by poet laureate of my heart Galway Kinnell. The way he delivers “ha ha!” is worth the price of the book, I think.

Crying

By Galway Kinnell

Crying only a little bit
is no use. You must cry
until your pillow is soaked!
Then you can get up and laugh.
Then you can jump in the shower
and splash-splash-splash!
Then you can throw open your window
and, “Ha ha! ha ha!”
And if the people say, “Hey,
what’s going on up there?”
“Ha ha!” sing back, “Happiness
was hiding in the last tear!
I wept it! Ha ha!”

17 Syllables

I was going to call this a trio of haikus but when I googled “haiku”, I realized the form involves all sorts of complicated rules that I have no intention of following or even informing myself fully about. So here I offer to you a triptych of haiku-inspired poems.

TO MY DARLING SON

Stop filing your

sisters’ teeth or

I will sell

you to the gypsies.

It’s not my fault you

have eczema. Blame Daddy

and his lousy genes.

The reason you can’t

watch SpongeBob is that Mommy

hates his fucking guts

And a bonus one, courtesy of Seconda. By the way, I didn’t change a word. This is straight from the mouth of the teeny poetess.

Oh, I hear the birds.

I better say hi to them.

“Hi!” I did a poop.

Go ahead, have a go yourself. Enough responses and we can get a poetry slam going here.