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Hannah enjoying poetry workshop
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Hanging with fellow Georgia writers (from top, l-r) Tracy Walker, Heather Kolich, Donna Bowman, (bottom, middle) Janice Hardy and Paula Puckett
photo by Steve Kolich
Susan Rosson Spain, Robyn Hood Black, Elizabeth Dulemba, and Myra Meade at the Hall Book Exchange in Gainesville, Ga.
photo by Mel Hornsby
Southern Breeze Kudos Kites 09 - Donna, Robyn, Heather, Sarah, and Peggy
Robyn with Kathleen Duey, author extraordinaire
Robyn with Alaska Nature Writer Debbie Miller
photo by Robyn Hood Black
Paul B. Janeczko http://www.paulbjaneczko.com
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August 4, 2016
Hello, Poetry Lovers - It’s August... Back to School!
Today my newlywed teacher-daughter, Morgan, welcomes 27 wonderful third-graders to her class in a new (to her) school. Married life summoned her back to north Georgia, and in June, she was juggling last-minute wedding planning with job interviews and moving!
While she’ll have a few things to learn herself, she does know third-graders – that’s the age she’s taught for two years, in addition to her student teaching experience before graduation.
So for today, I went hunting for a back-to-school poem with a special tip of the hat to Third Grade.
I didn’t have to look far in my art studio (with its own projects for fall sprouting in every corner). I’ve procured several vintage “readers” in recent years. I can never pass up poring through those books during thrift store jaunts. Not too deep in the stack was an ELSON PRIMARY SCHOOL READER – Book Three, for Third Grade (Elson, William H. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 1913. Illustrated by H. O. Kennedy). Well, the title page says, "Book Four," but the cover says "Book Three/Third Grade." A bit of rushed proofreading between volumes?
Anyway, halfway through, I fell into Christina Rossetti
’s “THE MONTHS: A PAGEANT.”
Do you know the work? I didn’t, but was delighted to discover, and a quick search gave me an initial publication date of 1881.It’s a play, written in poems, with students taking on the characters of the months.
The opening scene is “A Cottage with Its Grounds.”
January starts us off, seated by the fire, and soon February knocks on the door, and so on.
Here is our poem for August:
Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,
Barley bows a graceful head,
Short and small shoots up canary,
Each of these is someone’s bread;
Bread for a man or bread for beast,
Or at very least
A bird’s savory feast.
Men are brethren of each other,
One in flesh and one in food;
And a sort of foster-brother
is the litter or the brood
Of that folk in fur or feather
Who, with men together,
Breast the wind and weather.
[August sees September toiling across the lawn.]
My harvest home is ended; and I spy
September drawing nigh
With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
And the first sigh
Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.
[September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit.]
It might be a fun project for a contemporary class to read this “old-fashioned” pageant/play, then write an original play with their own parade of months! Maybe three or so students could be assigned a month, with each student then sharing a stanza during the play's performance.
By the way, do you remember your third-grade teacher? Mine was Mrs. Ashton and I thought she hung the moon. Maybe she did.
Both of our kids were taught third grade by our dear friend Cheryl Brown, retired now but still working with students. Her class was that perfect combination of warm & welcoming and challenging, and she helped prepare her charges for future success in academics as well as on the playground.
Goooo, Third Grade!
And, speaking of school, please visit the multi-talented Tara at A Teaching Life
for this week’s Roundup.
June 18, 2015
Greetings, Poetry Friends -
The Academy of American Poets (poets.org) email in my inbox had some suggestions for Father's Day, and because I'm a bit of a 17th-Century buff, I had to click on an offering from Anne Bradstreet
(1612-1672), an unusual-for-the-times female voice of letters in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Here is the poem; I love the title:
To Her Father with Some Verses
Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,
If worth in me or ought I do appear,
Who can of right better demand the same
Than may your worthy self from whom it came?
The principal might yield a greater sum,
Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;
My stock’s so small I know not how to pay,
My bond remains in force unto this day;
Yet for part payment take this simple mite,
Where nothing’s to be had, kings loose their right.
Such is my debt I may not say forgive,
But as I can, I’ll pay it while I live;
Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,
Yet paying is not paid until I die.
Father's Day is a mixed holiday for me, as my dad died 20 years ago, less than three months before our youngest was born, when I was almost 32. I loved him dearly; it was complicated. [Alcohol, among other things, will do that.]
My mother remarried about five years after my folks divorced, and I've been blessed to have a wonderful stepdad for 35 years now. My hubby Jeff has been close to his dad all his life, and he's still with us.
Two of my dear friends have lost their fathers since this year began, so I know the weekend is going to be difficult for them, their mothers, and their families. Two men who graduated with or near us years ago at Furman also have died unexpectedly this year, leaving behind wives and teen and young adult children. They were devoted dads.
Of course, being just down the highway from Charleston, I am numbed with other South Carolinians and citizens of the world by the senseless loss of life there Wednesday night - not just people who gave of themselves to their families but who selflessly served their community and beyond in lives that embodied faith. Our thoughts and prayers are especially with them this weekend.
I'm looking forward to Father's Day on the home front celebrating my wonderful husband, and welcoming him and our son back from a week-long church service trip in the upper part of the state, where it was triple digits most days. We'll have a special surprise here for him. And air conditioning.
Whatever this weekend holds for you and yours, I hope it brings joy - in present moments or in memories. And may we all hold up others who are shouldering tragedy or heartache. Like Anne, if we've had loving guidance, we can "pay it while [we] live," as did those precious souls gone from us in Charleston this week.
Mary Lee, the Rounder-upper of Poetry Friday Round-Up hosts, is hosting today over at A Year of Reading.
Actually, she's at a writing conference on Friday, but she's left Mr. Linky to collect posts while she's away. I'm sure we'll all find poetry there to comfort, celebrate and enjoy.
January 2, 2014
CROWN JEWELS - And, as the steel engravings suggest, "Looking into the Future," I wish you a year of "Health and Beauty."
I went for a brisk walk New Year's Day morning, only to discover a package in the carport - evidently left by the postal carrier the afternoon before. Let's just say a holiday of opening presents continued... .
You've heard me gush before about my author friend and resident Etsy "expert" Kim Siegelson,
who always keeps an eye out for perfectly imperfect vintage treasures. She has a wonderful Etsy shop, Perfect Patina
. The last time we met for lunch and antiquing (is there a more perfect way to spend an afternoon?) she'd mentioned having an old book to send me, but I couldn't have imagined. Well, the title speaks for itself:
Gems of Literature, Art, and Music
Choice Selections from the Writings and Musical Productions of the Most Celebrated Authors, From the Earliest Times:
(I'll omit the list of genres here, but "The Whole" does indeed form "A Vast Treasury of the Gems of Poetry, Prose, and Song"!) Its 632 pages, compiled by Henry Davenport Northrop, D. D., were published in 1888.
Here are some opening and closing lines from the Publisher's Announcement printed inside:
"This magnificent work, which comprises many books in one volume, is a vast treasury of the Choicest Gems of English Literature, in prose and poetry. It contains those resplendent jewels of thought, feeling and sentiment which fascinate, instruct and entertain the reader....
The Prospectus is very attractive, and shows at a glance the great superiority of this book over other similar works that are illustrated with cheap woodcuts. ..."
Gotta love those Victorians! Well, let's just say this collection will fuel some artsyletters
inspiration for years to come. Thank you, Kim!
The poem I've chosen to share is from the first section, "The Home Circle." I suppose it's because we've been between homes lately - making this move from north Georgia to coastal South Carolina, with kids in colleges several hours away. Transitions are never easy, but I look forward to this adventure in our new home town, greeting each day from our new front porch. With afternoon tea out there, too, of course!
THE DEAREST SPOT OF EARTH IS HOME
by W. T. Wrighton
The dearest spot of earth to me
is home, sweet home!
The fairy land I long to see
is home, sweet home!
There, how charmed the sense of hearing!
There, where love is so endearing!
All the world is not so cheering
as home, sweet home!
The dearest spot of earth to me
is home, sweet home!
The fairy land I long to see
is home, sweet home!
I've taught my heart the way to prize
My home, sweet home!
I've learned to look with lovers' eyes
On home, sweet home!
There, where vows are truly plighted!
There, where hearts are so united!
All the world besides I've slighted
For home, sweet home!
The dearest spot of earth to me
is home, sweet home!
The fairy land I long to see
is home, sweet home!
Wishing a happy 2014 to your home, sweet home! Poetry Friday is at home today at I Think in Poems
, where the Bedazzling Betsy has this week's Roundup.
May 23, 2013
Over Mother's Day weekend, my family travelled to Beaufort, SC - recently named America's Happiest Seaside Town
by Coastal Living
magazine. I was magnetically pulled into a wonderful little bookshop, where my daughter Morgan quickly found a large, hefty volume to put in my hands: A TREASURY OF ILLUSTRATED CHILDREN'S BOOKS - Early Nineteenth-Century Classics from the Osborne Collection
by Leonard de Vries (Abbeville Press, 1989). Despite its equally hefty price tag, I didn't protest too much when the family suggested it as a Mother's Day present. In fact, I ventured to ask the proprietor for a Mother's Day discount, and he even obliged! Very kind.
I'm quite the sucker for these volumes chronicling early children's literature. (I posted about that on my art blog earlier this year, here
, after Tabatha's
gracious gift along these lines during our December poetry/gift swap.)
Here are the opening sentences from the jacket flap:
This beguiling volume reproduces thirty-two of the most enchanting English children's books, dating from 1805 to 1826. That brief period - sandwiched between the harsh didacticism of earlier centuries and the refined moralizing of the Victorian era - witnessed the first flowering of children's books meant to delight and amuse rather than simply to instruct.
Because Liz Steinglass
inspired a limerick-laced spring
over here, I was particularly delighted to discover two collections in this volume. From p. 223:
...Today the name most commonly associated with the limerick is that of Edward Lear (1812-1888), whose Book of Nonsense (1846) has inspired many imitations. But the limerick came into being at least two decades before Lear's famous book, and one of the earliest appearances of this delightful verse form is The History of Sixteen Wonderful Old Women, published by Harris and Son in 1820. ...
Here are a couple of examples:
There was an Old Woman at Glos'ter,
Whose Parrot two Guineas it cost her,
But his tongue never ceasing,
Was vastly displeasing;
To the talkative Woman of Glos'ter.
There lived an Old Woman at Lynn,
Whose Nose very near touched her chin.
You may well suppose,
She had plenty of Beaux:
This charming Old Woman of Lynn.
And here's one from "Anecdotes and Adventures of Fifteen Gentlemen." The final word is not printed in the reproduction, so I'm relying on my own poetic license for it - kind of like the limerick challenge on "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" on NPR
An old gentleman living at Harwich
At ninety was thinking of marriage
In came his grandson
Who was just twenty-one,
and went off with the bride in his carriage.
(I'm assuming it was carriage
Today's poetic fare was light, though our hearts are heavy for those in Oklahoma this week. Continued thoughts and prayers for all affected by the tornadoes and other recent tragedies across our country.
For all kinds of poetry today, please visit Alphabet Soup
, where our wonderful Jama is serving up the Roundup and
some mango-laden poetry and bread! Here, take a napkin before you go - it's really juicy....
March 7, 2013
Here I am with daughter Morgan this week on the Buzz Lightyear ride at Walt Disney World. Are we both intent on hitting those targets (and beating each other's score) or what?!
In a roundabout way, I’m celebrating International Women’s Day along with our lovely and talented Poetry Friday host today, Heidi Mordhorst
This week I got to spend cherished time with the two women I’m closest to in life – my mother, Nita Morgan (Hi, Mom!) and my daughter, Morgan. Morgan is home for spring break from college, and we travelled to Florida for my niece’s wedding. (Left hubby and son here to keep the fort.)
While at my folks’ house, Morgan and I bunked together in the guestroom. It was cold – and I don’t mean just “Oh, those Florida people think anything below 70 degrees is cold,” I mean it really was nippy with wild winds while we were there. So we added a quilt made by my grandmother to the top of our cozy bed. Another generation, another family layer. My mother’s mother died before Morgan was born, but they would have loved each other.
I wanted to find some appropriate poem to share today – something the relationships of mothers and children. Anne Bradstreet sprang to mind.
You remember Anne (1612-1672).... She came over in the Arabella
in 1630 with husband Simon and the Winthrop contingent. She’s intrigued me for years. Very well educated, and – gasp! – a writer. Yet unlike her friend Anne Hutchinson whose outspoken views got her banished, Anne Bradstreet managed to remain in the community, raising eight children and writing when she could. (Jeannine Atkins has a marvelous picture book
about Anne Hutchinson, by the way.)
Bradstreet didn’t seek publication, though her brother-in-law had her some of her poetry published (the story goes without her knowledge) in England in 1650, in a collection called The Tenth Muse, Lately Sprung Up in America (1650)
. The rest of her publications came posthumously.
She wrote of her family and her faith with sincere devotion and in the midst of the grueling challenges of those early years in the colonies, and personal health woes and trials as well.
Here are the opening lines of
“In Reference to her Children”
I had eight birds hatcht in one nest,
Four Cocks were there, and Hens the rest.
I nurst them up with pain and care,
No cost nor labour did I spare
Till at the last they felt their wing,
Mounted the Trees and learned to sing.
Chief of the Brood then took his flight
To Regions far and left me quite.
My mournful chirps I after send
Till he return, or I do end.
Leave not thy nest, thy Dame and Sire,
Fly back and sing amidst this Quire.
My second bird did take her flight
And with her mate flew out of sight.
Southward they both their course did bend,
And Seasons twain they there did spend,
Till after blown by Southern gales
They Norward steer'd with filled sails.
A prettier bird was no where seen,
Along the Beach, among the treen.
She continues with thoughts about each child.
And, toward the end:
When each of you shall in your nest
Among your young ones take your rest,
In chirping languages oft them tell
You had a Dame that lov'd you well, …
Read the rest of the poem here.
(And learn more about Anne Dudley Bradstreet here
While I admire Bradstreet’s devotion to family and her spiritual life, I also relish the feminist-friendly notions she let seep through in her writing more than 350 years ago, such as these lines from “The Prologue”:
"I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
Who says my hand a needle better fits,
A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong.
For such despite they cast on female wits:
If what I do prove well, it won't advance,
They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance."
Pretty spunky for a Puritan woman, no? For more great poetry by female, as well as male, wits, sail on over to see Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe.
January 10, 2013
Have you read about how the lovely Laura Shovan
is commemorating another trip around the sun this year? Her birthday isn't until late February, but she's launched a Poetry Postcard
project to celebrate. I signed up through her blog to receive on of her special offerings, which are intriguing vintage postcards that she's graced with one of her original poems.
How delighted I was to receive my mailbox surprise this week! You can see in the image above that the glossy picture on the front is of butterflies. Not just any butterflies, but vintage illustrations of "Papillons du Brésil" (or, "Butterflies of Brazil" in French). The five specimens are identified, with each name apparently hand written originally with calligraphy in brown ink.
How perfect is this card to start my New Year? Well, I do have a "thing" for butterflies, as I do many wonderful beasties, not only for their beauty but for what they might symbolize on a personal level for those who encounter them. I certainly have a thing for calligraphy. I even took French in high school and college. And I've actually been to the location described on the back of the card: Callaway Gardens, which boasts the incredible Cecil B. Day Butterfly Center
, where these living works of art flit above and around entranced visitors of all ages. It's in Pine Mountain, Georgia, south of Atlanta. This postcard makes me want to visit again sometime soon!
[Oh, and did you notice this is Poetry Postcard "5", and there are five butterflies in the picture? I have a thing for the number 5, too....]
Okay, I know - you want to read Laura's poem! It appeared previously on her own blog, but just in case you missed it, as I did, I'm thrilled to share it here with her permission:
Trick mirrors reveal
the human face is never folded
in perfect halves. Perhaps
this is true of the butterfly, too.
Pin one up and there's
a cuffed wing, damaged tail,
scales so thin with wear
sunlight comes through.
After hundreds of miles,
one might call them frail.
©Laura Shovan. All rights reserved.
Much to ponder and appreciate there, no? Can you pick a favorite image or phrase or line?
After you do, wing your way over to NO WATER RIVER
, where the ever effervescent Renée LaTulippe is rounding up Poetry Friday! (Doesn't she have a name any butterfly would love?)
June 14, 2012
with Claudia, who even loaned me a hat!, and fabulous Hostess with the Mostest Joan. The bottom photo is from 1994 - at Penshurst with the Harrises.
At last month’s Poetry for All
Highlights Founders Workshop, Eileen Spinelli
told us that a writer needs time to meander. So please bear with me – I’m meandering today!
Last weekend, I had the terrific good fortune to attend the SCBWI Southern Breeze
summer retreat, “Show Don't Tell: How Acting Techniques Improve Writing” led by Hester Bass
. At first I thought I’d find a poem celebrating acting for today, and then I wanted to celebrate hospitality – shown by Hester in her leadership, shown by Joan Broerman
, our region’s founder, who along with hubby Neal welcomed all of us into their home for sessions and meals, and shown by co-RA Claudia Pearson
, who graciously offered me her gorgeous guest room to bunk in for the weekend.
A search for poems on “hospitality” led to Ben Jonson’s
1616 poem, “To Penshurst.” Well, this poem led me to an old photo album. Jeff, myself and Morgan, age two at the time in 1994, made a trip to England for our 10th anniversary. We were covered up with hospitality and wonderful day trips by friends of Jeff’s family – John and Pauline Harris, and their son Chris. Their home was in Sevenoaks, Kent, not far from the Penshurst
estate, and off we went. John and Pauline are both gone now, but I will always remember their warmth and enthusiasm.
I’ll also always remember that trip to Penshurst – the medieval banquet hall and its chestnut beams and long, long tables transported us back to the fourteenth century! According to my notes, we stopped for a decadent cream tea in the Tea Room on the way out, where we were bid goodbye with double rainbows outside.
I figured since the poem was written by Ben Jonson, dramatist and contemporary of Shakespeare, it qualified as both acting-related and hospitality-related. It’s an “estate poem” which looks at nature, culture and social relationships. Here’s a taste with the beginning and a bit from later on:
by Ben Jonson
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;
Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told,
Or stair, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,
And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while.
Thou joy’st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.
But all come in, the farmer and the clown,
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make
The better cheeses bring them, or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves in plum or pear.
But what can this (more than express their love)
Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow
With all that hospitality doth know;
Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat,
Without his fear, and of thy lord’s own meat …
For the entire poem, click here.
Oh – and did you know Ben Jonson is the only person buried in an upright position in Westminster Abbey? (Click here
for more. Told you I was meandering.)
Thanks for visiting, and meander on over to Mary Lee’s A Year of Reading
for the Poetry Friday roundup!
August 26, 2011
© Robyn Hood BlackRandolph Caldecott's grave in Evergreen Cemetery, St. Augustine, Florida, and my quick sketch of it.
A couple of weeks ago, my family had a long weekend vacation in one of our favorite spots, and a place I remember fondly from growing up in Florida, St. Augustine.
Last time we were there, I met a delightful young children’s writer working at the Spanish Quarter (a living history complex) who shared this gem with me: Randolph Caldecott (1846-1886) is buried there. He had traveled to the climate in an attempt to improve his ailing health, but died soon after arriving, a month shy of his 40th birthday. The Caldecott Medal
, given to “the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children” was first awarded in 1938.
On our previous trip, and again this time, I went to pay my respects at his grave. [This year I was particularly keen to go, since next weekend I’m heading up to a Highlights Founders Workshop
for illustrators. Yee-hi! I’ve been to one other – on poetry.]
Evergreen Cemetery is unassuming and off the beaten path, but peaceful and well maintained. My only real company both times included birds (woodpeckers, a hawk, and others) and squirrels and some lively Florida bugs.
The grave is maintained by the Friends of the Library of St. Johns County, Inc., and the Randolph Caldecott Society of America
. A 2005 plaque on the grave reads: “…As a tribute to his life and art, this burial site is designated a Literary Landmark by Friends of Libraries USA.”
One of my favorite books is Randolph Caldecott’s Picture Books (Huntington Library Classics, 2007
), which includes copies of nine of the works in the Library’s collection (songs and rhymes made into books), including The Three Jovial Huntsmen
and The Diverting History of John Gilpin
. I particularly like the note in the introduction that in Sing a Song for Sixpence
, Caldecott “ didn’t want children to think that the maid had permanently lost her nose to the blackbird…,” and therefore he added a verse:
The Maid was in the Garden
Hanging out the Clothes-;
There came a little Blackbird,
And snapped off her Nose.
But there came a Jenny Wren
And popped it on again.
The book is beautifully bound with thick, creamy pages perfectly setting off the sepia line drawings and colored wood engravings which still seem fresh today.
Quoting from the Randolph Caldecott Society of America
A friend of Mr. Caldecott, Fredrick Locker-Lampson, summed up Randolph Caldecott's work with these words: "It seems to me that Caldecott's art was of a quality that appears about once in a century. It had delightful characteristics most happily blended. He had a delicate fancy, and humor was as racy as it was refined. He had a keen sense of beauty and to sum up all, he had charm."
For more delightful, racy, charming poetry, visit Irene for the Poetry Friday Roundup
bio, photos, interview links, etc.
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A rhyming tale of a young boy's knightly adventure with an imagined dragon.
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