Robyn Hood Black - children's author, poet, artist

Oops - Friday rolled around again.  How did that happen? ;0) We are squeezing in a wee visit with the wee bairn for this weekend, and I didn't get a post conjured up.  But go see Dave at Leap of Dave for the Roundup; he's hosting for the first time.  Thanks, Dave! (And, he has castles!)

 

 

Greetings, Poetry Lovers!

 

Back again, after dipping in and out this summer, and after my couple-of-months hiatus in May and June around the birth of our first (amazing – wonderful – thriving) grandchild, Sawyer.

 

For Poetry Friday inspiration at the start of a new school year, I picked up one of my books that I likely  bought thinking I'd cannibalize for artsyletters projects, but that upon inspection went straight to my personal collection of treasured old books.  It's a gilded-edged 1906 copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900, edited by A. T. Quiller-Couch.

 

Are you a fan of Medieval literature?  I enjoyed a class on the subject way back in college, with one of my favorite professors.  It's a long, fascinating time period.  (Of course, with a birth name of 'Robyn Hood,' I was pretty much assured of some medieval curiosity!) Such a mix of breathtaking poetry, legends, chivalry, illuminated manuscripts – and, fleas, persecution, pestilence, lice, and the like… nice to visit from a historical distance.

 

Anyway, our Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch opened his Oxford collection with the following 13th century verses.  While the piece heralds the arrival of summer, I'm taking some August liberties and sharing it now.  (Still feels very much like summer here!)

 

 

Cuckoo Song

 

c. 1250

 

Sumer is icumen in,

   Lhude sing cuccu!

Groweth sed, and bloweth med,

  And springth the wude nu –

      Sing cuccu!

 

Awe bleteth after lomb,

        Llouth after calve cu ;

Bulluc serteth, bucke verteth,

        Murie sing cucu!

 

Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu ;

Nu swike thu naver nu ;

 

Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,

  Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu !

 

lhude=loud,    awe=ewe,    lhouth=loweth,     sterteth=leaps,    swike=cease

 

These old verses can be difficult to parse, I know. Sometimes just saying them out loud phonetically will open the doors of meaning.

 

"Cuckoo Song" is actually meant to be sung in a round.  In Tabatha fashion, let me share this link for you to enjoy it on a whole 'nuther level (scroll down)!  (And – I was happy to stumble upon this site, Luminarium.  Oh, I could meander along its hedgerows for days… maybe I'll see you there?) ;0) 

 

Speaking of Olde British Thinges, if you have an Ancestry account and haven't checked in lately, the DNA data just keeps getting more interesting!  (I am ALL British/Scottish/Welsh/Irish with some Dutch and un peu francais.)  I ended up checking in with the old family tree online again and marvelling that one of the first branches I ever followed back went (possibly) all the way to 12th Century Scotland.  Fun to think about the verses and songs floating in the misty air back then. I've not had that luck with any other lines, though several do go back centuries. 

 

Anyway, looks like some of our posts this week have Scottish connections; can't wait to dive in!  I've just barely had a chance to shout out to Jone since her return from Scotland and Ireland, but we plan to do some catching up soon.

 

Happy New School Year, Happy Old English Celebration of Songbirds!

 

Our marvelous Margaret has this week's Roundup over at Reflections on the Teche.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Margaret!:0)

Howdy, Friends - I'm still doing some summer in-and-out-of-towning, and trying to catch some of the online SCBWI conference this weekend, so I did not get a post wrangled up for this week.  But I did get some poetry submitted here and there, so that's a start.  Please enjoy all the goings-on over at Nix the Comfort Zone, where the marvelous Molly has our Roundup!

Greetings, Poetry Lovers!  I'm covered up in artsyletters orders ahead of family vacation next week, so I'll just offer a signpost today.  (And, who am I kidding, I probably won't get a post wrangled for next Friday, either....)  I look forward to seeing you the first Friday in - gulp -August! In the meantime, keep cool if possible and go enjoy some refreshing poetry being rounded up by Mary Lee this week. :0)

 

Greetings, Poetry Lovers - I'VE MISSED YOU!  :0)

 

I know I've missed lots of poetry goodness and news about the comings and goings of our Poetry Friday-ers... some far-flung, like Jone recently in Ireland and Scotland and Heidi traipsing around Europe. And others having adventures on the home front, such as Sylvia retiring from her stellar teaching career to get into all kinds of new poetic mischief.

 

But I was distracted by the arrival of a precious new grandson, the first on both sides of the family.  He was due June 4 and arrived in the wee hours on June 5 (his great-grandfather's birthday - what a nice present for Jack!).  My hubby Jeff and I had gone to perch at our Travelers Rest (SC) home, only a couple of hours from our "couple," to wait for marching orders. 

 

Morgan and our son-in-law Matt checked into the hospital at 5 on a Friday evening, and Morgan labored from then until after 3 a.m. on Sunday.  We were there, mostly in the waiting room, and our son Seth came, too. Matt's family was in and out as well. Jeff & I both stayed a week before he had to return to work, and I had planned to stay on a few more days if needed.  Morgan got quite ill, and I ended up being there a whole month!  Lots of good snuggle time with our wee one, so despite very little sleep over those weeks, it was a treasured time for this new grandmother.  (Going my "Mimi," by the way - my middle name is Michelle and it got sidelined 38 years ago when I got married. I couldn't quite let my maiden name go, could I? ;0) )

 

Morgan is MUCH better now, and little Sawyer is thriving.  Since we're back on the coast, I request daily pictures of him via text! We are looking forward to all being together again in another week.  This time, my folks plan to join us from Florida - the aforementioned Jack, and my mother, Nita.

 

My mom, in her early 80s and with some vision challenges, hasn't exactly been on the forefront of texting.  BUT - as I was keeping her updated during Morgan's labor, she kept their cell phone handy and sent messages back. [Now she even includes emojis - Go, Mom!]  I try to keep her supplied in texted baby pictures as well. 

 

While in the hospital waiting room, I received a surprise text from her that was a poem.  She and "Poppy" often come up with poems, sometimes of the silly variety, on special occasions such as birthdays,   But this one was a sweet, heartfelt one.  Morgan and Matt have requested a handwritten version as a keepsake. 

 

Poetry is always the best way to mark milestone events in life, don't you think? And certainly the best way to welcome a new little human to the world. 

 

With my mother's and daughter's permission, I'll share it here to warm up your day.

 

 

Sawyer Matthew Whyte,
we are waiting to hear your cries,
to see your sweet little face
and look into your eyes.

 

We want to count your fingers
and ten wiggly toes,
to gently tug your ears
and touch your little nose.

 

We want to hold and cuddle you
and shower you with love,
and make sure you always know
you are our blessing from God above.

 

©Juanita C. Morgan, probably with help from Jack!

 

(An additional note... As our family rejoices, we are mindful that other families have empty arms, longing for or missing a beloved child. Morgan and Matt have had their hearts set on this blessing for years, making all of us that much more grateful.)

 

Elisabeth is hosting our Roundup today at Unexpected Intersections - Thanks, Elisabeth! 

Greetings, Poetry Lovers!

 

Things couldn't be much more exciting these days for my little family.  You might know that our oldest, Morgan (the third-grade-teacher-daughter) and her wonderful hubby Matt are about to welcome a baby boy into the world.  He's due at the beginning of June, but is evidently already a good-sized wee thing, so I'm getting my bags packed and we're all on baby-watch.  I've got to finish up a few work items and try to get our house here in a bit of order; I'll invoke my inner Mary Poppins this weekend.  (Wish I had her magic and that big hide-away bag, though.) The gas tank is filled!

 

This baby has been a long time coming, with disappointment and tears along the path.  And so as we anticipate joy, we all recognize that heartache, loss, and emptiness are with so many parents and would-be parents, and I don't pretend to understand the whys of all that.  I just feel humbled and grateful and try to be mindful of all the varied stories that swirl around at once in this world. And I pray for us all.

 

How lucky I've been to go to a couple of the baby showers this spring, and to watch Morgan and Matt transform a second bedroom into a cozy, happy nursery in recent months. Their devoted lab Maggie is ready for her new family duties.  She's been resting her head on Morgan's belly on the couch for a while now.

 

Of course, I've been transported to my own memories of early motherhood.  We were fortunate to live in a neighborhood with several other new parents.  None of us had family close by, so we became each other's support systems, playground partners, and lifelong friends.

 

I was pretty much a hippie-ish-earth-mommy type, forever thankful to be able to be at home with my children and nursing them both until they were toddlers.  (La Leche League is still going strong, by the way!)   We subscribed more to the "attachment parenting" way of nurturing our little ones rather than strict schedules.

 

I wonder if any of you in my same demographic knew about a group called "Mothers at Home" – a grassroots family advocacy group, run by women, which produced the most wonderful small journal, Welcome Home? (They included poetry in each issue, and once published an anthology called Motherhood – Journey Into Love.)

 

I used to anticipate the journal's arrival each month, and it fed my soul.  I'm thankful my introduction to parenthood occurred during the 22-year span in which they published it.  I still have some copies.  Unfortunately, I can't put my finger on the copy with a poem of mine in it.… it is somewhere, but that was a long time ago and we've moved and moved and moved again since then.

 

Fragments of the poem drift back to me, so I'll share those.  I would have written this when Morgan was four and Seth was one, or thereabouts. Maybe it's appropriate, with the passage of time and the passing of the parenting baton, that I have only snatches of sweet and bittersweet memories, the warm and cherished parts that transcend time.

 

Here's what I remember of the poem, now that I'm 26 years older than when I wrote it, and much more  gray:

 

 

Going Gray

 

I am going gray -

growing soft and saggy

in places,

feeling much older than

thirty-three rotations around the sun.

 

[And  then there was some middle part?  I have no idea what it said, but it transitioned to a reference to my children, and the poem ended like this:]

 

… my children.

 

They think me beautiful,

a mother flowing with milk and honey.

White milk and glistening honey.

 

 

 ©Robyn Hood Black – I'll find the whole poem eventually!

 

Somewhere along the way, Mothers at Home became more inclusive and became known as Family & Home Network®.  I appreciate the widening of the net, but I must confess the poet in me loved the simplicity and coziness of their original name.  They continue to do important advocacy and policy work, which you can tap into here.  Their tagline is "Helping families spend generous amounts of time together."

 

So, looks like I'll be taking a bit of a blog break for a few weeks; maybe I can catch up on reading everyone else's.  Here's to generation after generation, and poetry in each one.  Rose at Imagine the Possibilities has our Roundup this week.  Thank you, Rose!

Blessed to be visiting with family this weekend, but be sure to visit Jama's Alphabet Soup for a beautiful & poignant Mother's Day post and links to Poetry Friday goodness.  See you next week!

 

Greetings, Poetry Lovers!  Can you believe we've almost reached the end of another Poetry Month? I have lots of catching up to do on so many of the wonderful month-long projects conjured up and celebrated around the Kidlitosphere.  Fortunately, Jama's round up post of all the April goodness can guide us even after Sunday has passed.  

 

With the heaviness and stress of the daily news, I thought I'd offer up another old poem from the "Poems in a Playful Mood" section of NARRATIVE AND LYRIC POEMS FOR STUDENTS edited by S. S. Seward, Jr., published by Henry Holt and Company in 1909.  (Seward was evidently an assistant professor of English at Stanford University.)

 

Here's a "playful" poem that seems just right for our perch on the far edge of April. National Poetry Month wasn't launched until 1996, so April did not have such a designation more than a century ago. 

Let's just carry on the poetry love into May, shall we?

 

 

PROSE AND RHYME

 

by Austin Dobson

 

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut,

   In November fogs, in December snows,

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,

   There is place and enough for the pains of prose; --

   But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,

And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,

   And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,

Then hey!-- for the rippple of laughing rhyme!

 

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,

   Whenthe reason stands on its squarest toes,

When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"

  There is place enough for the pains of prose; --

  But whenever the May blood stirs and glows,

And the young year draws to a "golden prime," --

   And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,

Then hey!-- for the rippple of laughing rhyme!

 

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut

   In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"

In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"

  There is place enough for the pains of prose; --

  But whenever a soft glance softer grows,

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,

  And the secret is told "that no one knows,"

Then hey!-- for the rippple of laughing rhyme!

 

 

    ENVOY

 

In the work-a-day world, -- for its needs and woes,

There is place enough for the pains of prose;

But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,

Then hey!-- for the rippple of laughing rhyme!

 

 

Follow the poetry ripples over to the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by the ever-talented & generous Jone Rush MacCulloch.

 

Bonjour!  

 

One thing I love about being an Etsy seller is that sometimes I send my artsyletters offerings to the four corners of the world.  I've had customers in close to 20 countries. This week I received an order with a special request from France, and the message was sent via email rather than through Etsy, so there wasn't an option to translate on the spot.  However, I was delighted to realize that my four years of French in high school and one in college were sufficient for me to make out its meaning!  [I still used an online translator just to make sure, and sent my reply in English and via a copy from an online translator, though I did "check" that it looked right.]

 

And while items in my shop have a definite British Isles bent - I mean, my target market really is nerdy English-major types like myself - somewhow a few items for Francophiles continue to surface from my work table. Especially since I was able to procure some gorgeous letters and postcards and bank notes and such from centuries past, from a seller in France.  (I often buy supplies from other corners of the earth, too.) 

 

I am especially smitten with postcards and business receipts and such with layers of interesting text or handwriting in different hues of ink, all jumbled together - ahhhh.  And while I do reproduce some antique maps etc. for items I make that I need more than one of (tourist-friendly items at a local shop here in Beaufort, etc.), I do prefer to just capture the actual text or image under glass as a one-of-a-kind snippet of history, such as the items in the picture above.  I'll wrangle these into finished pieces and get some listed today, to join a few French items already listed.

 

I don't have an actual French poem to share today, but when I think about French writing, Le Petit Prince always come to mind.  (I do have a copy in French somewhere...!)  I have always adored this book, and even read it out loud to eighth graders - eighth graders! - back in the day when I briefly taught middle school English. 

 

My love affair is shared  by the world, evidently - did you know there was a The Little Prince theme park in France, near the German and Swiss borders?  (See https://www.thelittleprince.com.) There's also a foundation. And closer to home, evidently a Broadway play just opened? 

 

If you haven't read the story, it's just a treasure of creativity, love, loss, and hope.  In fact, I read that aside from religious texts, it's the most translated book in the world. It features a pilot, stranded in the Sahara desert, who encounters a little prince requesting a drawing of a sheep. Throughout the tale, the young prince describes his journey across planets, and amusing and touching encounters which evoke universal themes. 

 

The whole book seems poem-like to me, with its fairy tale qualities and compression into a deceptively simple form.  (Saint-Exupery did write poetry and other works.) Plus, the art is charming. So for a taste of the book's voice, I'll just share a few sentences from the beginning, as the narrator, before meeting the book's subject, explains how he left a career in art at the tender age of 6, after an unsuccessful (according to others) couple of drawings. 

 

The grown-ups then advised me to give up my drawings of boa constrictors, whether from the inside or the outside, and to devote myself instead to geography, history, arithmetic and grammar. Thus it was that I gave up a magnificent career as a painter at the age of six. I had been disappointed by the lack of success of my drawing No. 1 and my drawing No. 2. Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves and it is rather tedious for children to have to explain things to them time and again.

 

So I had to choose another job and I learnt to pilot aeroplanes.

 

[Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de. The Little Prince (pp. 10-11). GENERAL PRESS. Kindle Edition.]

 

The book was written while Saint-Exupery was in the United States.  It was published in 1943, only a year before the author's plane disappeared on a mission in World War II.

 

Earth Day wasn't around in the 1940s, but I have a feeling The Little Prince would agree with its aims of nurturing this planet. And speaking of this planet, and of France, the world will be keeping an eye on the presidential election there this weekend I'm sure, with ramifications not just for France but for the war in Ukraine and political relations beyond. 

 

Merci for joining me in this very rambling post today - be sure to pilot on over to see Margaret at Reflections on the Teche for this week's Roundup, and to catch up with the Kidlit Progressive Poem! Thanks for all the hosting, Margaret. 

Greetings, Poetry Lovers!  I know it's just Wednesday, but it's my day to host the traveling "KidLit Progressive Poem," which I've participated in since its humble beginnings as the brainchild of Irene Latham, quite a few moons ago.  Margaret Simon took over the duties a couple of years back, and it's as lively as ever.  

 

You can find a list of participants and links to their websites here, as part of Jama Kim Rattigan's welcome and fulsome Roundup of Poetry Month happenings in the Kidlitosphere.

 

Here's the list without the hyperlinks:

 

1 Irene at Live Your Poem
2 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
3 Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core
4 Mary Lee at A(nother) Year of Reading
5 Buffy at Buffy Silverman
6 Molly at Nix the Comfort Zone
7 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities
9 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
10 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
11 Janet Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
12 Jone at Jone Rush MacCulloch
13 Karin Fisher-Golton at Still in Awe
14 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
15 Carol Labuzzetta at The Apples in my Orchard
16 Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
17 Ruth at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken Town
18 Patricia at Reverie
19 Christie at Wondering and Wandering
20 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
21 Kevin at Dog Trax
22 Margaret at Reflections on the Teche
23 Leigh Anne at A Day in the Life
24 Marcie Atkins
25 Marilyn Garcia
26 JoAnn Early Macken
27 Janice at Salt City Verse
28 Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference
29 Karen Eastlund at Karen's Got a Blog
30 Michelle Kogan Painting, Illustration, & Writing

 

Irene started us off with a "borrowed" line, and the trend stuck with found poetry, or tidbits of it, in each contribution since. Our protagonists are immersing themselves in the magic of nature, and perhaps, at line 20 today, it's time for them to start journeying back? 

 

Heidi added a subtle beam of "climate-conscious light" to the poem on Day 16, and I know that she, and Mary Lee, and several other Poetry-Friday-ers, are focusing on environmental or nature themes for poetry projects this month. 

 

For my addition, I decided to dip into a nonficiton book, Last Child in the Woods, by Richard Louv.  First published in 2005, its message is as important as ever. 

 

Did you have the good fortune to run wild in the natural world growing up?  In Orlando, Florida, in the 70s, I frequently set off by myself for hours to explore the woods and lakes near our home. No cell phones, no supervision.  I did a lot of Doolittle-ish talking to animals then (and still do, actually).  Lizards, birds, snakes... the only creatures that I was really afraid of were alligators. Several years ago, on a trip back home, I discovered that what I thought of as my own personal hundred-acre wood had become a walled and gated development called "Lake Colony Estates."  But I'll always have my memories of rough and rooted dirt trails, mourning doves, pine bark and pine needles, and forested adventures.

 

Our poem seemed to start off in two voices, though I'm not certain that has held through the middle.  I'll format it as it makes sense to me, but future contributors, do what you will! Here is the poem, with my line underlined at the end (just to feature it - Kevin, don't keep the underline! ;0)  ):

 

 

Where they were going, there were no maps.

 

   Sorry! I don't want any adventures, thank you. Not today.

 

Take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!

 

   We have to go back. I forgot something.

 

But it's spring, and the world is puddle-wonderful, 

so we'll whistle and dance and set off on our way.

Come with me, and you'll be in a land of pure imagination.

 

Wherever you go, take your hopes, pack your dreams, and never forget –

 it is on our journeys that discoveries are made.

And then it was time for singing.

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain, paint with all the colors of the wind, freewheeling through an endless diamond sky?

Suddenly, they stopped and realized they weren't the only ones singing.

 

Listen, a chattering of monkeys! Let's smell the dawn 
and taste the moonlight, we'll watch it all spread out before us.
 
The moon is slicing through the sky. We whisper to the tree, 
tap on the trunk, imagine it feeling our sound.
 
Clouds of blue-winged swallows, rain from up the mountains,

Green growing all around, and the cool splash of the fountain.

If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden,

a bright, secret, quiet place, and rather sad; 
 and they stepped out into the middle of it.

 

Their minds' libraries and lightning bugs led them on.

 

The darkwood sings, the elderhist blooms, the sky lightens; listen and you will find your way home.

 

The night sky would soon be painted, stars gleaming overhead, a beautiful wild curtain closing on the day.

 

Mud and dusk, nettles and sky - time to cycle home in the dark. 

 

 

Here is a list of the sources for lines:

 

1. The Imaginaries: Little Scraps of Larger Stories, by Emily Winfield Martin
2. The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien
3. The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame
4. Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech
5. inspired by "[in Just-]" by E. E. Cummings
6. "Pure Imagination" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
7. Maybe by Kobi Yamada
8. Sarah, Plain, and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan
9. inspired by Disney songs "A Whole New World" from Aladdin and "Colors of the Wind" from Pocahontas
10. The Other Way to Listen by Byrd Baylor
11. adapted from Cinnamon by Neil Gaiman
12. adapted from The Magical Imperfect by Chris Baron
13. adapted from On the Same Day in March by Marilyn Singer
14. adapted from a line in Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
15. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
16. Prince Caspian by CS Lewis

17. The Last Cuentista by Donna Barba Higuera

18. Kate DiCamillo's The Beatryce Prophecy

19. The Keeper of Wild Words by Brooke Smith

20. Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv

 

(I got a little confused along the way with lines/sources - someone let me know if I need to make a correction!)

 

Take it away, Kevin!