December Challenge Winner

Congratulations to Judith Tullis for winning the December poetry challenge with her poem, "Lego Man." The "Lego man" in this photo, built by my grandson, would not meet the conditions for the Lego man the narrator has in mind in this quirky poem.

There were other excellent poems submitted this month, but none as clever as this one.


Lego Man

I wish I had a Lego man
a hold-tight-will-not-let-go man
a red, white, black or yellow man
a tier above his fellow man
who’d pull himself apart for me
and disconnect his heart for me.
He’d be much better than the last
who never would do what I asked
just smothered me in apathy.

I wish I had a Lego man
an Eggo-in-the-morning man.
We’d sip our coffee hand-in-hand
while brick by brick our life we planned.
He’d never cause a scream from me
nor scheme to take my dream from me.
He would love me to distraction
though he might be short on action
without his Lego battery.

~ Judith Tullis

Copyright to this poem remains with the writer.


Watch for a new challenge on January 1.


© 2011 Wilda Morris

December 2011 Poetry Challenge - a Toy Poem

Eugene Field, who was born in 1850 and died in 1895, was especially known for his children’s poems. Appropriately, his boyhood home now houses the St. Louis Toy Museum.

When I was a child, I found Eugene Field’s poem, “Little Boy Blue,” in one of my grandmother’s books. I found it very touching—and very sad. I could see the dust-covered dog and the rusty soldier waiting the return of “Little Boy Blue.” Before I was born, my cousin Junior (age 2) drowned in a well. He was my Aunt Abbie’s first child, my grandparents first grandchild, and my mother’s first nephew. Perhaps that is one reason I was so moved when I read the poem, and—despite the fact that it made me sad—drawn to read it over and over.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.

~ Eugene Field

(This poem is in the public domain)

This isn’t the only poem by Eugene Fields which features toys. I suspect that the gingham dog and the calico cat, in his poem, “The Duel,” (another of my childhood favorites) were stuffed animals, though they might just be imaginary creatures. You can find “The Duel” on-line, along with other of Field’s poems, including “The Naughty Doll,” at http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/field01.html
“The Duel” and “The Naughty Doll” are more cheerful and less sentimental than “Little Boy Blue.”

Another favorite poet of an earlier era is Edgar A. Guest (1881-1959). Guest was born in England, but immigrated to the U.S. at age 10. Most of his poetry was not written for children, but it was generally light verse, and often sentimental. As a result, he was known as “the people’s poet.” Here is one of his poems about toys:

Toys

I can pass up the lure of a jewel to wear
With never the trace of a sigh,
The things on a shelf that I'd like for myself
I never regret I can't buy.
I can go through the town passing store after store
Showing things it would please me to own,
With never a trace of despair on my face,
But I can't let a toy shop alone.

I can throttle the love of fine raiment to death
And I don't know the craving for rum,
But I do know the joy that is born of a toy,
And the pleasure that comes with a drum
I can reckon the value of money at times,
And govern my purse strings with sense,
But I fall for a toy for my girl or my boy
And never regard the expense.

It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold
Or the power of a rich man to buy;
My courage is stout when the doing without
Is only my duty, but I
Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys
That my kiddies are eager to own,
And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing!
If their mother would let me alone.

There isn't much fun spending coin on myself
For neckties and up-to-date lids,
But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold
I part with for things for the kids.
I can go through the town passing store after store
Showing things it would please me to own,
But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost
When I'm left in a toy shop alone.

~ Edgar A. Guest

(This poem is in the public domain)

Another famous poem about toys is “The Toy Strewn House.” Unfortunately, the author is anonymous.


The Toy Strewn House

Give me the house where the toys are strewn
Where the dolls are asleep in the chairs
Where the building blocks and the toy balloons
And the soldiers guard the stairs.

Let me step in the house where they tiny cart
With its horses rules the floor
And the rest comes into my weary heart
For I am at home once more.

Give me the house with the toys about
With the battered old train of cars
The box of paints and the books left out
And the ship with her broken spars;

Let me step in a house at the close of day
That is littered with children’s toys
And dwell once more in the house of play
With the echoes of gone by noise

Whoever has lived in a toy strewn home
Though feeble he be and gray
Will yearn no matter how far he roams
For the glorious disarray

If the little home with the littered floor
That was his in the by gone days
And his heart will throb as it throbbed before
When he rests where a baby plays

~ Anonymous

(This poem is in the public domain)


You can find other toy-related poetry on-line. “Toys in a Field” is definitely not light verse or sentimental. Yusef Komunyakaa wrote this poem out of his experience in the Vietnam war. I did not put Komuyakaa’s poem on this blog, because it is not in the public domain. You can read it at http://www.gotpoetry.com/Poems/l_op=Showpoet/Poems/l_op=Showpoems/Poems/l_op=viewpoems/lid=95758.html


Some Other Toy Poems on the Internet:

Charles Simic, “The Wooden Toy,” http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/charles_simic/poems/18118

Robert Service, “Her Toys,” a poem with a theme very much like that of “Little Boy Blue,” http://www.quotesandpoem.com/poems/SelectedPoemByTopic/Service/Children/%20%20%20%20Her%20Toys/286/

“Colored Toys,” by Rabindranath Tagore, http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/rabindranath_tagore/poems/2213

Anonymous, “Spinning a Dreidel,” http://www.4to40.com/poems/index.asp?p=Spinning_A_Dreidel

David LaRue Alexander, “Play, Way Back Then,” http://illinoispoets.org/poems0609.htm#PlayWayBackWhen



The December, 2011, Poetry Challenge

The sample poems this month, along with the poems for which links have been provided, show how poems starting with a toy (or toys) can go in a variety of directions. Use your creativity to write your own (more contemporary) toy-related poem. Will you write about toys from your childhood or those your children or grandchildren prefer? Will you be serious or humorous? Your poem may be free or formal verse.

Deadline: December 15, 2011

Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the December 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. If you use a form, please specify the form used. Also indicate in your email whether the poem is written for children or for adults. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.


© 2011 Wilda Morris

November 2011 Challenge Winner

Mark Hudson took the November challenge in a totally unexpected direction. Instead beginning with a minor change in his personal life, he raises a much broader question. He assumes there is a God, and writes about the possibility of there being no God. He moves from that question to other theological speculations. Here is Mark's winning poem.

If there was no God

If there was no God,
would things be even worse?
Did we create our own problems,
or did the Devil make this curse?
If there never was a God,
would nothing exist at all?
Would particles not even be?
Would nothingness just sprawl?
If I was created by the master,
should I feel guilt over sin?
Will God give me his mercy
or is punishment about to begin?
Is it hard to get into Heaven,
and easy to get into Hell?
Is the Bible a bit too harsh
when it shows us men who fell?
What about other religions?
Doesn't God love them, too?
Aren't we all children of God?
Did Jesus die only for a few?
If I am a child of God,
can't I just be myself?
Am I actively seeking God,
or do I just want his wealth?
This may open up questions;
it may even sound like a quiz.
But the answer to the question:
Is there a God? Yes,there is!

~ Mark Hudson

Mark Hudson retains copyright to this poem.

Hudson submitted a bio: Mark Hudson is a member of Evanston Writers Workshop and Rockford Writers Guild. He is currently working on a novella for http://nanorimo.org/, national novel writing month.

Check in on December 1 for the new poetry challenge.

© 2001 Wilda Morris

November 2011 Challenge

As you read the following three poems (one by Thomas Hardy and two of mine), you may wonder what they have in common. They do seem very different in content, theme and style.


The Man He Killed

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough: although

He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
Off-hand-like—just like I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.

Yes, quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.

~ Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

NOTES:
A "napperkin" is a half-pint cup.
The word "'list" is a shortened form of "enlist."
"Traps" might be literally traps, if the soldier had been a hunter and trapper, but more likely are the tools of his trade as a plumber, tinker, carpenter, or whatever.

This poem is in the public domain.
From Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses. Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan and Co. 1909.


Six Years in Sri Lanka

A little luck and the money
from my father’s will
and I was touring the world.

I settled down for six years
in the Sri Lankan highlands,
married a Sinhalese artist.
We carried paint
and canvas to the rainforest,
painted bromeliads, epiphytes,
and the purple-faced leaf monkey.

At Yala, we watched a leopard
limp off the dirt road,
followed him into the jungle
till he hid himself in underbrush.

Each year we hiked to Kandy
for the Esala Perahera.
On the day of the full moon
we watched dancers, drummers,
whip-crackers, torch-bearers,
and caparisoned elephants
parade the streets, bowed
when Maligawa Tusker passed by
with the canopied reliquary
containing a replica of Buddha’s tooth.

When Tamil fighters came,
I hid my love beneath coconuts
picked from our palm trees,
told them he’d gone to India
to paint the Taj Mahal.

These are just a few
adventures in that other life
I never lived.

~ Wilda Morris

NOTES:
The purple-faced leaf monkey exists only in Sri Lanka, and is one of the most endangered species in the world. You can see pictures of these monkeys at http://www.edinburghzoo.org.uk/animals/individuals/PurpleFacedLeafMonkey.html
The Yala National Park in Sri Lanka is home to one of the largest concentrations of leopards in the world.
"Esala Perahera" = the Festival of the Tooth. The tooth of Buddha is considered the most sacred relic in Sri Lanka.
"Maligawa Tusker" is the elephant who carried the golden casket containing the tooth of Buddha in the celebratory parade from 1937-1988. After his death, his body was preserved by a taxidermist, and it is kept at the Temple of the Tooth in Kandy.

First published in Frostwriting, 2009 (http://www.frostwriting.com/issues/authors/Wilda%20Morris/).


On Dad’s Demolition Crew

It’s not that I minded helping Mother.
I liked hanging laundry and taking it down,
weeding the garden, slicing carrots
and stirring stew. I was mad,
though, when dad took my brothers
to work and left me behind.
No place, he said, for a girl.

Donnie described the elevator
they rode to the top after Dad
demolished the outer walls
of an office building,
the view across St. Louis
when the elevator door opened
at what had been the fourteenth floor.

Ronnie’s pockets bulged
with buffalo nickels and copper pennies
from the site of an old pub
Dad pulled down. I begged
till Ronnie shared his loot
of found treasures.

I demanded, Dad, take me, too!
till he told me one morning
to tie my shoes and hop
into the back of the truck
with my brothers.

Dust and dirt were my paradise.
The crash of falling girders,
percussion to the organ music
of tumbling timber; prisms of glass,
my cathedral windows; and Dad,
the priest preaching mysteries
and wonders of this world
so new to me.

~ Wilda Morris


Copyright to the last two poems is retained by the author. Please do not reprint without permission.


These three poems are all reminders that the reader should not assume a poem in first person is autobiographical.

Several years ago, I came across an intriguing prompt for a poem. Imagine that something in your life had been different—maybe you were born in a different state or to different parents, or went to a different college. If you are married, you might imagine yourself single or married to a different person; if you are single, you might imagine yourself married. There are endless possibilities.

Hardy’s title may be a bit of a give-away that although the poem is in first person, the poem is not autobiographical. You may have realized that Hardy is not literally the “I.” He doesn’t tell us who “He” in the title is, “The Man He Killed.” But it is not the poet himself. Hardy did not enlist, and was never a soldier himself. Nor did he ever kill anyone.

Hardy’s poem could be considered a persona poem (see the blog entries for February, 2010). However, the persona in this case is not a named individual. Rather, he is an anonymous soldier, one who was poor, and enlisted largely because he was out of work and didn’t know what else to do. Hardy himself was born, and spent much of his life, in Dorset, one of the poorer, more rural counties of England. He interviewed soldiers who survived the war with Napoleon, and spoke out against aspects of the Boer War and World War I.

The poem gains strength from the fact that Hardy puts it in first person. It is as if Hardy had imagined himself as a poor workingman, out of a job, signing up to fight—and discovering the irony that he has shot someone just like himself, except for the fact that the man he shot was on the side of the enemy. This poem, though rather light and in colloquial language, is a serious poem, a commentary on the irrationality of war.

“Six Years in Sri Lanka,” was my first use of the prompt of imagining something in my life being different. I always have wanted to travel. I studied Sri Lankan politics in graduate school, and really wanted to go there. Money was always an issue, though, and I still have not made it to South Asia. I have been in rain forests, and have become familiar with bromeliads and epiphytes, and I read with interest about the Esala Perahera, when the tooth of Buddha is brought out in solemn and joyous procession. I also read about the long-lasting civil war between the Tamil Tigers and the Sinhalese people of Sri Lanka.

With poetic license, I imagined that I had inherited some money and was able to travel around the world, stopping off in Sri Lanka (“the pearl o the toe of India”), where I fell in love and married.

“On Dad’s Demolition Crew” had a different source of inspiration. My parents were divorced when I was two, so I never knew my birth father. A couple years ago, through the Internet, I got in touch with—and got to meet—two half-brothers and a number other relatives I had not known existed. I learned that my birth father had had a demolition business, though not when I was a young child (as in the poem). I loved hearing his grandson (my nephew) tell about going to work with his grandfather. The elevator story is his, though I think it was, in reality, the 9th floor, not the 14th. The coins probably made their way into the poem because I was told my birth father always had coins in his pockets. They fell into the cushions of the sofa when he napped, and his grandchildren would gather them up so they could buy snacks at a nearby store.

Remembering the prompt, I put myself into my birth father’s family, changed the timing of his demolition business, and wrote “On Dad’s Demolition Crew.”

Challenge for November:

By now, you have probably figured out that the challenge for November is to use your imagination and think about how your life might have been if just one or two things had been different. What if you had enlisted? Married or not married? Inherited some money or won big on Jeopardy? If your book had won a Pulitzer Prize? If you’d been an only child, or the youngest of nine children? Or . . . . well, you decide what might have been different and where that might have led you. The poem is not to be a persona poem speaking for some famous person, but an alteration of your own life story.

Your poem may be free verse or rhymed and metered. If you use a set form, please include the name of the form with your submission.

The deadline is November 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.


Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the November 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. When you submit your poem, add a note indicating where you took poetic license with the facts of your life. The poem should be in first person, as if it actually happened to the speaker in the poem. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.


© 2011 Wilda Morris

Winning Poem for October

Congratulations to Peggy Trojan, for her poem honoring teachers. Growing up in Iowa City, Iowa, I had a mostly teachers who lived up to the standards in this poem, especially including: Miss Blessie (Mrs. Orlando, after she married), Miss Humphrey and Mrs. Moon at Longfellow School; Mrs. Heller at Iowa City Junior High; Mrs. Yearnd, Mr. White and Miss Winbigler at Iowa City High School. There were others, too. Right now, I can't remember the name of my Junior High speech teacher, but she was special, too.

My grandmother attested to the impact of teachers on her life by the fact that even when she was in her 70s she could name every teacher she had. Growing up in a small Kansas town when she did, she had the same teacher for multiple years; that gave each one more of an opportunity to impact her life. Still, I was impressed that she could name all of them.

Children with devoted teachers who love and respect their students and are excited about the subject matter they teach generally do well in school and learn a lot.

The Test

So, this is the last day.
I watch you,
anxious for the bell
that frees you into summer.
I wonder.
What will you,
in five, ten, twenty years
remember from this room?
That nouns are names
of persons and things?
That paragraphs need
topic sentences?
That Shakespeare dared
mix sadness and beauty
in one line?

I tried to teach you
more than this.
Something to help solve
the enigma of living.
Will anyone of you,
I wonder,
ever guess I gave
my heart,
and all I knew?

~ Peggy Trojan

The copyright on this poem is owned by Peggy Trojan. Do not copy without permission.


Watch for the new challenge for November.


© 2011 Wilda Morris.

October 2011 Poetry Challenge

A community is made up of a variety of people with different functions and occupations. Each occupation can serve as a prompt for poems. One of the most famous poems in English paying tribute to an occupational group is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “The Village Blacksmith.” I remember my grandmother reciting this poem, with some wistfulness in her voice. By the time I was born, she was living in Iowa City, Iowa, and most families had automobiles or got around town on the foot or on the bus. So far as I know, there was no blacksmith in town. My grandmother had grown up in Lincoln, Kansas, a small, rural prairie town. There still was a blacksmith in Lincoln when my grandmother took me to visit. Today, though most of us know about the blacksmith only from reading Longfellow’s poem or historical novels.


The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


John Greenleaf Whittier wrote long, rhymed poems in honor of “The Ship-Builders,” “The Shoemaker,” “The Drovers,” “The Fishermen,” “The Huskers” and “The Lumbermen.” Some of these occupations have largely disappeared from the American scene. For instance, though there are still some shoe repair shops, most of the shoes we wear were made in factories—and often in factories abroad.

Whittier’s book. Songs of Labor, and other poems, is available on-line in the Google book, Songs of Labor and Other Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier, which can be downloaded at http://books.google.com/books?id=y2ERAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false.

There are links to several more contemporary poems about work and workers at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/09/06/labor-day-poems-the-poetr_n_705337.html.

Other examples:

* Donald Hall, "The Ox Cart Man," in White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems 1946-2006 (Houghton Mifflin Company, 2006), p. 94.
* Edward Hirsch, "The Custodian," The Atlantic (October 2011), p. 88.

In each community today—in any nations—there are people in a variety of occupations or professions. The challenge for October is to write a poem in tribute to persons who function in a particular occupation. It may be written about the occupation in general, as Whittier’s “The Drovers,” or you may use the singular, as Longfellow did, using his village blacksmith as an example of the best of the profession. The poem should not be a nostalgic look back, but deal with today’s reality. Pick an occupation that contributes to the welfare of your community today.

Your poem may be free verse or rhymed and metered. If you use a set form, please include the name of the form with your submission.

The deadline is October 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.


Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the October 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.


© 2011 Wilda Morris

Post script: I've added several new links to poems of mine on the Internet.

September Blog Winner

There were several excellent children’s poems submitted this month, so I asked a 4th grade teacher, Sally Dayton, if she and her class would select the winner. This is the poem they chose:


The Woman Who Weaves In The Sky

See how she spins, see her fingers fly,
that mysterious lady who lives in the sky.
She makes sunsets and oceans, and babies that cry;
makes tigers and ligers and chicken pot pie.

Hooray for the lady who weaves in the sky.
She’ll play with you too if you never ask why.
For she hates to explain whatever she does.
She is what she is, and will be what she was.

~ Judith Bernal


Copyright to this poem remains with Judith Bernal, the poet. Please do not copy and distribute it without permission.

I must admit that I learned a new word when I read this poem: “liger.” If you don’t know what it means, you can go to my favorite source of definitions and synonyms: www.onelook.com.

I suspect that the children liked the mysterious qualities of this poem, as well as the rhythm and rhyme. Also most children hate to explain what they do, and could identify with that characteristic of “the woman who weaves in the sky.” They may also identify with the last line, and want to say the same thing about themselves.


Watch for a new prompt coming soon.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

September 2011 Poetry Challenge

It is September and in the United States that means the children are going back to school. As children walked by my home to the nearby elementary school, I started thinking about some of the poems I loved when I was a child.

What poems were your favorites? Styles in poetry change, and favorites vary from country to country. My children were very fond of Shel Silverstein’s poems. What were (or are) the favorite poems of your children? If you are a grandparent, what are some favorites of your grandchildren? If enough readers respond to these questions (respond to wildamorris[at]Ameritech[dot]net, I’ll publish a list of the poems mentioned most.

Maybe one reason I was fond of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was that my school was named for him. "The Children's Hour" was (and still is) ne of my very favorite . It is a poem of family love. Perhaps because I grew up in my grandparents’ home, I pictured the speaker of the poem as a grandfather—one as kind and loving as mine. Usually “The Children’s Hour” is printed with every other line indented, but this blog won’t accept indents, so all the lines in this and other poems are left-justified.


The Children’s Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Here are a few more of my childhood favorites:

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

~ Eugene Field


Animal Crackers

Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I'm grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.

What do you choose when you're offered a treat?
When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
It's cocoa and animals that I love the most!

The kitchen's the coziest place that I know:
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.

Daddy and Mother dine later in state,
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;
But they don't have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!

~ Christopher Morley


James Whitcomb Riley was one of my favorite poets. Among his poems that I enjoyed was “The Raggedy Man.” The stanzas below are the ones that were in my poetry book. By going to http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/James-Whitcomb-Riley/13678 I learned that there are several additional stanzas I did not read or hear as a child.


The Raggedy Man

O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. --
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do. --
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. --
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do --
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his --
An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? --
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! --
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!


~ James Whitcomb Riley

Free Verse for Children

The poems above are all rhymed and metered poems. This is not true of all poems for children. Go to http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/video/6 and you can watch a video reading of "April Rain Song" by Langston Hughes. I’m sure it would have been one of my favorites, had I heard it as a child!

NOTE: The poems reproduced on this blog entry are, I believe, in the public domain. I have given the link to Langston Hughes’ poem rather than reproducing it here, because I believe it is still copyright-protected, and because I think you will enjoy the video.

September Poetry Challenge

For September, write a poem for children between the ages of six and eleven. Your poem may be free verse or formal verse. If you use a form, please specify what form you are using. If you invent your own form, please include the rules of the form.

The deadline is September 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.


Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the September 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.

NOTE TO POETS: The Illinois State Poetry Society has an annual contest for poets. If you are interested, you can find the rules at http://illinoispoets.org/contest.htm.

NOTE TO TEACHERS: Let me know if your class would like to submit poems on this challenge, or if you would like to work with me on selecting a challenge for later in the school year.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

August Challenge Winner

The winning poem for August is by Caroline Johnson, who says her hero is her sister Debbie, who died of osteogenic sarcoma. After her poem was selected, I asked her to explain in more detail why she considered her sister her hero. Here is what she wrote:

I admired my sister Debbie for many reasons. She had a talent of playing the piano, she was the first in the family to have a boyfriend, and she even smoked out on our front porch once with her friends--with my parents watching! However, the biggest reason I admired her was for her fortitude and strength when facing her illness, osteogenic sarcoma, or bone cancer. This cancer caused her to have her leg amputated, and later on, it metastasized to her lungs. It was the same kind of cancer that Ted Kennedy's son had. She even wrote a letter to him, and he replied, telling her to "never give up." He would survive the tragedy, while she didn't

She would tell my mom not to worry about what kind of casket to choose, while my mom couldn't hold back the tears. Debbie accepted her death in the same way she accepted her life; she reacted calmly with the cards that were dealt to her. Though her death at 15 affected us all greatly, it was really the memory of her life--the way she lived her life--that would chase us for years afterwards, like a ghost.

Her is Caroline’s tribute to her sister:


Poem about Hair

I remember when she lost it.
The memory is almost as vivid
as when she played with Barbie,
holding it with both hands,
moving it here and there
admiring the doll’s long hair.

All those months of chemotherapy,
the nausea, and then, suddenly,
she had beautiful, silky locks.
It was a dark wig, of course,
that I saw my 14-year-old sister comb.
At night it would sit on a Styrofoam head, propped.

She wore the wig and her prosthesis
every school day while climbing the steps
of a crowded yellow bus,
using crutches or sometimes
a cane.

The last time I saw her
we each put a single red rose
on her casket.
Father said he hoped he’d see her again.

Mother, like me, said nothing,
her dyed blonde hair
whipping in the wind.

Caroline Johnson Caroline Johnson
http://jupiter-caroline.blogspot.com

Copyright to this poem belongs to the author.

Watch for the September Poetry Challenge coming soon.


© Wilda Morris

July Children's Winners

Students in Mapua School in New Zealand accepted the July challenge and wrote night poems, which their teacher, Struan McKenzie, submitted for them. The children, who are in year 3, are 6 and 7 years old. They all did a fine job. With some difficulty, I have selected three of their poems as winners to publish. Congratulations to these young poets—and to the entire class! Keep writing!


Black mist- By Ben

Night is a black mist.
Floating around the house.
It's creeping up to me.
Oh no! A ghost is coming and the owls are howling
and the leaves are blowing in the trees.
Morning.
I'm glad the night is over.



I love night- By Eden

Every kid at night blows their candle out.
It goes dark.
You snuggle up to your blanket.
You hear funny sounds (hoo, hoo) goes an owl.
(scratch, scratch) goes a black cat.
Fall asleep.
(I love night!)


The Night by Rayek

The night is a black blankey with lots of holes
The wind outside sounds like a owl howling
The smell of night is some crispy fish and chips
The feel of night is a big icecube melting in the sun.



Don't forget to enter the August Challenge! Who is your hero??


© 2011 Wilda Morris

August 2011 Poetry Challenge

Most of us have heroes. Not movie stars or ball players who make a living from the sport, but real heroes. People whom we admire and respect and would like, in someway to emulate. People who have given large parts of their lives to help others. Some are heroes from the past, people we studied about in school, church, synagogue, temple or mosque. Some are more contemporary heroes.

One of my heroes is my own mother, Woodye Kessler. When my grandmother was a patient in Mercy Hospital, nearing death, Sister Rosemary McManus began regular visits to converse and pray with my grandmother, and with Mother who kept vigil in my grandmother's hospital room. Sister Rosemary was getting ready to begin a new jail ministry, and asked Mother (a Baptist) to consider joining her in that endeavor. Mother was very reluctant. Sister Rosemary kept asking, even after my grandmother’s death. Mother finally agreed to give it a try, because she felt indebted to the persistent nun. The picture above shows Mother outside the jail on the day the sheriff and jail staff honored her for her years of service. Here is the poem I wrote about my mother and her ministry. It is pretty close to the actual facts, as Mother told them.


Woodye Kessler at the County Jail

She tried to hold fear
in her hands but it spread
like melted butter
from her white hair
to the soles of her arthritic feet.
Even the Bible she carried
trembled as the sheriff
locked her in with Sister Rosemary
and a dozen inmates.

She shuddered when Eddie
opened his vile mouth,
cursing her, Sister Rosemary,
God and his cellmate.
But she came again each week,
studying scripture with the men,
sitting as close as she could
to the locked door,
as if it might provide escape,

till the day Eddie asked,
Why do you come here?
Without thinking, she replied,
Because I love you.
At that moment her fear
took flight and she knew
she did love him, knew
he was a child of God

and Eddie began a long journey
back toward the self
he’d abandoned in the pain
of abuse, disrespect,
dehumanization.

~ Wilda Morris

First published in Rockford Review, XXVII:2 (Summer-Fall 2008).


Woodye Kessler continued in this jail ministry for at least 27 years. When Sister Rosemary retired and returned to Chicago, she turned the ministry over to Woodye. As long as her health allowed, Woodye also corresponded with persons incarcerated in several states. An inmate from the county jail would be convicted and sent to prison. He and Mother (Woodye) would correspond. Then one day, he would write, "my cellmate (or someone down the way) never gets any mail. He would appreciate it if you would write to him." So she would begin a new correspondence. For a long time, she wrote as many as 100 letters a month to lonely men and women who had lost their way in life and needed a friend. She also visited inmates in penitentiaries in several states.

Woodye Kessler is my hero because she was willing to undertake a challenge which frightened her, but through which she felt she could do good for others. She touched many lives and helped many people (mostly men, since there were not many women in the county jail while she volunteered there). The sheriffs under whose supervision she worked, as well as the chaplain of the state penitentiary, testified that she helped many of these men turn their lives around. (I should say, too, that Sister Rosemary McManus, a gentle, loving woman with a great sense of humor, is also one of my heroes.)

Three Other Heroes

Two of my poems about heroes whose lifetimes overlapped with mine, are included in the current issue of Voices on the Wind. The poem at http://www.voicesonthewind.net/thistime.html honors Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Rabbi Abraham Heschel. Bonhoeffer was a protestant pastor in Germany who opposed the Nazi regime, and ultimately lost his life as a result. Heschel was a rabbi known as a great teacher and as a deeply spiritual man. Yet he stepped out of his classroom and his comfort zone to participate with Martin Luther King, Jr., in the march to Selma, because he felt called to act for racial justice.

Also on the same website, at http://www.voicesonthewind.net/yearsmiles.html, is my poem, “Years, Miles,” about another of my heroes, one who is still living. Aung San Suu Kyi is the leader of the pro-democracy movement in Myanmar (formerly called Burma). Her husband, who was of British background, was in London. He was diagnosed with cancer and given a limited time to live. The government of Myanmar would not allow him to go see his wife one last time. She might have been able to join him in Great Britain, but would not have been allowed to return to her own country. Thus, they had to suffer though the weeks of his physical decline and death half a world apart.


August, 2011, Poetry Challenge

The poetry challenge for August is to write a poem about a hero of yours—a hero whose lifetime overlaps (or overlapped) your own lifetime. Think about what, for you, constitute the characteristics of a hero. Your poem may be free or formal verse (if formal, please designate the form).

Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations,shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the August 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.

The deadline is August 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.

NOTE: An elementary school teacher submitted poems written in class for the July Poetry Challenge. The elementary school winner or winners will be posted soon. Teachers: This month’s challenge would be an excellent one for children or youth. If you wish your class to participate, give your students the challenge to write poems about their heroes. Send their poems to me by August 15. Be sure to include the name of the school, your name and the grade level and ages of the poets. Also, send only the first names of the children or youth, unless you send evidence that the parents have given permission for their last names to be published.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

July Challenge Winner

Thank you to the poets who submitted "night poems" for the July Challenge.

Thank you, also, to the four judges, each of whom is a contributor to the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar 2012. They are Doris Bezio, Susan Gibson, Charlotte Johnson and Mary Cleary Krauss. Selection of the winning poem was not easy, as evidenced by the fact that three different poems received first place votes.

Congratulations to Gail E. Goepfert, whose poem was selected as first by two of the judges and second by the other two.


Nightly in the Summer Garden

Let’s walk the plantation, she said--
such a grand name
for their early evening stroll
to admire all that she had planned
all that he had planted
to survey all that spoke
green in the summer garden.

Her words carried by fireflies
mingle with the garden perfume

Breathtaking lavender-
blues of the hydrangea blooms.

A pink gerbera daisy is poking
through its tunnel of leaves.

Look—violet clematis weaving
along the fence and
five buds on the tea rose--
I’ll cut one for the morning room.

Ivy just creeps across the cocoa beans
Honey, the impatiens need a drink.

Oh, we’d better go inside--
mosquitoes are starting to bite,
and you know how they love you,

and nightly, the door closes behind them.

~ Gail E. Goepfert
Poets published on this blog retain copyright to their poems.

Here are some of the comments made by the judges concerning this poem:

“I like this woman who loves her garden.”
“The shared conversation is a nice touch.”
“Love the phrase ‘all that spoke green’”!



If you are interested in purchasing the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar 2012, go to http://wfop.org/ and click on the cover picture.




I will try to post the August Challenge on time, but it is likely to be delayed, due to the death of my mother.


© Wilda W. Morris

July 2011 Poetry Challenge

Night has long been a favorite subject of poets. Here are three old, serious poems about night, followed by a contemporary, whimsical poem of mine. The older poems are all rhymed and metered; mine is free verse. Each creates a different mood. Longfellow’s is more metaphoric than that of Wordsworth or Browning. Wordsworth’s has a somewhat pastoral feel, which Longfellow’s poem does not have. Browning’s poem is a narrative love poem. To what lengths will the poet (or his persona) go for a night tryst with one he loves?

My poem takes off from the idea found in children’s stories (books and movies) that the nursery toys come awake at night. I didn’t think children should have all the fun of imagining what might happen in the house after all the lights are out and the human beings are asleep.

The Sun Has Long Been Set

The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and trees;
There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.
Who would "go parading"
In London, "and masquerading,"
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!

~ William Wordsworth



Hymn to the Night

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Meeting at Night

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low:
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

~ Robert Browning

The three poems above are all in the public domain. The poem below is copyright-protected.


Night Life

Here it’s not nursery toys
that come alive in the night
but clothes in the closet.
Your coveralls and my denim jacket
leap through the window
to rock on the porch swing.
They sidle over to the garden,
take nips from a bright red tomato
before joining neighbors
in a square dance.

One of your brown leather boots
gives a playful kick to my sneakers
which string along.
Didn’t you notice those footprints
leading out to the pasture?
All their eyes look skyward,
finding Cassiopeia’s Chair.
If the inside of your shoe is damp
in the morning, it may be milk
spilled from the Little Dipper.

Your Sunday suit slides
off the hanger, offers an arm
to my flowered silk dress
with the white lace collar.
They dine formally on prime rib
and baked potato, using our silver,
then waltz through the house.
Listen! Don’t you hear
the echo of Strauss?

© Wilda Morris

Published in Prairie Light Review (Fall 2008).

More Night Poems:

For more poems on the theme of night, go to http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20416
There you will find “The First Night,” by Billy Collins (from his book, Ballistics). To the left of the poem you will find links to other poems about night.

Other interesting night poems include:
* “Nativity,” by Li-Young Lee, in Book of My Nights
* “It’s Always Darkest Just Before the Dawn,” by Kay Ryan, in The Best of It: New and Selected Poems
*“After Dinner,” by Philip Levine, in A Walk With Thomas Jefferson
*“Night: December 15th,” by Alfred Dorn, in Flamenco Dance And Other Poems
*“Night,” by Kazim Ali, in The Far Mosque
*"At Night in the Everglades," by Robin Chapman, in The Only Everglades in the World

July 2011 Poetry Challenge:

The challenge for July is to write a poem about night. Does night bring you pleasure or fear? Does it elicit memory of a special occasion? How did you experience night as a child? Have you heard a child speaking about the night? Your poem may be formal or free verse. If using a form, please identify the form. The winning poem will be published on this blog.

Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations or shaped poems.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the July 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner. The deadline is July 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

June Challenge Winners

Colorado poet Katie Kingston selected “How to Make Blueberry Pie” by Peggy Trojan as winner of the June Poetry Challenge. Kingston said she chose this poem “because of the poet’s generous appeal to the senses and attention to dialogue. The poem is deeply rooted in a strong sense of place.” She added, “I thank the poet for giving me the opportunity to ‘Enter Quinton swamp at last year’s faded marker.’ It’s a place I won’t forget.”

Here is the winning “How to” poem:

How to Make Blueberry Pie

Enter Quinton swamp at last year’s faded marker.
Keep up with Pa, in his eighties and leading.
Deep in woods, where berries hang like grapes,
powdery blue, warm, kneel.

Listen. “When I was six we took the horses….
water got warm and butter melted on the bread….”
Pretend you never heard of the 1918 fire.
“Dad put us eight kids in a circle in the field ….
My pet ram was killed because he was burned black…”

When your pail is full, blindly follow Pa
through brush slapping your face. Have faith.
You come out right in front of the truck.
Admire the pickings. “By God, we did pretty good.”

Clean berries at picnic table under the pines.
Make crust while Pa makes filling.
Talk about how great berries were last year,
or was it the year before? “Man, it was just blue…..”

Let Pa slice it. “Gramma Uitto cut hers in four…..”
Put ice cream on your piece to cool it,
use a spoon for juice. Smack your lips and laugh
when Pa scrapes his plate, says again, “That’ll sell!”

~ Peggy Trojan

Kingston selected a second place poem also, “How to Rebuild a Head” by Bakul Banerjee, “for the poet’s originality and willingness to experiment with form while dealing with weighty subject matter. The framing reference to ‘cumin in the curry’ successfully creates a sense of the cyclical, a sense of entrapment which is key to the urgency in this poem."


How to Rebuild a Head

The husband smashed her head
against the mantle, the chart said.
Not enough cumin in the curry –
He complained and tried to pour
the hot soup from the stove on her
splashing part of it on himself
then escaping to seek his doctor
as she managed to run outside.
“It was her fault – should have kept
her mouth shut.” Her sister informed.


She laid on the freshly mowed lawn
in front of her fancy mansion.
The morning sun kissed her face
through the plum tree as it shed
purple flowers oblivious to the dog
barking next door. Paramedics came.


Construction
Deconstruction
Reconstruction
Iteration

Stabilize
Analyze
Anesthetize
Cauterize
Catheterize

Cut scalp
Pick fragments
Take pictures
Connect nerves
Drain brain


Months later, she returned
to the mansion promising
more cumin in the curry.

~ Bakul Banerjee

Winning poets retain copyright to their own poems. Do not copy without their permission.

About This Month's Judge:

Katie Kingston has published two award-winning chapbooks

• El Río de Las Animas Peridadas en Purgatorio, White Eagle Coffee Store Press, 2006, First Place White Eagle Coffee Store Press Chapbook Award,available from www.members.aol.com/wecspress .

• In My Dreams Neruda, Main Street Rag, 2005, Editor’s Choice, available at www.mainstreetrag.com .

Kingston, who has won a number of other awards also, is a recipient of the Colorado Council on the Arts Literary Fellowship in Poetry. Her poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and literary journals including Atlanta Review, Blue Mesa Review, Great River Review, Green Mountains Review, Hunger Mountain, Margie, Puerto del Sol, Nimrod, and Rattle.

You can learn more about Kingston at http://www.coloradopoetscenter.org/poets/kingston_katie/bibliography.html.

Watch for the July Challenge, which will be posted soon.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

June 2011 Poetry Challenge

Three example poems will provide inspiration for the June challenge: a “how to” poem. Each of these poems is quite unique. The first poem was inspired by the photograph by John Brunelli which appears above.


How to Build a Bedtime Story

All it takes is a flicker.
Someone to loosen the spigot of night.
The current will do the rest.

Or the wind ruffling colors
as two strangers approach
from opposite directions,
unaware of each other’s existence,
but destined to meet
where the road splits in two.

And the owl deep in his tree kingdom,
passing judgment in the dark.
Silent witness and executioner.

~Andrei Guruianu

From How We Are Now, Poems by Andrei Guruianu; Photography by John Brunelli (Vestal NY: Split Oak Press, 2010). All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author and photographer.
http://splitoakpress.com/


The second poem is rather whimsical. It was selected for inclusion in the Poetry 180 project designed by former Poet Laureate of the US, Billy Collins. Collins selected 180 poems, one for each day of the average school year, and recommended that they be read aloud to (and by) high school students. The poems were not to be analyzed in detail, but simply read and enjoyed.

How to Change a Frog into a Prince

Start with the underwear. Sit him down.
Hopping on one leg may stir unpleasant memories.
If he gets his tights on, even backwards, praise him.
Fingers, formerly webbed, struggle over buttons.
Arms and legs, lengthened out of proportion, wait,
as you do, for the rest of him to catch up.
This body, so recently reformed, reclaimed,
still carries the marks of its time as a frog. Be gentle.
Avoid the words awkward and gawky.
Do not use tadpole as a term of endearment.
His body, like his clothing, may seem one size too big.
Relax. There's time enough for crowns. He'll grow into it.

~ Anna Denise

from The Poets' Grimm: 20th Century Poems from Grimm's Fairy Tales (Ashland OR:
Story Line Press, 2003). © 2002 by Anna Denise.
All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission of the author.

http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/176.html


The third poem is of a more serious nature. It is from a collection of poems by an American poet (a Chicago native currently living in Wisconsin), who began visiting Amsterdam in 1960, and lived in Amsterdam from 1994-5 and 1999-2000.

How To Be An Immigrant

Arrive with a suitcase of dreams.
Wrestle with a language and strange sounds
not in your mother tongue,
be seen only as other.

Stand in a long line in the rain
hours before office for foreigners opens.
Red numbers flash on two screens
in a sea of cubicles, Kafka echoes.
One door opens, then another,
people disappear inside with police.

Know rejection by the native born
brushing aside your credentials.
Feel the pain of discrimination
for the beauty of your chestnut brown skin
even though the country professes
to need trained nurses like you.

Create a home of love in your family
the outside world never sees.
Adopt society’s labels – “zwart,” black
for schools where foreign tongues predominate
unconsciously soaking in derogatory
images of yourself and your loved ones.

Question, challenge if this country
values the strengths and dignity of every one.
Must you give up your dreams
for yourself and your children?

~ Judith Zukerman

From Amsterdam Days: a journey through poetry (McFarland WI: Community Publications, Inc., 2004). All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

You can contact Judith Zukerman through the following link:
http://www.bookthatpoet.com/poets/zukerman.html


June Challenge

The June challenge is to write a "How to" poem. The title should begin with those two words. It might be "How to Bake Bread," "How to End an Engagement," "How to Get a Job," "How to Teach a Toddler to Tie Shoes," "How to Jump Over the Empire State Building" - possibilities are endless! Be creative. The winning poem will be published on this blog.

Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations or shaped poems.

You may write in free verse or use a form. If you write in a form, please specify the form used. Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the June 15 deadline will not be considered.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris [at] ameritech [dot] net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot], and don’t leave any spaces). Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner. The deadline is June 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

May 2011 Challenge Winner

Congratulations to Kongyin, who won the May poetry challenge. This is the first time the same poet has won two months in a row. The consulting judge, Floridian David Roth, explained his decision, saying, “I suspect that it was the little bit of whimsy in the ending that appealed to my softer, gentler side.”


Marissa, Where Are You?

“Marissa! Marissa!
Where are you?”
Mom searched the bedroom.
“Ah, no, Marisa isn’t hiding in the wardrobe
as usual,
wearing my favorite white dress,
pretending to be the princess of the ball.”

“Marissa! Marissa!
Where are you?”
Mom examined the basement.
“Ah, no, Marisa isn’t riding her toy car
as usual,
hitting her dad's bookcase.”

“Marissa! Marissa!
Where are you?”
Mom rummaged around the bathroom.
Ah, no, Marisa isn’t hiding there as usual,
holding the glass jar, munching on candies stolen from the cupboard.”

“Marissa! Marissa!
Where on earth are you,
and where is my white dress
and your toy car
and the jar filled with chocolate almonds?”

Mom hurried into the playground
where children swing with excited screams.
Ah, what is this by the golden daffodils on the wet ground –
a dress no longer white,
a toy car stuck in the mud,
an empty candy jar?
And what else?
A little girl with messy braids
holding a slim daffodil,
whispering,
“Hush, Mama,
I’m listening to the story told by the daffodils. ”

~ Kongyin

Poets retain copyright of their poems.

Thanks to the consulting judge, poet and author David (not Lee) Roth, Roth began his personal journey of words during a late night online chat sometime in the mid 1990’s. He has since gone on to complete Forcas III, the epic story of the Klingon Bet’leH tournament set in the Star Trek: the Next Generation universe; poetry collections Sometimes I Hear Voices and Alice’s Goldfinch; Christmas Eyes, a poetry chapbook with a Christmas theme; and The Adventures of the Magnificent Seven, a series of stories in tribute to his children and grandchildren. His current project is Legends of Greenbrook Park, a whimsical childhood autobiography.

David lives and writes and blogs from the relative obscurity of New Port Richey, Florida, with the love of his life, Linda, their two fur children: Ms. Skittle and the Jazzy Cat; and his mother-in-law and her pet (Kelsey the Stink-dog).

Links

I have added some links, most recently a link to my poem, "Wild Roses," which appears in the current issue of A Prairie Journal, and a link to two Magnapoets anthologies in which my poetry appears.

The next poetry challenge will be posted on June 1.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

May Poetry Challenge

Spring has arrived and summer is on the way here in Illinois. Children don’t have to bundle up in boots, gloves and heavy coats to go outside with their friends. The playground beckons.

Sometimes we are nostalgic about playgrounds, as in the poem below:

The Playground

It happens every time.
I enter a playground
as if walking on hallowed ground.
Birds chirp, boys spring
from the jungle gym.
Little girls swing
like a fast spinning top.
Children go down
the slide in magnetic
attention, the joy
of the moment
their only thought.

If only I could
re-enter that world,
emerge anew
and let my past go.
I need to listen to the whispers
of yesterday’s ghosts,
let myself be tackled,
play freeze tag on the lawn.

With one big whoooosh
I could spring
into the frenzy of youth,
and remember how to dream
again.


~ Caroline Johnson

From Where the Street Ends A Poetry Chaptbook, Poetry by Caroline Johnson, Paintings by Darlene Norton (Jupiter Publishing, 2010), p. 19. © Caroline Johnson. Used by permission of the author.

A less nostalgic look at a playground, more specifically at a boy on a swing, is “Playground” by Adrian Mitchell. The poem was written during the invasion of Iraq, so the boy may be a boy in a war zone. It is also possible to imagine that the child is a homeless boy in North America. The poem is posted at http://www.poetryarchive.org/childrensarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=66.

Frank O’Hara looked back on the playground of his childhood in “Autobiographia Literaria,” another poem lacking in nostalgia. See http://poemelf.wordpress.com/2011/01/31/art-in-the-playground/.

You can find two playground poems for children at http://www.wtmelon.com/a12Poems.html. Another children’s poem, “The Dragon on the Playground” has been posted at http://www.poetry4kids.com/poem-67.html.

May Challenge

The challenge for May is to write a playground poem. Your poem can be literal or metaphoric (or both). You may reflect your experience as a child on the playground or share observations/reflections as you watch children play. You may want to focus on just one piece of play equipment, such as the slide, swing or sandbox. Visit a playground—literally or in your imagination—and let a poem emerge.

You may write in free verse or in a form; if you write in a form, please specify the form used. Specify if your poem is primarily for children or for adults. The winning poem or poems will be published on this blog.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If you poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris [at] ameritech [dot] net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot], and don’t leave any spaces). Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog, if it is a winner. The deadline is January 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.


© 2011 Wilda Morris

April Challenge Winner

It is never easy to select the monthly winner. The poem selected this month is a very short, evocative poem one. The poet chose the first of the options listed for this month - a poem about a spring bulb flower.


tulip

A palm-folded tulip am I

under the moonlight on my knees,

quietly and sweetly facing afar,

praying for a secret dream.


~ Kongyin

Copyright of the poem is retained by the poet.

Kongyin's books, Gooby and the Dream-Walker and Sun Grass (both in English) have just been published by Kima Global in South Africa, and are sold on amazon.com. Her bilingual poetry collection, The Lantern Carrier, will be published this month by a Chinese press in USA.


Consulting judge this month was Caroline Johnson, Workshop Chair of Poets and Patrons of Chicago.


The next poetry challenge will be posted on May 1.


© Wilda Morris

April Poetry Challenge

For those of us in the US Midwest (as well as most people at approximately the same degrees of latitude around the globe), April is the month when spring makes itself manifest.

I know I’m not the only person who eagerly awaits the appearance of the crocus and other early bulbs (which sometimes bloom in late March here in the Chicago area). Then we look forward to tulips and other bulbs. My very favorite spring flower is the daffodil, which is one reason I have always loved this poem by William Wordsworth.


The Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

~ William Wordsworth

Any poem can be used as a prompt for more poems. In fact, the trouble with poetry, as former poet laureate Billy Collins, wrote “is that it encourages the writing of more poetry.” (http://www.edutopia.org/trouble-poetry)

You can read a poem like that of Wordsworth and say to yourself, “Maybe I should write a poem about daffodils.” But this poem could also send you in other directions.

Exercise: Use this poem as your inspiration. You have several options:
1- The most obvious, is to write about daffodils or other spring bulb flowers.
2- Write about something you have come upon unexpectedly, and the effect it had on you.
3- In the last stanza, Wordsworth says that often he sees the daffodils with his “inward eye.” What have you seen that reappears to your “inward eye?”
4- Write about something else that is bound to gladden the heart of a poet.
5- Borrow a line from this poem and use the borrowed line in your poem – but make your poem original, not just a paraphrase of Wordsworth’s.
6- Use this poem as a structural model. Write at least three stanzas in which you have a rhymed and metered quatrain followed by a rhymed and metered couplet. Use Wordsworth’s meter.

Or perhaps Wordsworth’s poem inspires you in a different way. If so, submit your poem and explain it’s connection with the prompt poem.


Your poem can be rhymed and metered, as is “The Daffodils.” It could be as formal as a sonnet. Or, if you prefer, it could be well-crafted free verse. Submit your poem by April 15.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris [at] ameritech [dot] net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot], and don’t leave any spaces). Be sure include your name and e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog, if it is a winner. The deadline is April 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month in the US. I hope that, wherever you live, you will immerse yourself in poetry this month. If you would like to receive one, two or three poems a day, sign up with http://poem-a-day.knopfdoubleday.com/ and/or http://yourdailypoem.com/ and/or The American Academy of Poets at http://www.poets.org/.

Knopf only sends poems out this way during National Poetry Month. Your Daily Poem gives you the option of receiving a poem every day, every Monday or once a month for as long as you wish. You can unsubscribe at any time. The Academy of American Poets will leave you on their list as long as you wish. They have April-only subscribers and year-round subscribers. None charges for this service, though The Academy of American Poets and Your Daily Poem happily accept on-line contributions. The Academy website has many other resources you may wish to explore.

© 2011 Wilda Morris

March Challenge Winner

The challenge for March was to write a poem about a deep and sincere longing, something which is compelling you, something you feel you MUST do or someplace you MUST go. Or to express the compulsion of someone else as if it were your own.

The two winning entries are very different from “Sea Fever”—and very different from each other. Mary Cohutt’s poem expresses the longing for the simple life, but more specifically, for the past. Cohutt started a company which works with the elderly. In this poem, she expresses the feelings of a client who is dealing with much loss as she ages.


A Simple Life

All I ever wanted was a simple life
She said with a far distant gaze
A husband
A home
Some good-hearted friends
Children to fill up my days

My husband is gone now
So too my friends
My children have all gone their way
My house with dark windows
Is empty and cold
I sit, I remember,I pray

Her chair slowly rocks
Leaving marks on the floor
Telling stories of time gone by
She flutters her fingers
And looks for her words
But all that she finds is a sigh

Shadows grow long
On the living room floor
The light in the window grows dim
Night time she whispered
Is good time
Night time I dream of them

Her head on the pillow
Soft smile on her face
Her years fall like silk to the floor
She’s running, she laughs,
She’s dancing, she loves
It’s a simple life once more

~ Mary Cohutt


Only in sleep can the person described in this poem return to the past for which she longs.


The second winning poem is by Francis Toohey.

I Want to Be in Pictures

I want to see it on the screen--
of a brand new Cineplex
or at an oil-leaky, weedy
Drive In under stars

or in a downtown mildewed
Vaudeville Hall reeling porn
to sleep off all illusions from better days.
I know my movie. What is yours?

How long has mine been running?
Will anybody come to cry or laugh
in my private Hollywood?
I understand your concern because

I love to hear applause.
Other hands appear bringing forth awards.
I will write to please my audience:
happy end or one to break your heart.

Please, allow my drums to beat me.
Fiddle my feelings using your own violins.
Watch my face as I radiate with light:
I promise to surprise--

~ Francis Toohey


My first reaction to this poem was that the poet had gone too far, willing even to be in pictures in the musty “Vaudeville Hall reeling porn.” As I lived with the poem for a few days, however, I began to realize that it expressed the desperate need for acceptance, recognition and affirmation which many people feel at some time in their lives. Lacking an adequate sense of self-worth, feeling unsuccessful and unappreciated, the persona expressed here wants to appreciation, applause and awards.

In the United States, the culture seems to be obsessed with celebrities. Many people cannot get enough news about the current stars and their personal lives. Their pictures fill magazines. We watch the winning actresses and actors receiving and clutching their Oscars. It all seems so magical. Why wouldn’t someone want that kind of recognition? Many performers are willing to sacrifice principles (or their families) to further their careers. They hope and pray for the big break. Winning the accolades doesn’t always fulfill this desperate need. But that doesn’t prevent people from thinking it will. And if a performer wins recognition and finds it wasn’t enough, that unfulfilled need may become even greater.

Congratulations to the two winners for March. Sorry, though, this recognition won’t get you into the movies.


Poets whose poems are posted on this blog retain copyright. Please do not copy their poems without permission.


April is National Poetry Month

A new challenge will be posted on April 1.


© 2011 Wilda Morris

March 2011 Poetry Challenge

Do you sometimes feel an absolute compulsion to do something? Do you feel your life will be incomplete unless you do some particular thing or go some particular place? Do you absolutely have to sky dive; ski in Aspen, Colorado; take a gondola ride in Venice; make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Mecca or the Ganges; or walk on the Great Wall of China before you die? Do you just have to see the US Capitol building or go to the top of the Washington Monument?

Or do you feel compelled to do something you used to do—roll down a hill in spring grass, sit with the one you love on the shore of a lake as the sun sets, rock a new-born, or walk across a field on what used to be your grandfather’s farm?

In what is probably his best known poem, John Masefield described a compulsion:

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

~ John Masefield

This poem is in the public domain.

On her website, http://www.yourdailypoem.com/, Jayne Jaudon Ferrer recently provided a brief biography of John Masefield:

John Masefield (1878-1967) was an English poet, author, and playwright. Both his parents died while he was a child, and at the age of thirteen, annoyed with John's "addiction" to reading, the aunt in charge of caring for him sent him off to train for a life as a sailor. Although his experiences at sea provided much material for the stories and poems he would later write, John soon tired of that harsh life and, on a voyage to New York, he jumped ship. For two years, he worked at odd jobs in that city, using his free time for reading and writing. He eventually returned to England, married, had two children, and established himself as a significant literary talent. As his stature as a writer continued to grow, John became an internationally successful lecturer and was appointed as England's poet laureate, a position he held for nearly forty years. He actively wrote and published until he was 88 years old.

Perhaps in his later years, though happy to have escaped the life of a sailor, Masefield may sometimes have felt a yearning to return to the ocean. After years on land, he may have idealized his memories. Or perhaps, looking back, he was happy to be where he was, but understood how some of the men he had worked with loved the life of a sailor and would feel a deep psychological need to return to the sea if they had left it. Poetic license would allow him to express those feelings in first-person, even if they were not actually his own feelings.


March Poetry Challenge:

The challenge for March is to write a poem about a deep and sincere longing, something which is compelling you, something you feel you MUST do or someplace you MUST go. Or you can express the compulsion of someone else as if it were your own.

Your poem may be rhymed and metered, as is “Sea Fever.” Or, if you prefer, it may be well-crafted free verse. Put the compulsion into poetry and submit it by March 15.

Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data.

How to Submit Your Poem:

Send your poem to wildamorris [at] ameritech [dot] net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot], and don’t leave any spaces). Or you can access my Facebook page and send the poem in a message. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog, if it is a winner. The deadline is March 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.


To read more of Masefield's poetry or learn about his life: