First published in The Evening Sun on March 27, 2011:
Spring is finally here. As the flowers peek from the soil and the sun sets later in the evening, we watch winter make its muddy transition into spring. Most look forward to a change in the weather, but each change, no matter how big or small, forces us to adapt or transform in some way along with it. For instance, some are still adjusting to the clocks springing forward, and others must prepare for high pollen counts in the air. Each person adjusts in his or her own way.
Whether it is a new season, job, move, or even a new coat of paint, changes allow us to see our surroundings, and maybe even ourselves, in a different way. As I think about the changes we all face in our lives, one thing is certain: our lives never stay the same. Things always pop up to surprise us and change our direction. In turn, these circumstances, and our reactions to them, sometimes challenge us to transform ourselves.
After I moved to San Juan, Puerto Rico over the summer, I witnessed a transformation within myself. Living in the tropics, surrounded by Spanish and Puerto Rican culture, forced me to adapt to my surroundings, while it also taught me the patience it takes to make a big change.
Transformation does not always inspire comfort. Just like our current movement into spring, it is often muddy. However, in the following poem, which I wrote in Puerto Rico, I outline my process, comparing it to a bird building its nest.
Nesting
Most days I am a sparrow
building nests in kapok branches
to distract from the thick air,
from the ocean swelling all around.
I swim my words and thrash
when I go under,
but soon eggs will drop into my throat
and leave my mouth in another language,
my bird tongue curled in release.
I’m growing wider wings, too,
ones that catch salt water
like the lone pelican, tasting fish
at the sight of each bubble.
My sparrow claws clench, wait.
During a recent visit to Dana Sauers' class at Delone Catholic High School, I shared this poem with some of her students. One student pointed out that while I began "growing wider wings," I maintained my "sparrow claws." Although I felt myself growing and changing, parts of my core remained the same.
Maybe this is the best lesson I have learned. Originally, I had planned to live in Puerto Rico for five years, but due to unforeseen circumstances, I had to leave and now live in Hanover. Once again, I find myself rebuilding a nest, transitioning back to the place of my roots.
However, even though I live in the place where I was raised, my past transformations give me other layers to draw from. Lately, as I write poems, I begin with a list of images from the day, but soon Spanish words and ocean images creep into my lines. Wherever we go, however our lives change, we can only draw from the vault of images unique to our own experiences. In fact, our personal lens, through which each of us sees the world, makes us all poets in vision. The only step between experience and a poem is actually writing it all down.
As spring begins, along with so much new life around us, I challenge everyone to reflect on the changes in their lives and to write poems about their transformations. In honor of April, National Poetry Month, I am holding my second annual poetry contest for people of all ages in the community. Like last year's contest, there will be four main categories: elementary, middle school, high school, and adult. Each poet should e-mail up to three poems to bradyke@gmail.com, with "Contest" and your age group in the subject line.
For this year's contest, poets should send original work or respond to the following prompt:
We all experience changes in our lives. No matter how large or small, these changes often force us to go through some kind of transformation. We always retain our roots, but inevitably, we gain something in the process. Write a poem about a transformation you have experienced in your life. How did this change affect you or your environment?
I will accept entries through the month of April and look forward to reading your poems! For more information, please check out my blog: http://poetlaureathanover.blogspot.com.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
January Column
This first appeared in The Evening Sun on January 23, 2011
Wash day always frightened Barbara J. Fink, who grew up in Union City, New Jersey, just outside of New York City. Every Monday Fink's mother would hang out of the second-story window to pull the dry wash inside, and as a little girl, Fink would cling to her mother's legs in an effort to ground her inside the house.
This is one of the many memories Fink reminisced about when we discussed her poems. She said, "It's nice to know your roots, your family," and hopes that those who read her poems will take pleasure in looking back.
Sometimes we spend so much time looking forward, especially during the month of January when we make resolutions for the year ahead. However, we can't forget that Janus, the Roman god who inspired the name January, had two faces so he could look forward and backward.
Thus, we should not forget the stories of our past, such as Fink's grandfather’s, who peddled fruits and vegetables from his cart in her community. Early in the morning he would take his horse and cart on a ferry across the river into New York City where he bought produce at the market. At the end of the day, her grandfather dropped the reins, and "George horse" knew his way back to the barn at the end of their cobblestone backyard.
If you walked through her backyard on a Monday and looked up, you would see her mother's wash flapping in the breeze. The following poem, Fink's second attempt at poetry, shows much promise for her new-found gift of words. She shows the reader each step of her mother's wash day through all seasons, and I know some of you will remember this process.
Wash Day Circa 1930
Set up the washboard, drag out the huge pot
Some whites were boiled, believe it or not.
Use a big wooden paddle and stir away
So labor intensive was Monday, washday.
Octegon soap was the cleaner of choice
Big golden bar in the water immerse.
Rub, scrub, rub on the old tin board
It was the best Daddy could afford.
A cake of bluing wrapped in cheesecloth
Made an acceptable result come forth.
Dip, swish, swish the bluing pack
All was done as a matter of fact.
Washing and rinsing now all done
Wringing by hand--oh what fun.
Wooden pins in a bag shaped as a dress
I didn't enjoy washday I must confess.
Hanging out the window, I can see Mama still
Winter winds whipping through the house now so chill.
The line was attached to a pole in the yard
And I, the skinny one, became Mama's lifeguard.
I'd hang on to her legs with all of my might
Quivering and shaking and brimming with fright.
If Mama should tumble out what would I do?
I'd call Granny, Grandma and Aunt Gussie too!
They lived all around us on the same street
Surely they'd know her wounds how to treat!
Well dear Mama would hang her wash for the week
I remember the line pulley, oh how it did squeak.
Stripes must be hung in all one direction
Strive, strive she would to reach perfection.
Dirndl skirts and peasant blouses
Sheets, towels and Daddy's work trousers.
Neighbors would judge your wifely skills, you know
If your colors were bright and your whites were as snow.
All would flap, flap in the soft summer breeze
However come winter and all would then freeze.
Mama would go to the window once more
And again she would be chilled to the core.
Reverse the procedure and pull everything in
All frozen solid--how could she win?
Daddy's long johns frozen as stiff as could be
Stood up in the corner for all to see.
Finally defrosted in a puddle they lay
Waiting to dry on a subsequent day.
And so it would go this Monday game
Until, you guessed it, it was Monday again.
Fink moved to Hanover from Whiting, New Jersey eight years ago and just began writing poems this past summer. For years her sister and cousin exchanged poems regularly, but after her sister's death, she has begun writing and sharing poems with her cousin. Fink is currently writing the next poem in her series: Tuesday, ironing day. Her mother's days of the week dishtowels embroidered with each day's work inspired this set of poems.
Wash day always frightened Barbara J. Fink, who grew up in Union City, New Jersey, just outside of New York City. Every Monday Fink's mother would hang out of the second-story window to pull the dry wash inside, and as a little girl, Fink would cling to her mother's legs in an effort to ground her inside the house.
This is one of the many memories Fink reminisced about when we discussed her poems. She said, "It's nice to know your roots, your family," and hopes that those who read her poems will take pleasure in looking back.
Sometimes we spend so much time looking forward, especially during the month of January when we make resolutions for the year ahead. However, we can't forget that Janus, the Roman god who inspired the name January, had two faces so he could look forward and backward.
Thus, we should not forget the stories of our past, such as Fink's grandfather’s, who peddled fruits and vegetables from his cart in her community. Early in the morning he would take his horse and cart on a ferry across the river into New York City where he bought produce at the market. At the end of the day, her grandfather dropped the reins, and "George horse" knew his way back to the barn at the end of their cobblestone backyard.
If you walked through her backyard on a Monday and looked up, you would see her mother's wash flapping in the breeze. The following poem, Fink's second attempt at poetry, shows much promise for her new-found gift of words. She shows the reader each step of her mother's wash day through all seasons, and I know some of you will remember this process.
Wash Day Circa 1930
Set up the washboard, drag out the huge pot
Some whites were boiled, believe it or not.
Use a big wooden paddle and stir away
So labor intensive was Monday, washday.
Octegon soap was the cleaner of choice
Big golden bar in the water immerse.
Rub, scrub, rub on the old tin board
It was the best Daddy could afford.
A cake of bluing wrapped in cheesecloth
Made an acceptable result come forth.
Dip, swish, swish the bluing pack
All was done as a matter of fact.
Washing and rinsing now all done
Wringing by hand--oh what fun.
Wooden pins in a bag shaped as a dress
I didn't enjoy washday I must confess.
Hanging out the window, I can see Mama still
Winter winds whipping through the house now so chill.
The line was attached to a pole in the yard
And I, the skinny one, became Mama's lifeguard.
I'd hang on to her legs with all of my might
Quivering and shaking and brimming with fright.
If Mama should tumble out what would I do?
I'd call Granny, Grandma and Aunt Gussie too!
They lived all around us on the same street
Surely they'd know her wounds how to treat!
Well dear Mama would hang her wash for the week
I remember the line pulley, oh how it did squeak.
Stripes must be hung in all one direction
Strive, strive she would to reach perfection.
Dirndl skirts and peasant blouses
Sheets, towels and Daddy's work trousers.
Neighbors would judge your wifely skills, you know
If your colors were bright and your whites were as snow.
All would flap, flap in the soft summer breeze
However come winter and all would then freeze.
Mama would go to the window once more
And again she would be chilled to the core.
Reverse the procedure and pull everything in
All frozen solid--how could she win?
Daddy's long johns frozen as stiff as could be
Stood up in the corner for all to see.
Finally defrosted in a puddle they lay
Waiting to dry on a subsequent day.
And so it would go this Monday game
Until, you guessed it, it was Monday again.
Fink moved to Hanover from Whiting, New Jersey eight years ago and just began writing poems this past summer. For years her sister and cousin exchanged poems regularly, but after her sister's death, she has begun writing and sharing poems with her cousin. Fink is currently writing the next poem in her series: Tuesday, ironing day. Her mother's days of the week dishtowels embroidered with each day's work inspired this set of poems.
February Column
This first appeared in The Evening Sun on February 27, 2011.
Spending my time teaching mostly college students, some days I get the feeling all creativity has been rationalized out of people by the time they become adults, or even high school students.
However, when I walked into Guthrie Memorial Library last month to visit the teen writing group, I found the complete opposite: a group of teenagers bubbling over with passion for the written word. These teens have created their own space to share their most personal ideas and writing with other enthusiastic young writers.
The idea for the group was Nichole Krichten's, a junior at New Oxford High School. She writes, "I decided to start the writing group because I have a passion for writing, and was looking for a club to join. Unfortunately I found out that neither my school nor the library had a writing club." So, she started one herself.
Krichten's idea has created a writing home for a dedicated group of young writers who meet twice a month in the library. "The group provides a friendly atmosphere where teens can come and share their writing, and get constructive criticism to help improve their work. I have benefited from the group immensely. The group helps bring me out of my shell, and allows me to share my feelings and writing without fear of being judged."
Krichten shares her work, like the following poem, "Nature's Sorrow," with the group:
Nature's Sorrow
Rain falls gently
On a warm summer night
Clouds block the stars from view
As the sky cries
Bathing the world in sorrow
The wind howls in anguish
As the storm builds
Lightning rends the sky
As anger joins the fray,
Thunder booms,
The pounding of fists
Balled against the pain
Rain lashes the earth
Tears flowing without end
No one to ease the pain,
For who can comfort Nature?
She has only herself.
Another member of the writing group, Christian Torres, is a junior at Hanover High School and has been writing for three years. He reflects, "The writing group at Guthrie Library has helped me acknowledge themes that are always apparent in my poems and/or short stories. They've critiqued my work thoroughly, helping me realize some deeper aspects of literature as an art."
Torres wrote the following poem, "Angels in the Night" to combine "the opposing beliefs of Creationism." He successfully found a way for them both to exist in a short poem.
Angels in the Night
Once in pitched darkness,
our roar was genesis.
Batting our feathered wings.
As heaven's fireworks,
we shine, even through twilight.
Of his audience, Torres writes, "I want to inspire inner strength and valor to those who read my poems, so they too can defeat their 'darkness' and emerge victorious." The teen writing group helps to validate Torres' ideas, ideas that would "be impossible if not on paper."
Daniel Miller, a third writing group member, is a sophomore at New Oxford High School. He has been writing since last year and applies similar themes to his poetry as Torres. Of his audience, Miller writes, "I hope that they take this poem and see that even if it seems hopeless and unbearable at the time, that they should not give up hope for it is truly all we have." The following poem by Miller is untitled:
Life, once a feathers flight,
now a stone's weight in the pond of life.
Down, down, down the stone sinks,
forever dreaming of heaven's golden light.
Waiting, hoping for a chance at paradise,
to shed this nearly unbearable weight
and feel the blissful grace of the feathers flight.
When asked about his inspiration, Miller responds, "I write because it is the only way I can paint a picture. I use my words like the paint, and my mind the brush."
The writing group has also had an impact on Miller and his writing. "[It] has helped me better understand not only my writing but also more about myself. I have found new activities to improve my writing through the group, and I have also met amazing people with a common interest."
Nanci Mart, an 8th grade English teacher at New Oxford Middle School, helps facilitate the writing group and emphasizes its importance: "The teen years are tough. As kids begin to think for themselves and develop into the person they want to be, they often face resistance and criticism from the people they most trust. In the writer's group, participants are baring their souls to each other, and we all respect that. It's a safe place for kids to express themselves, and it's a great way for them to be validated as writers."
Spending my time teaching mostly college students, some days I get the feeling all creativity has been rationalized out of people by the time they become adults, or even high school students.
However, when I walked into Guthrie Memorial Library last month to visit the teen writing group, I found the complete opposite: a group of teenagers bubbling over with passion for the written word. These teens have created their own space to share their most personal ideas and writing with other enthusiastic young writers.
The idea for the group was Nichole Krichten's, a junior at New Oxford High School. She writes, "I decided to start the writing group because I have a passion for writing, and was looking for a club to join. Unfortunately I found out that neither my school nor the library had a writing club." So, she started one herself.
Krichten's idea has created a writing home for a dedicated group of young writers who meet twice a month in the library. "The group provides a friendly atmosphere where teens can come and share their writing, and get constructive criticism to help improve their work. I have benefited from the group immensely. The group helps bring me out of my shell, and allows me to share my feelings and writing without fear of being judged."
Krichten shares her work, like the following poem, "Nature's Sorrow," with the group:
Nature's Sorrow
Rain falls gently
On a warm summer night
Clouds block the stars from view
As the sky cries
Bathing the world in sorrow
The wind howls in anguish
As the storm builds
Lightning rends the sky
As anger joins the fray,
Thunder booms,
The pounding of fists
Balled against the pain
Rain lashes the earth
Tears flowing without end
No one to ease the pain,
For who can comfort Nature?
She has only herself.
Another member of the writing group, Christian Torres, is a junior at Hanover High School and has been writing for three years. He reflects, "The writing group at Guthrie Library has helped me acknowledge themes that are always apparent in my poems and/or short stories. They've critiqued my work thoroughly, helping me realize some deeper aspects of literature as an art."
Torres wrote the following poem, "Angels in the Night" to combine "the opposing beliefs of Creationism." He successfully found a way for them both to exist in a short poem.
Angels in the Night
Once in pitched darkness,
our roar was genesis.
Batting our feathered wings.
As heaven's fireworks,
we shine, even through twilight.
Of his audience, Torres writes, "I want to inspire inner strength and valor to those who read my poems, so they too can defeat their 'darkness' and emerge victorious." The teen writing group helps to validate Torres' ideas, ideas that would "be impossible if not on paper."
Daniel Miller, a third writing group member, is a sophomore at New Oxford High School. He has been writing since last year and applies similar themes to his poetry as Torres. Of his audience, Miller writes, "I hope that they take this poem and see that even if it seems hopeless and unbearable at the time, that they should not give up hope for it is truly all we have." The following poem by Miller is untitled:
Life, once a feathers flight,
now a stone's weight in the pond of life.
Down, down, down the stone sinks,
forever dreaming of heaven's golden light.
Waiting, hoping for a chance at paradise,
to shed this nearly unbearable weight
and feel the blissful grace of the feathers flight.
When asked about his inspiration, Miller responds, "I write because it is the only way I can paint a picture. I use my words like the paint, and my mind the brush."
The writing group has also had an impact on Miller and his writing. "[It] has helped me better understand not only my writing but also more about myself. I have found new activities to improve my writing through the group, and I have also met amazing people with a common interest."
Nanci Mart, an 8th grade English teacher at New Oxford Middle School, helps facilitate the writing group and emphasizes its importance: "The teen years are tough. As kids begin to think for themselves and develop into the person they want to be, they often face resistance and criticism from the people they most trust. In the writer's group, participants are baring their souls to each other, and we all respect that. It's a safe place for kids to express themselves, and it's a great way for them to be validated as writers."
Monday, December 27, 2010
December Column
First published in The Evening Sun on December 26, 2010:
Last month, on November 23, as the sun set over the steep cobbled streets of Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, poets from all over the island gathered in Poets’ Passage, a weekly reading series in the heart of San Juan. However, that week, the poets were in for a special treat.
A visiting poet from Hanover, PA and former Poet Laureate, Michael J. Hoover, took the stage to read from his newly released book, “Better Left Unsaid.” Released November 15, all the poets took pleasure in celebrating his first official reading from the text and his accomplishment in publishing his first book of poems. Best of all, everyone in the room relished the opportunity to see the world through Hoover’s eyes and words.
One of the best images to describe a poets’ vision is a sunglass lens. Just as they come in different colors and shades and shapes, each poet has a different lens that allows him or her to see the world in a specific way.
If you could wear Hoover’s poet sunglasses, you would see everything in moonlight. Although one of his favorite images, the moon, appears in his first book, all of his poems live in their own sense of lighting. Though the light is sometimes eerie, sometimes soft, his nights are always crisp and clear.
The moon has definitely influenced “Better Left Unsaid.” Hoover describes one poem, “Keening Moon,” as “a love poem.” He took the “images from the year [he] spent watching the moon every night on walks.” His nightly routine certainly layered this poem with much color and emotion.
Keening Moon
Your waning weighs
each day as you ascend
burdened with summer.
Frozen eyes plead with an empty sky.
Your voiceless cry almost unseen;
orange blush pales to pastel yellow--
O sculpted lunacy,
marbled face
in seasonal sorrow,
don't fade to white this August night--
wait on the promise of harvest.
In the forward to his book, former Poet Laureate Dana Sauers writes: “’Better Left Unsaid’ is a poetic statement of unabashed courage that dares plumb the waters of self and other-examination while also relating universal relevancy, a place where even ‘tainted certainty’ must be acknowledged. His images are at once clear and precise. The works combine both subtle and raking sounds to produce a genuinely holistic experience.”
She continues, “Michael J. Hoover is a master of symbol, irony and tempered, periodically restrained, tone; his commentary ranges from the serenade of heart's song through the satirical to the sardonic. His vision acknowledges an acceptance of ‘God’s purse where there is no change.’”
The book’s title “Better Left Unsaid” manifests itself in several ways throughout the poems. In fact, one of Hoover’s poems has the same title. As poets, themes become so important to our work, and it amazes us how fluidly themes can run through a collection of our work.
Of his theme of leaving things unsaid, Hoover writes, “Isn’t the second half of art, and for that matter truth, and perhaps life, what is not presented, or revealed, or lived? Isn’t it what our brain absorbs and stores for mulling in recollection or imagination? A memory is formed not only by what we are conscious of at a particular time, but also by what the subconscious senses.
We may consciously be taking in words, and the pictures or images they stimulate, yet be unaware that we are soaking in the sounds of words as well, which may enrich the experience, perhaps without our being fully aware of the particulars.”
He continues, “So, by extension, the poems in “Better Left Unsaid” present themselves as comments about relationship, literally, by what the audience can take away from each narrative and the collective narrative, and also figuratively, by applying the poems to their own experience or merely by enjoying the structure or sound or individual images or metaphors and simply being satisfied or made curious by the manipulation of language and its subsequent effects.”
I hope each of you has the opportunity to experience this relationship with Hoover’s poetry. “Better Left Unsaid” is available at Xlibris.com, and Hoover will read from his new book in Annapolis on January 8, 2011 at Ahh! Coffee at 6:30 p.m. and at Gunnar Gallery in Gettysburg sometime later in January. Then, on March 23, 2011, Hoover will read at the Lancaster Poetry Exchange at the Lancaster Barnes and Noble at 7:30 p.m.
Last month, on November 23, as the sun set over the steep cobbled streets of Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, poets from all over the island gathered in Poets’ Passage, a weekly reading series in the heart of San Juan. However, that week, the poets were in for a special treat.
A visiting poet from Hanover, PA and former Poet Laureate, Michael J. Hoover, took the stage to read from his newly released book, “Better Left Unsaid.” Released November 15, all the poets took pleasure in celebrating his first official reading from the text and his accomplishment in publishing his first book of poems. Best of all, everyone in the room relished the opportunity to see the world through Hoover’s eyes and words.
One of the best images to describe a poets’ vision is a sunglass lens. Just as they come in different colors and shades and shapes, each poet has a different lens that allows him or her to see the world in a specific way.
If you could wear Hoover’s poet sunglasses, you would see everything in moonlight. Although one of his favorite images, the moon, appears in his first book, all of his poems live in their own sense of lighting. Though the light is sometimes eerie, sometimes soft, his nights are always crisp and clear.
The moon has definitely influenced “Better Left Unsaid.” Hoover describes one poem, “Keening Moon,” as “a love poem.” He took the “images from the year [he] spent watching the moon every night on walks.” His nightly routine certainly layered this poem with much color and emotion.
Keening Moon
Your waning weighs
each day as you ascend
burdened with summer.
Frozen eyes plead with an empty sky.
Your voiceless cry almost unseen;
orange blush pales to pastel yellow--
O sculpted lunacy,
marbled face
in seasonal sorrow,
don't fade to white this August night--
wait on the promise of harvest.
In the forward to his book, former Poet Laureate Dana Sauers writes: “’Better Left Unsaid’ is a poetic statement of unabashed courage that dares plumb the waters of self and other-examination while also relating universal relevancy, a place where even ‘tainted certainty’ must be acknowledged. His images are at once clear and precise. The works combine both subtle and raking sounds to produce a genuinely holistic experience.”
She continues, “Michael J. Hoover is a master of symbol, irony and tempered, periodically restrained, tone; his commentary ranges from the serenade of heart's song through the satirical to the sardonic. His vision acknowledges an acceptance of ‘God’s purse where there is no change.’”
The book’s title “Better Left Unsaid” manifests itself in several ways throughout the poems. In fact, one of Hoover’s poems has the same title. As poets, themes become so important to our work, and it amazes us how fluidly themes can run through a collection of our work.
Of his theme of leaving things unsaid, Hoover writes, “Isn’t the second half of art, and for that matter truth, and perhaps life, what is not presented, or revealed, or lived? Isn’t it what our brain absorbs and stores for mulling in recollection or imagination? A memory is formed not only by what we are conscious of at a particular time, but also by what the subconscious senses.
We may consciously be taking in words, and the pictures or images they stimulate, yet be unaware that we are soaking in the sounds of words as well, which may enrich the experience, perhaps without our being fully aware of the particulars.”
He continues, “So, by extension, the poems in “Better Left Unsaid” present themselves as comments about relationship, literally, by what the audience can take away from each narrative and the collective narrative, and also figuratively, by applying the poems to their own experience or merely by enjoying the structure or sound or individual images or metaphors and simply being satisfied or made curious by the manipulation of language and its subsequent effects.”
I hope each of you has the opportunity to experience this relationship with Hoover’s poetry. “Better Left Unsaid” is available at Xlibris.com, and Hoover will read from his new book in Annapolis on January 8, 2011 at Ahh! Coffee at 6:30 p.m. and at Gunnar Gallery in Gettysburg sometime later in January. Then, on March 23, 2011, Hoover will read at the Lancaster Poetry Exchange at the Lancaster Barnes and Noble at 7:30 p.m.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
November Column
First published in The Evening Sun on November 27, 2010:
"Being thankful both acknowledges and maintains the physical and spiritual relationship between ourselves and the rest of Creation." With these words, poet Joseph Bruchac connects Native American culture and thanksgiving.
Bruchac, a prolific writer, has been able to trace his Native American roots back to the early 17th century. He explains that his "grandfather, Jesse Bowman, was Abenaki, but tried to hide his identity--despite his appearance and the way he lived--because of the prejudice against Indians."
As we reflect on our Thanksgiving celebrations and traditions, I'd like to honor the spirit of Native Americans and their words. Bruchac writes, "It is a very complicated holiday for American Indians-- sometimes referred to as the American Indian day of Mourning, for those Pilgrims, whose survival was aided by American Indians, then turned around a few years later and made war on the surrounding tribal nations, decimating them."
Yet, despite this history, Native American poetry reflects a sense of peace and unity, a testament to their resilience. Upon reading Bruchac's poems, I felt an instant connection to his words, especially in his poem "Prayer." The images in this poem create their own vibrant world, while also invoking a sense of comfort, derived from both reality and imagination.
Of his poem "Prayer," Bruchac writes, "It's a result of feeling, at a moment of waking, that we are related to everything, that we are not separate from the rest of life or above it all in dominion, that we are a humble part of it all and need to try to do our best, to work with our hands and with our hearts in a good way."
Prayer
Let my words
be bright with animals,
images the flash of a gull's wing.
If we pretend
that we are at the center,
that moles and kingfishers,
eels and coyotes
are at the edge of grace,
then we circle, dead moons
about a cold sun.
This morning I ask only
the blessing of the crayfish,
the beatitude of the birds;
to wear the skin of the bear
in my songs;
to work like a man with my hands.
Among Native American cultural traditions, the idea of giving thanks abounds, especially in the written word. Below, Bruchac mentions one such Iroquois tradition, called the "Thanksgiving Address":
"The Thanksgiving Address is most often spoken by Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) elders like my dear late friend Chief Jake Swamp at the start of a gathering. It gives greetings and thanks to every aspect of the natural world, from our mother the Earth, to the waters, the plants, animals, birds, winds, sun, moon, stars, the Creator, and all people. It reminds us of the way we are all connected and of the importance of giving thanks, being truly thankful and behaving in a thankful way."
Another of Bruchac's poems, "Tsaile Dawn" touches on many of the same themes: the interconnectedness of nature, the constancy of its support, and thankfulness for its gifts.
Tsaile Dawn
Coming down
the northwestern slope
just after dawn
from Canyon de Chelly
toward Tsaile
the Chuska Range wears a mantle
of gray rain clouds
like an ancient woman
still beautiful in her turkey feather robe.
The road edges are carpeted
yellow with rabbitbush and snakeweed
as many-headed sunflowers
turn
to drink
the silvered morning light.
We are here, we are here,
all the old ones sing
in the dawn that never leaves us.
As I reflect on the many things I'm grateful for, I realize the power of poetry in my life. Poetry has connected me to you, and to many writers all over the world. Bruchac echoes this gratitude: "I'm thankful that I have a voice, that there are so many unique voices in poetry, as varied as the songs of the wind. It's really cool that there is always space for a new poet, a new poem, a new song--just as each human being is unique, but also part of the circle."
"Being thankful both acknowledges and maintains the physical and spiritual relationship between ourselves and the rest of Creation." With these words, poet Joseph Bruchac connects Native American culture and thanksgiving.
Bruchac, a prolific writer, has been able to trace his Native American roots back to the early 17th century. He explains that his "grandfather, Jesse Bowman, was Abenaki, but tried to hide his identity--despite his appearance and the way he lived--because of the prejudice against Indians."
As we reflect on our Thanksgiving celebrations and traditions, I'd like to honor the spirit of Native Americans and their words. Bruchac writes, "It is a very complicated holiday for American Indians-- sometimes referred to as the American Indian day of Mourning, for those Pilgrims, whose survival was aided by American Indians, then turned around a few years later and made war on the surrounding tribal nations, decimating them."
Yet, despite this history, Native American poetry reflects a sense of peace and unity, a testament to their resilience. Upon reading Bruchac's poems, I felt an instant connection to his words, especially in his poem "Prayer." The images in this poem create their own vibrant world, while also invoking a sense of comfort, derived from both reality and imagination.
Of his poem "Prayer," Bruchac writes, "It's a result of feeling, at a moment of waking, that we are related to everything, that we are not separate from the rest of life or above it all in dominion, that we are a humble part of it all and need to try to do our best, to work with our hands and with our hearts in a good way."
Prayer
Let my words
be bright with animals,
images the flash of a gull's wing.
If we pretend
that we are at the center,
that moles and kingfishers,
eels and coyotes
are at the edge of grace,
then we circle, dead moons
about a cold sun.
This morning I ask only
the blessing of the crayfish,
the beatitude of the birds;
to wear the skin of the bear
in my songs;
to work like a man with my hands.
Among Native American cultural traditions, the idea of giving thanks abounds, especially in the written word. Below, Bruchac mentions one such Iroquois tradition, called the "Thanksgiving Address":
"The Thanksgiving Address is most often spoken by Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) elders like my dear late friend Chief Jake Swamp at the start of a gathering. It gives greetings and thanks to every aspect of the natural world, from our mother the Earth, to the waters, the plants, animals, birds, winds, sun, moon, stars, the Creator, and all people. It reminds us of the way we are all connected and of the importance of giving thanks, being truly thankful and behaving in a thankful way."
Another of Bruchac's poems, "Tsaile Dawn" touches on many of the same themes: the interconnectedness of nature, the constancy of its support, and thankfulness for its gifts.
Tsaile Dawn
Coming down
the northwestern slope
just after dawn
from Canyon de Chelly
toward Tsaile
the Chuska Range wears a mantle
of gray rain clouds
like an ancient woman
still beautiful in her turkey feather robe.
The road edges are carpeted
yellow with rabbitbush and snakeweed
as many-headed sunflowers
turn
to drink
the silvered morning light.
We are here, we are here,
all the old ones sing
in the dawn that never leaves us.
As I reflect on the many things I'm grateful for, I realize the power of poetry in my life. Poetry has connected me to you, and to many writers all over the world. Bruchac echoes this gratitude: "I'm thankful that I have a voice, that there are so many unique voices in poetry, as varied as the songs of the wind. It's really cool that there is always space for a new poet, a new poem, a new song--just as each human being is unique, but also part of the circle."
Sunday, October 24, 2010
October Column
First published in The Evening Sun on October 24, 2010:
We all make lists. Whether it is our to-do list for the week or our grocery list, these mental jottings serve an important purpose in our lives. When we make a list, we no longer have the burden of remembering these items. The piece of paper holds them for us.
Writing poetry can mirror this process. Sometimes we have so many items in our hearts that they begin to weigh us down emotionally, mentally, and even physically. However, if we are able to write these things down, in the same way a grocery list relieves us of mental burden, a poem can hold the other burdens we store inside.
On October 12, this is how I introduced poetry to two groups of seventh graders at the Young Women’s Leadership Conference at Gettysburg College. Knowing that middle school can be a difficult time, I emphasized writing’s role as an outlet. In fact, I first turned to writing poetry in ninth grade in order to release stress.
Thanks to technology, I was able to Skype into the classroom and lead the groups of young women in creating a poem. When the fifteen seventh graders walked into the room, I was already there, my face on a computer screen. I watched them file into the room. Some waved. Others stared. These young women had spent all morning attending leadership talks.
As they introduced themselves, each young woman described herself in a single word, and the room began to fill with personalities. I deemed them all poets on the spot for being capable of summarizing themselves into a single word. Little did I know how much their words in our session would continue to impress me.
It was my hope that each young woman would be able to experience the process of writing as an outlet in our session. So, along with the other facilitators, Andria Hoffman and Lisa Breslin, I asked the ladies to write a line in response to the following prompt: Has anyone ever said something to you that was so kind or so mean that you will never forget it?
The young women took ten minutes to create a line to share with the group, which then became a part of a collaborative poem. The two poems they created, one in each session, were incredible. I want to thank all the young women for sharing experiences so close to their hearts and commend them for their courage and raw talent as poets. I would also like to thank Andria Hoffman for her role in creating and organizing the poetry sessions at the conference. It was her vision that made these poems possible.
I’ve included one of the poems below. As you read the words of these young women, I hope that you will be inspired, not only by the genius of their metaphors, but also by the power poetry has to speak on behalf of our silent desires.
In the midst of all the tragic bullying in the news lately, it is refreshing to read strong, young voices turning negativity into something brighter. In this way, the young women allow themselves to shine in the light they have created through language. If you feel inspired, please post your own words of light on my blog.
Shine
Sometimes words ring in my ears like church bells,
grow as heavy as a ton of bricks
until I decide to release them.
Lost in the horrific darkness, the inescapable:
four dark words surrounding me until I break free.
Have you ever heard how peaceful silence is
until one terrible word breaks it?
“You will never be good enough,”
the short snicker a stake through my heart.
Yet, nothing is impossible -- I can do anything and shine.
My thoughts flicker on and off like stars in a midnight sky
dance in my heart like ballerinas during their first recital.
No one can take that from me.
“We will always be proud of you no matter what anyone says.”
I feel special and calm -- like I have gone on a walk,
the way I feel with my friends.
My heart is sprinkled with joy;
my day flows like a leaf falling to the ground.
We all make lists. Whether it is our to-do list for the week or our grocery list, these mental jottings serve an important purpose in our lives. When we make a list, we no longer have the burden of remembering these items. The piece of paper holds them for us.
Writing poetry can mirror this process. Sometimes we have so many items in our hearts that they begin to weigh us down emotionally, mentally, and even physically. However, if we are able to write these things down, in the same way a grocery list relieves us of mental burden, a poem can hold the other burdens we store inside.
On October 12, this is how I introduced poetry to two groups of seventh graders at the Young Women’s Leadership Conference at Gettysburg College. Knowing that middle school can be a difficult time, I emphasized writing’s role as an outlet. In fact, I first turned to writing poetry in ninth grade in order to release stress.
Thanks to technology, I was able to Skype into the classroom and lead the groups of young women in creating a poem. When the fifteen seventh graders walked into the room, I was already there, my face on a computer screen. I watched them file into the room. Some waved. Others stared. These young women had spent all morning attending leadership talks.
As they introduced themselves, each young woman described herself in a single word, and the room began to fill with personalities. I deemed them all poets on the spot for being capable of summarizing themselves into a single word. Little did I know how much their words in our session would continue to impress me.
It was my hope that each young woman would be able to experience the process of writing as an outlet in our session. So, along with the other facilitators, Andria Hoffman and Lisa Breslin, I asked the ladies to write a line in response to the following prompt: Has anyone ever said something to you that was so kind or so mean that you will never forget it?
The young women took ten minutes to create a line to share with the group, which then became a part of a collaborative poem. The two poems they created, one in each session, were incredible. I want to thank all the young women for sharing experiences so close to their hearts and commend them for their courage and raw talent as poets. I would also like to thank Andria Hoffman for her role in creating and organizing the poetry sessions at the conference. It was her vision that made these poems possible.
I’ve included one of the poems below. As you read the words of these young women, I hope that you will be inspired, not only by the genius of their metaphors, but also by the power poetry has to speak on behalf of our silent desires.
In the midst of all the tragic bullying in the news lately, it is refreshing to read strong, young voices turning negativity into something brighter. In this way, the young women allow themselves to shine in the light they have created through language. If you feel inspired, please post your own words of light on my blog.
Shine
Sometimes words ring in my ears like church bells,
grow as heavy as a ton of bricks
until I decide to release them.
Lost in the horrific darkness, the inescapable:
four dark words surrounding me until I break free.
Have you ever heard how peaceful silence is
until one terrible word breaks it?
“You will never be good enough,”
the short snicker a stake through my heart.
Yet, nothing is impossible -- I can do anything and shine.
My thoughts flicker on and off like stars in a midnight sky
dance in my heart like ballerinas during their first recital.
No one can take that from me.
“We will always be proud of you no matter what anyone says.”
I feel special and calm -- like I have gone on a walk,
the way I feel with my friends.
My heart is sprinkled with joy;
my day flows like a leaf falling to the ground.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
September Column
First published in The Evening Sun on September 26, 2010:
Since I began writing this column, many people have expressed their desire to respond to my poetry challenges. However, when it was time to send their work out into the world, most lacked the courage to press the send button.
I want to acknowledge the normalcy of this apprehension for all writers. Out of all the types of courage we can show, I believe creative courage is sometimes the hardest. By creative courage, I mean the strength it takes to, first, put a piece of yourself onto the page, and secondly, to make yourself vulnerable to others’ judgments.
Yet, this view of vulnerability is limited. The other possible reception of a poem, one of praise and acceptance, occurs more often. I have found poets to be the most accepting and encouraging community I have ever been a part of. With this more optimistic reception in mind, I ask everyone reading this to have the courage to write a poem, and secondly, to send that poem to me.
Though this week’s feature poet has never been published, after reading her work, I knew her words needed to reach a larger audience. I am happy she had the courage to write and to share her work with me because now I can share it with all of you.
Earlier this month, Sarah Louise Foster sent me a poem titled “Marriage.” In an interview, she revealed to me, “I live on the banks of the beautiful Conewago Creek along a dirt road, with musician husband and two little girls who are full of creative motion— my life is surrounded by poetry.” While reading her poem, you will be able to picture the world she lives in, “where you know the neighbors and stop your car to talk to them, and the only night noises are the barred owls hooting and raccoons chattering.” She develops a metaphor for marriage in this poem, which she filters through her sensibility and surroundings.
Marriage
Marriage is a journey,
This is what they told us.
Those harsh critics of the thing,
Picking their teeth and laughing.
Well – if marriage is a journey Baby
Here’s to yours and mine.
Our journey has been beautiful
Full of twists and turns.
Like an old dirt path,
Constant and steady.
There are patches full of rocks,
Some puddles and hills along the way,
Forests where the sun gets blotted out.
But there’s always a flower,
Around the next bend.
Your eyes are a blue Speedwell,
Constant and pure.
Your arms around me –
The towering hemlock
Strong and forever.
There is always a view,
At the top of our hills.
Marriage is a journey
We were meant to take together,
A barefoot, hand in hand,
Walk along a path.
Foster certainly has a talent for working with metaphor, as she compares marriage to “A barefoot, hand in hand, / Walk along a path.” The walk has moments of darkness, “But there’s always a flower / Around the next bend.” Her poem, mirroring nature itself, gestures toward the realities of marriage, while also emphasizing the graceful moments along the way.
When I asked Foster about her inspiration for this poem, she described how she often expressed her love through nature: “The poem talks about Speedwell which is a tiny blue wildflower I have always loved. When Tim and I were engaged, I was living almost two hours to the West in the mountains of Pennsylvania. After he would make the drive to see me, I picked this little flower and sent it with him as a token of my prayers for his safety on the drive home.” I found this flower a lovely addition to her poem.
Often times, writing poems intimidates people because they think a poem must include a grand gesture toward some epiphany. However, the best poems are often rooted in the little moments unique to each of our lives. Each of us has a perspective to share, informed by a unique set of experiences.
When I asked Foster about what inspires her to write, she responded, “I draw my inspiration from the small things I love in this life. From sitting outside on a sunny, breezy day and watching the patterns the leaves make against the sky, from staring unblinking into the falling snow, from the sound of my daughter’s voices, from the music of my husband’s piano, from the family I grew up with who has loved me unconditionally. It’s those brief moments when emotion unhindered, of any kind, shines from someone’s face that keep me writing.”
With this in mind, I hope you all enjoy a creative day, full of the courage to write and the courage to send your words out into the world. Please feel free to send me your poems at bradyke@gmail.com.
Since I began writing this column, many people have expressed their desire to respond to my poetry challenges. However, when it was time to send their work out into the world, most lacked the courage to press the send button.
I want to acknowledge the normalcy of this apprehension for all writers. Out of all the types of courage we can show, I believe creative courage is sometimes the hardest. By creative courage, I mean the strength it takes to, first, put a piece of yourself onto the page, and secondly, to make yourself vulnerable to others’ judgments.
Yet, this view of vulnerability is limited. The other possible reception of a poem, one of praise and acceptance, occurs more often. I have found poets to be the most accepting and encouraging community I have ever been a part of. With this more optimistic reception in mind, I ask everyone reading this to have the courage to write a poem, and secondly, to send that poem to me.
Though this week’s feature poet has never been published, after reading her work, I knew her words needed to reach a larger audience. I am happy she had the courage to write and to share her work with me because now I can share it with all of you.
Earlier this month, Sarah Louise Foster sent me a poem titled “Marriage.” In an interview, she revealed to me, “I live on the banks of the beautiful Conewago Creek along a dirt road, with musician husband and two little girls who are full of creative motion— my life is surrounded by poetry.” While reading her poem, you will be able to picture the world she lives in, “where you know the neighbors and stop your car to talk to them, and the only night noises are the barred owls hooting and raccoons chattering.” She develops a metaphor for marriage in this poem, which she filters through her sensibility and surroundings.
Marriage
Marriage is a journey,
This is what they told us.
Those harsh critics of the thing,
Picking their teeth and laughing.
Well – if marriage is a journey Baby
Here’s to yours and mine.
Our journey has been beautiful
Full of twists and turns.
Like an old dirt path,
Constant and steady.
There are patches full of rocks,
Some puddles and hills along the way,
Forests where the sun gets blotted out.
But there’s always a flower,
Around the next bend.
Your eyes are a blue Speedwell,
Constant and pure.
Your arms around me –
The towering hemlock
Strong and forever.
There is always a view,
At the top of our hills.
Marriage is a journey
We were meant to take together,
A barefoot, hand in hand,
Walk along a path.
Foster certainly has a talent for working with metaphor, as she compares marriage to “A barefoot, hand in hand, / Walk along a path.” The walk has moments of darkness, “But there’s always a flower / Around the next bend.” Her poem, mirroring nature itself, gestures toward the realities of marriage, while also emphasizing the graceful moments along the way.
When I asked Foster about her inspiration for this poem, she described how she often expressed her love through nature: “The poem talks about Speedwell which is a tiny blue wildflower I have always loved. When Tim and I were engaged, I was living almost two hours to the West in the mountains of Pennsylvania. After he would make the drive to see me, I picked this little flower and sent it with him as a token of my prayers for his safety on the drive home.” I found this flower a lovely addition to her poem.
Often times, writing poems intimidates people because they think a poem must include a grand gesture toward some epiphany. However, the best poems are often rooted in the little moments unique to each of our lives. Each of us has a perspective to share, informed by a unique set of experiences.
When I asked Foster about what inspires her to write, she responded, “I draw my inspiration from the small things I love in this life. From sitting outside on a sunny, breezy day and watching the patterns the leaves make against the sky, from staring unblinking into the falling snow, from the sound of my daughter’s voices, from the music of my husband’s piano, from the family I grew up with who has loved me unconditionally. It’s those brief moments when emotion unhindered, of any kind, shines from someone’s face that keep me writing.”
With this in mind, I hope you all enjoy a creative day, full of the courage to write and the courage to send your words out into the world. Please feel free to send me your poems at bradyke@gmail.com.
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