|both poetry and water hold magic|
One of my favorite themes is water, particularly flowing water, although, if you think about it, all water is always flowing, even water frozen into ice flows as a glacier, some of which calf icebergs into the sea or oceans. The folks at the Academy of American Poets have provided a leg up on that theme by creating "Poems on Water for Teachers." (Full disclosure, I have used this posting as the trigger to actually go and create an account at Poets.org. Even [especially?] poets need to walk their talk.)
|red maple bud burst, at last|
Another theme that might be interesting, and challenging, to anthologize would be phenology. There is a Poetry in the Classroom Calendar, which might provide a framework for such an anthology, and, of course, there are haiku, which, in classical form, are supposed to reflect each of the seasons. Finally, for today, there is a wonderful anthology, Poets on Place, as well as Windfall, A journal of Poetry of Place, because, as "Wendell Berry, America’s best-known bioregionalist says “if you don’t know where you are, you don’t know who you are.” The more we are familiar with our local environment, the sooner we act to protect it." At least that's the way it's supposed to work.
|showing off his struttin' stuff|
Meanwhile, at our place, the Spring season is progressing nicely, albeit dryly, here in east central Minnesota. Sometime in the past day or two, the red maple buds finally burst. Yesterday morning half a dozen or so hen turkeys were scratching through sunflower seed droppings beneath the deck feeder while, up on the hillside, a tom turkey was displaying in his finest Spring mating season fashion. The girls were having none of it. The only love on their minds was a love of food. Eventually, they all went their separate ways through the woods, but it was kind of them to stop by and confirm that seasons, like water, are constantly flowing.
Three Haiku, Two Tanka
(Kyoto)CONFIDENCE(after Bashō)Clouds murmur darkly,it is a blinding habit—gazing at the moon.TIME OF JOY(after Buson)Spring means plum blossomsand spotless new kimonosfor holiday whores.RENDEZVOUS(after Shiki)Once more as I waitfor you, night and icy windmelt into cold rain.FOR SATORIIn the spring of joy,when even the mud chuckles,my soul runs rabid,snaps at its own bleeding heels,and barks: “What is happiness?”SOMBER GIRLShe never saw firefrom heaven or hotly foughtwith God; but her eyessmolder for Hiroshimaand the cold death of Buddha.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.