Pam Webb

a writer's journey as a reader

Archive for the category “American poets”

15 Apr 2016

POM: April 15


This is a new poet for me and I’m not sure why I’ve not come across her works before. She apparently was influential in the Modernist movement so I’m curious as to why when I read up on Pound and Elliot, Djuna Barnes doesn’t chime in. Lovely name and lived nearly a century. Somehow this poem seemed appropriate for the date.

Call of the Night

Djuna Barnes, 1892 – 1982
Dark, and the wind-blurred pines,

With a glimmer of light between.

Then I, entombed for an hourless night

With the world of things unseen.
Mist, the dust of flowers,

Leagues, heavy with promise of snow,

And a beckoning road ‘twixt vale and hill,

With the lure that all must know.
A light, my window’s gleam,

Soft, flaring its squares of red—

I loose the ache of the wilderness

And long for the fire instead.
You too know, old fellow?

Then, lift your head and bark.

It’s just the call of the lonesome place,

The winds and the housing dark.

 

Posted in American poets, national poetry month, Nature and tagged , , | Leave a comment
14 Apr 2016
4 Comments

POM: April 14


I still adore Bugs Bunny cartoons. The physics of cartoon logic is so irrationally funny. Why does Wile E. Coyote never manage to figure out ACME products are designed to harm, not help him in his goal to catch the Roadrunner?

Today’s poem by Nick Flynn addresses that very issue:

 "At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock
only he can pass through it.
Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock."
Posted in American poets, national poetry month, poems, Reflections and tagged , ,
12 Apr 2016
5 Comments

POM: April 12


As a teen I used to complain about having to dragged off every weekend to our family’s cabin. Silly me. How many sixteen old girls would have loved having a community pool to hang out once we were done waterskiing? No wonder my parents were a tad irked with my complaints at times. Aah–sixteen year old girls with a pool to themselves (mostly) and hoping a cute boy or two (we actually needed three) would chance by and liven up our weekend. This poem is so about our baby oil tan days.

The Summer I Was Sixteen

—Geraldine Connolly

"The turquoise pool rose up to meet us,
its slide a silver afterthought down which
we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles.
We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy..."

morguefile image

Posted in American poets, national poetry month, poems, Reflections and tagged , , ,
08 Apr 2016
6 Comments

POM: April 8


dandelions

I wish I could grow like a dandelion,
from gold to thin white hair,
and be carried on a breeze
to the next yard.

—Julie Lechevsky

Posted in American poets, humor, national poetry month, Nature, Reflections, summer and tagged , ,
07 Apr 2016
4 Comments

POM: April 7


Mentors. They are sometimes early in our life. Sometimes they arrive too late. A cautionary tale offered by Timothy Murphy.

 

Mentor

For Robert Francis

Had I known, only known
when I lived so near,
I'd have gone, gladly gone
foregoing my fear
of the wholly grown
and the nearly great.
But I learned alone,
so I learned too late.

—Timothy Murphy

 

Posted in American poets, national poetry month, poems, Reflections and tagged , ,
06 Apr 2016
2 Comments

POM: April 6


Jellyfish freak me out. This stems from a series of childhood encounters with them. One instance involved being dumped into a flock of the gelatinous goo by my dad. These were the teeny non-stinging transparent types, so no harm to me except I cringe whenever I see them now. The jellyfish scene in Bond required deep breathing. 

It’s said we overcome our fears by facing them. This poem helps. I still don’t like jellyfish. I see them in a bit friendlier way now.

A Jelly-Fish

 by Marianne Moore

Visible, invisible,

A fluctuating charm,

An amber-colored amethyst

Inhabits it; your arm

Approaches, and

It opens and

It closes;

You have meant

To catch it,

And it shrivels;

You abandon

Your intent—

It opens, and it

Closes and you

Reach for it—

The blue

Surrounding it

Grows cloudy, and

It floats away

From you.

Posted in American poets, humor, memories, national poetry month, poems and tagged , , ,
05 Apr 2016
3 Comments

POM: April 5


Bildungsroman

Bil·dungs·ro·man
ˈbildo͝oNGzrōˌmän,ˈbēldo͝oNGks-/noun 
  1. a novel dealing with one person’s formative years or spiritual education

Such an interesting word. My German heritage perks up when I hear this term bantered around in literary musings. Bildungsroman is the combination of two German words: Bildung, meaning “education,” and Roman, meaning “novel.” To Kill a Mockingbird always comes to mind when I try to explain to students what the word is all about. After the mention of TKaM titles ping about the classroom: “Oh, you mean like Huckleberry Finn, Jane Eyre, The Catcher in the Rye…I get it now.” Gotta love those literary epiphanies. In fact, the other day my across-the-hall-colleague walked over with purpose and asked, “What is the long word you like to toss around when it comes to To Kill a Mockingbird?”  I told him. He tried repeating it and I shrugged with a smile. “Try it phonetically.” I’ll see his students in about three years and I’ll ask them if they know the technical term for a coming-of-age novel. Or maybe I’ll toss out examples.

All that to say this is why I’m featuring this poem excerpt today. Enjoy. What’s your favorite bildungsroman novel, play, or poem?

 

 

                         i.m. Scott David Campbell (1982-2012)

From “Bildungsroman” by Malachi Black

Streetlights were our stars,
hanging from the midnight
in a planetary arc
above each empty ShopRite
parking lot—spreading
steam-bright
through the neon dark—
buzzing like ghost locusts,
trembling in the chrome
Posted in American poets, national poetry month, poems, Reflections, teaching and tagged , ,
04 Apr 2016

POM: April 4


Nikki Giovanni is a poet who knows how to capture a moment, a feeling, an event. She is a poet of note. This poem, never no matter it’s about Tennessee, gets me itching for summer. Summer and its treats is summer regardless of the state. Summer is a state all its own.

Knoxville, Tennessee

Nikki Giovanni, 1943

I always like summer
best
you can eat fresh corn
from daddy’s garden
and okra
and greens
and cabbage
and lots of
barbecue
and buttermilk
and homemade ice-cream
at the church picnic
and listen to
gospel music
outside
at the church
homecoming
and go to the mountains with
your grandmother
and go barefooted
and be warm
all the time
not only when you go to bed
and sleep

Posted in America, American poets, national poetry month, Reflections, summer and tagged , , , , | Leave a comment
02 Apr 2016
1 Comment

POM: April 2


An extended metaphor of personal significance.

To a Daughter Leaving Home

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.

—Linda Pastan

 

Posted in American poets, children, memories, national poetry month, Reflections and tagged , , , ,
13 Mar 2016
5 Comments

POM: March’s Weather Madness


While March Madness is usually associated with basketball and even consumer blitzes, March is madness when it comes to weather. One day lovely enough to doze in the sun, the next is a frightful onslaught of wind and rain. My daffodils are cautiously lifting their green points from the earthen bed, unsure of what will greet them–freeze or warmth. This poem dropped in my box today and is perfect after a soggy wind-blown weekend.

March Evening by Amy Lowell

Blue through the window burns the twilight;

Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.

Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,

Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot

Dents into pools where a foot has been.

Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not

Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers

Scattering wide at a stronger gust.

Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers

Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,

Wrapping the mists round her withering form,

Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow

Travails to birth in the womb of the storm
How is spring arriving in your locale? 

 

Posted in American poets, Nature, poems, Reflections and tagged , , ,

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