Inspiration
What books have nudged you as a reader? What books have burrowed themselves in your heart and will not let go? Those books that linger are special and beg to be remembered.
Books enter our hearts by first touching our hands.
An activity. Trace your hand. Line the fingers, palm, part of your wrist, and so on with titles of books and/or language from books that are still present in your reading memory. These can be books that you can’t put down, books that contain gorgeous language, pieces of writing you have created (poems, short stories, articles, blogs, etc.), and words that continue to linger in your mind, such as beginning lines of books, descriptions, and so on.
Allow the memory of these books and the words that you have captured to wash over you as though you are standing under a waterfall. Let the words come and don’t hesitate.
Poem Pointers
You may find it useful to explore one of the books you have read and write that exploration/memory on the outside of the hand. Don’t limit yourself to formula. Let the thoughts flow.
Render the words that flow into a verse.
Travis’s Poem
Like ink from a fountain pen,
I carry the memory of books on my hands.
Words and phrases mingle
Into gorgeous stains that forever reside
On my fingers and palms.
The poetry of humanity,
The language of writers,
First entered my heart
Through the hands that held them.
Sethe’s blade and Hanna’s books
Will haunt me
Forever.
All inspirations on #verselove2019 are merely suggestions. You are free, even encouraged, to write whatever is in your heart or on your mind today!
Travis Crowder, M.Ed., is a middle school English/Language Arts teacher at
East Alexander Middle School in Hiddenite, NC. He has taught for ten years and has experience in both middle and high school levels. He currently teaches 7th grade ELA and social studies, and works with the gifted and talented students in his school. He and Todd Nesloney co-authored Sparks in the Dark: Lessons, Ideas, and Strategies to Illuminate the Reading and Writing Lives in All of Us.
To Elizabeth who taught me courage
To Sylvia whose beautiful words can haunt
To Hattie who taught me heartache and loss
To Meg who taught me love and curiosity
To the poetry of Mary and Elizabeth and Anne
that taught me beautiful words don’t have to come from Shakespeare alone
To Amy and her cool-girl rebellion
To Hermione and her pride in her intellect
To Rachel for discovering the truth and confronting him
To Liane for the twisted and shocking and yet loving stories
To the women who have changed me
Thank you
Arms across shoulders
Heads thrown back in laughter
Water drops glistening
On tanned skin.
Peace signs
casually thrown
Sunlight diamonds
sparkle on a lake
Forever
young
Forever
hopeful
Forever
loving
life
(Photo of “Senior Skip Day,” 1978)
A Book is a Color
Shattered stained-glass:
flaming scarlet, lustrous gold,
throbbing vermilion, fiery orange,
waxy yellow, cloud-spat blue,
explosive green, lusty chartreuse.
A book is poetical and unpredictable color.
Black, the color of nuns and witches,
the color of the loneliest corners of outer space,
where gravity prevents all light from escaping, the
name given to boxes tucked into airplanes, the
ones that explain the disaster.
White, soundless brilliance–
not a mere absence of color,
as fierce as red, as definite as black–
the color of someone buying you an ice cream cone
for no reason at all.
I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple
in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.
Can books be any different?
Great diamonds and sapphires
and emerald mists and velvet inks of space,
with God’s voice mingling among the crystal fires.
Isn’t it strange that I know you’d risk your life to save mine,
But I don’t even know what your favorite color is?
Credit:
Bill Bryson, I’m a Stranger Here Myself
Lila Wright, Dancing with the Tiger
Lemony Snicket, When You See Her Last
Alice Walker, The Color Purple
Ray Bradbury, The Illustrated Man
Suzanne Collins, Catching Fire
Thank you for sharing! I loved the line “a book is poetical and unpredictable color” because this made me think of how I often begin reading a book thinking it is one thing, then I realize is multiple colors.
While it is the impact that words leave on me, it is not that I capture those words to use again. I go back and hold the book, review my notes—I always write as I read – noting questions, and reminding myself to reread a passage. But when I read a book, any book, it is the overall feeling of laughter and joy or connections or sadness or anticipation or surprise that matters most to me.
Homage to George Eliot and Pablo Neruda
I marvel at the way George Eliot
mapped a world so long ago,
yet still is middlemarching through our lives,
plagued by the universals —
pretense, expectations, rules, angst, ethics, disappointments,
and strength to shift
tomorrow.
Eliot still walks the earth,
laying out a parade of players
decked in different clothes
and fussing about vaguely different injustices,
but we know her Rosamond, her Casaubon, her Lydgate, her Bulstrode,
for they live in our neighborhoods, know our siblings,
are our siblings,
posture on Fox and TBN,
pontificate on your newsfeed,
muddy our political waters,
haunt your Thanksgiving table.
And she butts against Neruda’s “Past”
that embraces each new day as a gleaming empty plate
and cautions us to push past the past
that falls away but still grips on thorns and roots,
nagging us to fill that plate with a now that matters.
by Susie Morice
I was thinking about Middlemarch earlier today. Your fiction is so tight, with words like “ fussing, pontificate, posture, muddy.” I also like the alliteration throughout. Mostly, I like the image of Eliot pushing against Neruda’s past rooted in the present but still calling us to the future.
Your poem made me want to explore these authors. It was powerful connecting the characters to those we see in our everyday lives. The characters must be authentic!
I love your inspirations here. I liked the line “butt against Neruda’s ‘Past’ ” because it made me think how readers can sometimes struggle with the message or words of even our favorite authors.
My young reading life was nurtured by Miss Marcy. I initially intended to write about those books but found myself thinking of her instead.
Tribute to Miss Marcy
I have loved hundreds of books
in my life, maybe more.
This due in large part to Miss Marcy,
the librarian with the tightly set brown curls,
Who resided behind the desk of
a small town library.
She welcomed me on summer days
to the musty coolness
between those towering shelves.
She’d hand me a cloth to dust the stacks
and become lost in their spines . . .
(Sometimes you can choose a book
by its cover.)
Miss Marcy would simply nod and smile
at the teetering pile
that I would cart across the street
to devour in an afternoon
or two,
And smile again
when I returned at the next opportunity
for another pile.
Gail – This reminds me of Jackie’s poem posted today. The wonderful power of a librarian or teacher to put books in the hands of young readers is transformational! That “musty coolness” is so alluring! Sweet!
Miss Marcy was clever to enlist you in dusting books as a way to discover them. Your line about book covers deserves much attention. The feel, smell, font, cover of a book all influence my reading. The images of “towering shelves” and “musty coolness” make me long for this library.
My childhood defined
by the horses in my life
the horse books I read
Walter Farley
Marguerite Henry
C.W. Anderson
Seemed to write
Just for me
I studied British history
reading about Eclipse,
learned of Ramadan
reading King of the Wind.
My husband became concerned
as I wept
reading a book.
Tears poured down my face,
“She wouldn’t stop; she would have lived
if she had just stopped running!”
transported back to the 70s, sitting on the couch
watching Ruffian break down
racing against Foolish Pleasure.
That teenage girl comes out of those pages,
and I choke back her tears.
The line, “My husband became concerned as I wept reading a book” made me think of how deeply a person can escape into a book. Your love of horse books showed through in this poem!
Thank you for sharing! I love the line ‘the teenage girl comes out of those pages, and I choke back her tears” because it shows how impactful a book can be, even rereading it years later.
in my on-going effort to defend children’s and ya lit as legitimate literature, i present this poem inspired by multi-level tuck everlasting
Beware the spring eternal,
for age is not synonymous with growth.
Observe the centuries old mire;
as stagnate as its inception.
Behold spring
flourish in a glimpse.
I’m sharing this w/ my adult boys. “Tuck Everlasting” is one of their favorite books. “Age is not synonymous with growth” is so true. Regardless of age, all readers need the right book at the right time, whether YA, picture book, dead white guy classic, contemporary fiction, etc. These matter not. We shall not live by one genre alone.
Those YA classics are the reasons we can enjoy all others! Bravo Steve Z! You pay a wonderful tribute to a timeless classic.
I am swimming in that last line “flourish in a glimpse.”
I have a soft spot for Tuck Everlasting. “Beware the spring eternal” is the perfect starting line. You’ve made me want to enjoy the book again.
HAND HOLDING
Almost 70 years ago —
Exactly when doesn’t really matter here
Except to explain that it was a time
When libraries were strictly segregated,
Oh, not brown and white, not
Gay and straight, no,
I’m talking Adult Section versus
Children’s Section —
I was twelve years old,
Suffering the purgatory of adolescence,
No longer a child,
Not yet an adult.
There were commandments.
Sixteen. You had to be !!sixteen!!
To enter the sanctum sanctorum of
The Adult Section.
My size would have fooled a carny barker,
I was tall enough for the ride,
And I might have lied
Or tried to sneak past the altar
(Oops, I mean desk)
But that was never an option in
Such a holy place. Besides,
The Lady In Charge was always watching.
So every Friday afternoon,
Having found nothing new in what today
We call why-aye,
I checked out the same ole Nancy Drews,
The same ole Black Stallions,
The same ole 400-word biographies…
Until somebody noticed.
Noticed me moping through familiar titles
Mumbling “I’ve read it” “I’ve read it” “I’ve read it”,
Noticed me slumped in a pew with
Boy’s Life magazine, for crying out loud,
Noticed ME.
And like a high priestess to the novitiate,
The Lady In Charge took me by the hand,
Literally held my hand,
And walked me over to the Promised Land.
It was the beginning of the rest of my life.
** I remember well my first “adult” book, “I Married Adventure” by Osa Johnson. The Lady In Charge guided me to it and it was a wonderful read. Many years later I found an original copy, with the zebra-stripe cover, at a flea market. It sits on my shelf today.
The religious imagery here is wonderful: “purgatory of adolescence” is my favorite. I also grew up during a time of age discrimination in libraries. Yes, a library is “the Promised Land.” Wonderful poem.
so rich with metaphor and symbolism and truth. i am in a fortunate place were we (ela and lms) look not at age, but maturity. i’ve been guiding my mature, but bored 7th graders towards neil gaiman and patrick ness with appreciative results.
your poem is beautifully written with a poignant and essential message.
Ah, the Promised Land! It’s what feeds us and nourishes us as readers. I remember finding a copy of Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying as a youngster and got an education sneaking secret rendezvous returns to that book. You evoked the memory – thank you!
I team 27 thirteen year olds who would feel seen by your words here. Voracious readers wanting access beyond the teen section, wanting to engage in conversations within the Promised Land. Love that the library was/is your church.
Oh, what memories! Mrs. McCants gently place a VIctoria Holt book in my hands when I was 13, and my life changed forever!
Melinda- I love this contagious reverie!
Dang, girl! This is terrific. The walking us back to your frustration as a reader, as a girl growing up, just brings this home when you cross that verboten line to REAL stuff that mattered to you as a young reader. Thank heavens for that librarian that found you! It has made all the difference… you are so articulate and such a wordsmith… “high priestess to the novitiate,” “Boy’s Life for crying out loud,” “fooled a carny barker,” “same ole…same ole…same ole…” What a great poem for all of us teacherly, readerly, writerly April fools. 🙂 Susie
This poem told a story, and I could visualize it clearly. Such a good read! Thank you.
“Recurring Reader”
Maybe a book never happens once.
The cover closes, its words sink
Below the mind’s surface where
Characters like pebbles in a pond
Populate hidden depths.
Treasures awaiting excavation:
Janie approaching the sitters
Mocking her tight denim-covered figure.
Nora walking through a door
Echoed by Torvald’s “most beautiful thing.”
Rose wanting, needing, dreaming like Troy
Not of baseball but love and family.
Edna once a caged bird resolved to
Grow wings, to Belong only to herself.
Geraldine locked in silence after violence;
Mooshun’s tangle of tales offering healing.
I cast aside the fictitious self and
Awaken to myself through words:
Faulkner’s dusty chest of pen-to-paper tales:
Call of words whispering, cajoling, pleading,
Buried in hard, rocky gray matter,
Seeking the mind’s surface,
Awaiting the season of resurrection.
Readers are archeologists
Who excavate and exhume
Yellowed memories, faded ink on
Crumbling parchment, obscure details,
Our storied salvations.
Inspiration from the following. These, except Faulkner, are books I read w/ AP Lit.
“The Round House” by Louise Erdrich
“Fences” by August Wilson
“The Awakening” by Kate Chopin
“A Doll’s House” by Henrik Ibsen
“Their Eyes Were Watching God” by Zora Neale Hurston
”Absalom, Absalom!”by William Faulkner
*I can see myself returning to this and revising later.
Wow! You capture the beauty and work or reading so powerfully! What a fascinating tribute to great literature. I especially love the last few lines!
Beautiful! Your words capture so much depth. Thank you for sharing!
Maybe a book never happens once. I love this first line!
I heard a neat quote today – we don’t read books. Books read us. I think that’s how we get called to the shelves of the books that want us. The reader writes the story – not the author! Your poem reminds me of this truth.
Wise insights here, Kim. Thank you. I am equally enjoying the comments/readings of the poems as I am the poems. Love this community.
Coffee and Conversation
When you are little and ugly, somebody carries you in church on a pillow and you come out a child of God and inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.
Marley was dead, to begin with.
A head is a terrible thing to waste.
The Book Lovers’ Anthology stepped out of its wrappings.
Marsh is not swamp.
It’s fruitcake weather!
When Atticus and I finally reached the top, the sky was a gorgeous charcoal gray.
We’re on our way to give a horrible, terrible monster what for!
The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate.
What is it like to be an octopus?
The fish’s arrival was choreographed by nature to by mysterious.
You will find the Dodge plot, and Anna, who understood love as few women understand it.
What did a thousand acres of Silphiums look like when they tickled the bellies of the buffalo?
I also know the way the old life haunts the new.
Thank you, Hudson, Dickens, Roach, Hanff, Owens, Capote, Ryan, Lowery, Sedaris, Montgomery, Capote, Price, Leopold, Oliver and so many others who’ve sat and had intimate conversations with me over coffee throughout the years!
I was thinking of trying something similar, and you’ve given me confidence. The title makes your experience with these opening lines, these books and authors, so personal. Your poem is now my mentor! Thank you!
Isn’t the notion of having intimate conversations with books what reading is all about? Like Amy, I thought about gathering lines from books I love and weaving them into a verse. You’ve done this more masterfully than I could. Now I have new books to add to my TBR pile. I like that you’ve included questions, too.
Your poem was like a puzzle. I was trying to piece together which author went with which line. You provided great clues!
Kim – What a marvelous collection of powerful lines. I love this! “Fruitcake weather” made me laugh. “Atticus and I…the Sky was a gorgeous charcoal grey” made me miss Mockingbird. “The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate” made me smile. These are all doozies! Susie
I wrote today!!! Thanks to Billy, Naomi, and Mary!!!
That’s a success to count!
My Poets
Wordsworth’s words of Lucy:
whom there were none to praise and few to love
because she dwelt among untrodden ways.
Mora’s words for Elena:
embarrassed at mispronouncing words,
embarrassed at the laughter of her children,
but continues to lock herself in the bathroom
to practice English so that she will not be deaf
when her children need her.
Shihab Nye’s words for the Person
who wants to be famous–
to shuffling men crossing the streets
and sticky children in grocery lines.
–for smiling back.
Wordsworth and Lucy,
Mora and Elena,
Shihab Nye and the Person
help me see the “violet hidden by a mossy stone”*,
help me listen to the fear behind the mispronounced words,
help me notice the Person smiling back in the grocery line, and, “oh,
the difference to me”!
*”She Dwelt Among the UnTrodden Ways” (William Wordsworth);
“Elena” (Pat Mora);
“Famous” by Naomi Shihab Nye
Oh, Sarah, “the violet hidden by a mossy stone” took my breath away. Thank you.
Thank you, Jackie. That is Wordsworth’s line that I have held onto for years. I have lots of violets in my classrooms — precious.
Wordsworth is my favorite Romantic poet, do of course I love the line you borrowed. I also like the way you have given each poet a stanza.
I love the way you show the relationship with the authors and their characters. The sticky children in grocery store lines is vivid imagery!
The repetition of “help me” with the poignant explanations drives this theme for me: We gain great counsel on how to be better humans from generous authors. Thank you, Sarah!
Indeed, much of my reading is out of deep desire to understand. Books are a safe place to ask for help, to not be judged or rejected or shamed for wondering.