Passion Project Examples

"Baking Beauties" video- Cooking as a Passion Project

e.e. cummings

Does this poem capture your attention? It is an example of a Concrete Poem, a poem that looks like what it represents (in this case, a leaf falling).

How do you read this poem? A leaf falls, loneliness? Does it have to be interpreted this way?

Consider how the poet uses visual techniques like punctuation (using parentheses for a sense of separation and enclosure); line breaks and emjambment (when one line wraps around to the next).

What do you see and feel when you look at this poem?

Is there a sense of falling? A leaf floating down into the leaf pile at the bottom of the poem?
Do you see isolation? A negative connotation from the the "l" being set alone- loneliness?
Do you see singularity of self? "Iness?" A more positive feeling?
Is it loneliness, or oneliness? If the latter, what does oneliness mean? cummings loves to invent new words!

This is an amazing poem from e.e. cummings, one of the most avant-garde and free-spirited poets in the English language. cummings was incredibly experimental, especially for his time of writing during the early 20th century.

This excerpt from a biography of cummings at poetryfoundation.org summarizes his style: "cummings experimented with poetic form and language to create a distinct personal style. A cummings poem is spare and precise, employing a few key words eccentrically placed on the page. Some of these words were invented by cummings, often by combining two common words into a new synthesis. He also revised grammatical and linguistic rules to suit his own purposes, using such words as "if," "am," and "because" as nouns, for example, or assigning his own private meanings to words. Despite their nontraditional form, cummings' poems came to be popular with many readers. "No one else," Randall Jarrell claimed in his The Third Book of Criticism, "has ever made avant-garde, experimental poems so attractive to the general and the special reader." By the time of his death in 1962 cummings held a prominent position in twentieth-century poetry."
                                                                    

(You may have noticed that e.e. cummings' name is not capitalized. He did this on purpose to reflect his style.)

Below is e.e. cummings' signature poem, "in Just," another poem that heralds the arrival of Spring. I performed this in my theatre group in high school so it's a sentimental favorite of mine. I love the phrases "when the world is mud luscious" and "the world is puddle-wonderful." cummings is like Shakespeare- he makes up his own words! Enjoy! This one needs to be read aloud....

[in Just-] By E. E. Cummings 1894–1962       

in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far          and             wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles

far

and

wee

Springtime with the Imagist Poets

One style of modern poetry is called Imagist Poetry. This is poetry that "describes images with simple language and great focus." It is a departure from classic poetry with contrived detail, rhyme, and highly philosophized language. Here there is a greater simplicity and purity. It is an offshoot of the free verse pioneered by Whitman.

Several major Imagist poets in America are Ezra Pound, William Carolos Williams, H.D., and Amy Lowell.

Ezra Pound, one of the founders of Imagism, said that there were three tenets, or rules, to writing Imagist poetry:

1. Direct treatment of the subject. That is, the poem should deal directly with what's being talked about, not try to use fancy words and phrases to talk about it.
2. Use of no word that does not contribute to the presentation. Use as few words as possible.
3. Compose in the rhythm of the musical phrase, not in the rhythm of the metronome. In other words, create new rhythms instead of relying on the old, boring ones

(excerpted from educationportal.com)

Here are examples of Imagist poetry about Spring by Amy Lowell. The three poems below are part of a larger series wherein in she chronicles the magic of Spring in her daily life.

 Spring Day [Bath] by Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

 

Spring  [Breakfast Table]

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.
Spring [Night and Sleep]

The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong sliver of a watchmaker’s sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?
  I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.
  My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring.
  The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air.
  Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.

 

 

I really like how these poems are evocative snapshots, verbal photographs of the sensations of her day.

 

Another famous poem about Spring is from Imagist poet, William Carlos Williams:

 

Spring and All [By the Road to the contagious hospital]

 

I

By the road to the contagious hospital

under the surge of the blue

mottled clouds driven from the

northeast-a cold wind.  Beyond, the

waste of broad, muddy fields

brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water

the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish

purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy

stuff of bushes and small trees

with dead, brown leaves under them

leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish

dazed spring approaches-

 

This is a more bleak characterization of Spring, waking itself from death and decay, even contagion, to rise anew.

 

 

Funny Poem Week: Day Five (Billy Collins)

Billy Collins is perhaps my favorite current poet. He is real, active, self-depracating, observant, and most of all funny. In an interview he gave to publicize his new volume of poetry, Aimless Love, he speaks about the pressure to be funny.

He says, "Well, I thought originally when I was in school and I wanted to be a poet, I knew that poets seemed to be miserable. And I was a pretty happy kid, so I decided... to fake it. I had to get into this miserable character before I wrote poems. And it wasn’t for quite a while that I was able to read poets that were —[that] allowed me to be humorous without being silly."

You can watch the whole interview using the link below:

Poet Billy Collins discusses humor, authenticity and ‘Aimless Love’

There are also some good TED Talks featuring Billy Collins, if you're interested in learning more. The link below offers animated versions of five of his poems.

http://www.ted.com/talks/billy_collins_everyday_moments_caught_in_time?language=en#t-630056


Here is a poem that I can relate to about forgetting the books that I have read. I devour so many books, live fully in the moment as I digest them but have a sort of "literary amnesia" afterward. Yes, I read that! I liked it! But what was it about?? What happened? I'm glad I'm not the only one who experiences this frustration about not being able to retain these worlds of prose.

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins    

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue

or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river

whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those

who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted   

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

 

 

Here's another excellent poem that we can appreciate as we ponder, Will this snow EVER melt? Will Spring EVER COME?

 

Snow Day by Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,

its white flag waving over everything,

the landscape vanished,

not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,   

and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,

schools and libraries buried, the post office lost   

under the noiseless drift,

the paths of trains softly blocked,

the world fallen under this falling.

In a while, I will put on some boots

and step out like someone walking in water,   

and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,   

and I will shake a laden branch

sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,   

a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.   

I will make a pot of tea

and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,   

as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,   

the Ding-Dong School, closed.

the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,   

the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,

along with—some will be delighted to hear—

the Toadstool School, the Little School,

Little Sparrows Nursery School,

Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School   

the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,

and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,

These are the nests where they letter and draw,   

where they put on their bright miniature jackets,   

all darting and climbing and sliding,

all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard

in the grandiose silence of the snow,

trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,   

what riot is afoot,

which small queen is about to be brought down.

 

 

Billy Collins' poetry makes everyday life magical and transcendent.

 

And just because I can't stop myself, one more. This makes me think of my son and nephew, then

three years old, glued for hours to their toy train tables, caught up in a whirlwind of actity and 

imagination.

 

 

BOYHOOD by Billy Collins

Alone in the basement,
I would sometimes lower one eye
to the level of the narrow train track

to watch the puffing locomotive
pull the cars around a curve
then bear down on me with its dazzling eye.

What was in those moments
before I lifted my head and let the train
go rocking by under my nose?

I remember not caring much
about the fake grass or the buildings
that made up the miniature town.

The same went for the station and its master,
the crossing gates and flashing lights,
the milk car, the pencil-size logs,

the metallic men and women,
the dangling water tower,
and the round mirror for a pond.

All I wanted was to be blinded
over and over by this shaking light
as the train stuck fast to its oval course.

Or better still, to close my eyes,
to stay there on the cold narrow rails
and let the train tunnel through me

the way it tunneled through the mountain
painted the color of rock,
and then there would be nothing

but the long whistling through the dark -
no basement, no boy,
no everlasting summer afternoon.

 

 

 

Funny Poem Week: Day Four (Dorothy Parker)

One of the sauciest, most irreverent humorists is Dorothy Parker. Yes, she is amusing and entertaining, but her scathing wit often masks her loneliness, insecurity and depression. This can be seen in her most well-know quip: “Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

She was funny even to the end, writing, “excuse my dust” as an epitaph for her tombstone, her final resting place.

Enjoy these two interesting poems by Parker. The second one is for you, Racquel and Emily!

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend —
Bed awaits me at the end.
Though I go in pride and strength,
I’ll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I’m bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall —
I’m a fool to rise at all!

The Passionate Freudian to His Love

Only name the day, and we’ll fly away
 In the face of old traditions,
To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot,
 Where we’ll park our inhibitions.
Come and gaze in eyes where the lovelight lies
 As it psychoanalyzes,
And when once you glean what your fantasies mean
 Life will hold no more surprises.
When you’ve told your love what you’re thinking of
 Things will be much more informal;
Through a sunlit land we’ll go hand-in-hand,
 Drifting gently back to normal.

While the pale moon gleams, we will dream sweet dreams,
 And I’ll win your admiration,
For it’s only fair to admit I’m there
 With a mean interpretation.
In the sunrise glow we will whisper low
 Of the scenes our dreams have painted,
And when you’re advised what they symbolized
 We’ll begin to feel acquainted.
So we’ll gaily float in a slumber boat
 Where subconscious waves dash wildly;
In the stars’ soft light, we will say good-night—
 And “good-night!” will put it mildly.

Our desires shall be from repressions free—
 As it’s only right to treat them.
To your ego’s whims I will sing sweet hymns,
 And ad libido repeat them.
With your hand in mine, idly we’ll recline
 Amid bowers of neuroses,
While the sun seeks rest in the great red west
 We will sit and match psychoses.
So come dwell a while on that distant isle
 In the brilliant tropic weather;
Where a Freud in need is a Freud indeed,
 We’ll always be Jung together. 

 

Funny Poem Week: Day Three (Ogden Nash)

Ogden Nash is a humorous poet best known for his funny sayings and short poems:

"You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely!" (I have a sticker of this one that's proudly displayed on my home computer)

"Midde age is when you're sitting at home on a Saturday night and the telephone rings and you hope it isn't for you."  (Haha! My old bones can relate to this!)

Maybe you'll relate to this one:  "Children aren't happy with nothing to ignore, and that's what parents were created for."


A Word to Husbands by Ogden Nash

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.                    


The Germ

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.        


Last but not least, here's one of his longer ones that's fun to read at the holidays. I love the line "with impudent vim."

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus

In Baltimore there lived a boy. He wasn't anybody's joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued. He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE. He said he acted thus because There wasn't any Santa Claus. Another trick that tickled Jabez Was crying 'Boo' at little babies. He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways instead of up and down. Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any Santa Claus!' Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their grave. They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral early. Like whooping cough, from child to child, He sped to spread the rumor wild: 'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes There isn't any Santa Claus!' Slunk like a weasel of a marten Through nursery and kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' The children wept all Christmas eve And Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared hang up his stocking For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice dancing in his head, When presently with scalp-a-tingling, Jabez heard a distant jingling; He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof Crisply alighting on the roof. What good to rise and bar the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, But anyhow, I never said it!' 'Jabez' replied the angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez then with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes there is, and I am him! Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't' And suddenly he found he wasn't! From grimy feet to grimy locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, An ugly toy with springs unsprung, Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup And went and hung their stockings up. All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

 .                                                                                    

Funny Poem Week: Day Two (Jack Prelutsky)

Jack Prelutsky is like Shel Silverstein for a younger generation. He's the funny poet that my six-year old knows best and his poems often come home with Owen after school. Owen has learned the nuance of language and the nature of rhyme by reading these silly poems. Yes, the poems are frivolous and juvenile but I find their simplicity and humor quite charming. I hope they give you a laugh and a sense of being a little kid once again.

Be Glad Your Nose Is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky      

Be glad your nose is on your face,

not pasted on some other place,

for if it were where it is not,

you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose

were sandwiched in between your toes,

that clearly would not be a treat,

for you’d be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread

were it attached atop your head,

it soon would drive you to despair,

forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be

an absolute catastrophe,

for when you were obliged to sneeze,

your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,

remains between your eyes and chin,

not pasted on some other place—

be glad your nose is on your face!

 

 

I Found a Four Leaf Clover by Jack Prelutsky

 

I found a four-leaf clover

and was happy with my find,

but with time to think it over,

I’ve entirely changed my mind.

I concealed it in my pocket,

safe inside a paper pad,

soon, much swifter than a rocket,

my good fortune turned to bad.

       I smashed my fingers in a door,

       I dropped a dozen eggs,

       I slipped and tumbled to the floor,

       a dog nipped both my legs,

       my ring slid down the bathtub drain,

       my pen leaked on my shirt,

       I barked my shin, I missed my train,

       I sat on my dessert.

I broke my brand-new glasses,

and I couldn’t find my keys,

I stepped in spilled molasses,

and was stung by angry bees.

When the kitten ripped the curtain,

and the toast burst into flame,

I was absolutely certain

that the clover was to blame.

       I buried it discreetly

       in the middle of a field,

       now my luck has changed completely,

       and my wounds have almost healed.

       If I ever find another,

       I will simply let it be,

       or I’ll give it to my brother—

       he deserves it more than me.

Funny Poem Week: Day One (Shel Silverstein)

For the next five days, I have decided to devote the content of this poetry blog to the genre of "funny poems." Everyone is in full-on exam study mode and I figured that you could use something light. It's a sort of mental palate cleansing or temporary respite from big ideas. As you are filling your brains with must-know facts, these poems are an easy escape and require no effort to appreciate.

Quite often, a young child's first introduction to poetry is Shel Silverstein. This well-known author of The Giving Tree and collections of poetry like Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic helps to make language fun and accessible to both young people and adults. I remember doing a dramatic reading/depiction of "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout" when I was in high school. We went to an orphanage and entertained the kids with this funny tale of a stubborn girl refusing to take out the garbage. The kids laughed and laughed. My daughter, Lucy, performed a Shel Silverstein poem, "The Homework Machine," for the GFS lower school poetry contest and won best in her grade that year (2nd grade, I think?). (Yes, I am a proud, bragging mom!)

 I love the poem below that's not quite so ha-ha funny but embraces the messy, wild fabulousness that comes from being a child. I'm not too old for these poems and neither are you!!

Dirty Face by Shel Silverstein

Where did you get such a dirty face,

My darling dirty-faced child?

 

I got it from crawling along in the dirt

And biting two buttons off Jeremy’s shirt.

I got it from chewing the roots of a rose

And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.

I got it from peeking into a dark cave

And painting myself like a Navajo brave.

I got it from playing with coal in the bin

And signing my name in cement with my chin.

I got it from rolling around on the rug

And giving the horrible dog a big hug.

I got it from finding a lost silver mine

And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.

I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears

And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.

 

 

 

Celebrities on Poetry

Continuing on with the theme of Hollywood and celebrity, I thought I'd share with you a great article from the April 2011 issue of the Oprah magazine, entitled "24 All-Star Readers on the Words That Rock their Worlds." (Link to article below) Here well-known actors and musicians share how poetry has played an important part of their live. Some of my favorite quotes are listed below. All quotes are excerpted directly from the article:

http://www.oprah.com/entertainment/Celebrities-and-Writers-Discuss-Their-Favorite-Poetry

Diane Sawyer: "For me, poetry is the compressed experience of an emotion. I'm not great at long novels. But I love a sharp, compressed arrow straight to the heart."

Bono: "For the statistics of extreme poverty to step off the page and become the sisters, brothers, mothers, and fathers they represent, the right language has to be found—an act of poetry is required. In meetings with high stakes, I'm always concerned words will fail me, so as a kind of talisman I take a book of Seamus Heaney along and leave it behind. I don't know if these politicians ever take a look, but I think the transference of his stillness and stirrings would make their burdens feel lighter."

Kate Capshaw: The first time I read David Whyte's "Self Portrait," I set the book down and wept. I wasn't sad or lonely or frustrated with my life. I was simply moved—profoundly. Each time I read the poem, it turns me back to my "fierce heat of living."

Steven Spielberg: John O'Donohue's "For the Artist at the Start of Day" gives me an opportunity to remember my passion—where it all begins: "May morning be astir with the harvest of night; / Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question, / Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse / That cut right through the surface to a source."

Sting: "The Thought-Fox," by Ted Hughes, deals with the creative process itself. The writer, alone at his desk at night, hears "the clock's loneliness" and then says, "Through the window I see no star." How many of us have faced a blank page on a night like this? Searching the skies vainly for inspiration?

James Franco: I'm drawn to all media and genres that are looking for new ways of expression. Two of my favorite poems are "Cement Truck" by Tony Hoagland and "October" by Louise Gluck.

Here's the poem that Kate Capshaw loves:

Self Portrait It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.
—David Whyte

Another interesting resource to check out is the project of former Poet Laureate, Robert Pinsky, in which he asks Americans of all ages and backgrounds to speak about their favorite poem and why it has changed or inspired them. There are great videos to watch. I'm curious about doing a similar activity in our classroom.

http://www.favoritepoem.org

Hollywood speaks about the Gender Pay Gap

While watching the Oscars last night, I found it very inspiring to see how intelligent, articulate actresses spoke out against the unequal status of women in the United States.

Nominee Reese Witherspoon declined to answer questions about her stunning dress, asking reporters to assist her in publicizing her #AskHerMore campaign, which is designed to put the the focus on a woman's work and creativity instead of what she is wearing. (I thought about our conversation about how we spend so much time talking about Michelle Obama's outfits and toned biceps and less about her hard work for education and health.)

In her acceptance speech, Patricia Arquette proclaimed, ‘It’s our time to have wage equality once and for all and equal rights for women in the United States of America!’" This prompted Meryl Streep to jump out of her seat and and shout “YES!” repeatedly. I felt like doing the same!

Below is article about how much less Hollywood actresses are paid compared to actors, especially after they have aged. The article talks about how this is a "microcosm of today's society," and shows how women's worth is frequently connected to their appearance.

http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation-now/2014/01/30/hollywood-women-pay-salary-men/5050433/

Please also read these interesting, yet unsettling facts that illustrate the gender pay gap in the United States and how women are succeeding but yet have far to go to have equal rights, status and compensation in the workplace. All of the following statistics come from the March 2015 issue of Marie Claire magazine:

There are 161 million women in the US versus 156.1 million men.
47% of people in the US workforce are women.
$37,791- the median annual earnings of women 15 or older (versus $49,398 for men)
56.8% of all college students are women (11 million women)
63% of all master degree holders are women.
53% of all PhD degree holders are women.
17% of Fortune 500 company board members are women.
26- the number of female CEOs of Fortune 500 companies
100 women in congress (of 535 total members)
5- the number of female governors.
46- number of women who have been awarded the Nobel Prize between 1901 and 2014.
64% of eligible women voted in the 2012 Presidential election (versus 60% of men)

A Love Poem for a Happy Valentine's Day

Since the start of time, the primary subject of poetry has been LOVE. Poems are used to flirt, attract, seduce, complement, and praise a loved one. Whether recited Romeo-style to a lovely maiden on a balcony, written in a love letter that yellows with age, or scribbled on a note to a cute boy or girl in class, poems are the expression of adoration. Better than a rose that can be quickly picked or a chocolate that is soon enjoyed, a poem lingers. A poem indicates that the writer took the time to reveal his or her love in a tender, creative and original way. Poems are not easy to write. They take time and care, and thus are the best gift one could ever receive on Valentine's (or any other occasion).

I love all the classic love poems, like a good ol' Shakespearean sonnet or an ode from Wordsworth. But I thought I'd share with you a more modern one from poet Marge Piercy (the same poet who wrote the "Barbie" poem). She explores all the colorful beauties of her loved one in visual sensory detail.

Colors passing through us

By Marge Piercy b. 1936 Marge Piercy      

Purple as tulips in May, mauve

into lush velvet, purple

as the stain blackberries leave

on the lips, on the hands,

the purple of ripe grapes

sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,

like a new flower in a bud vase

on your desk. Every day

I will paint you, as women

color each other with henna

on hands and on feet.

Red as henna, as cinnamon,

as coals after the fire is banked,

the cardinal in the feeder,

the roses tumbling on the arbor

their weight bending the wood

the red of the syrup I make from petals.

Orange as the perfumed fruit

hanging their globes on the glossy tree,

orange as pumpkins in the field,

orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs

who come to eat it, orange as my

cat running lithe through the high grass.

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,

yellow as a hill of daffodils,

yellow as dandelions by the highway,

yellow as butter and egg yolks,

yellow as a school bus stopping you,

yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing

song of all the things you make

me think of, here is oblique

praise for the height and depth

of you and the width too.

Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green

as a frog on a lily pad twanging,

the green of cos lettuce upright

about to bolt into opulent towers,

green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear

glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,

bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,

blue as Saga. Blue as still water.

Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.

Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring

azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky

when day has gone without a trace

and we lie in each other’s arms

eyes shut and fingers open

and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

Etheridge Knight

Etheridge Knight is an African-American poet who follows in the lyrical strain of Walt Whitman's free verse. He was born in prison and spent a good portion of his life in prison. His poems explore "imprisonment as a form of contemporary enslavement and [he] looks for ways in which one can be free despite incarceration." There's a certain connection to Thoreau and how he expressed that they could lock up his body but not his mind.

Simone Cypress shared Knight's very powerful poem, "The Bones of My Father," in our GFS Poetry Out Loud competition. It alludes to the legacy of slavery and how it pervades the lives of African-Americans today, amongst other intriguing allusions to the past. Here, the bones of his father are not dry, lifeless fossils buried deep within the soil. They are paradoxically alive; in fact, the skull of his father "grins" as a sad, and somewhat ghoulish, reminder.

The Bones of My Father By Etheridge Knight

1

There are no dry bones

here in this valley. The skull

of my father grins

at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie,

the bones of my father

are buried in the mud

of these creeks and brooks that twist

and flow their secrets to the sea.

but the wind sings to me

here the sun speaks to me

of the dry bones of my father.

      2

There are no dry bones

in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys

young / black / men with knees bent

nod on the stoops of the tenements

and dream

of the dry bones of my father.

And young white longhairs who flee

their homes, and bend their minds

and sing their songs of brotherhood

and no more wars are searching for

my father’s bones.

      3

There are no dry bones here.

We hide from the sun.

No more do we take the long straight strides.

Our steps have been shaped by the cages

that kept us. We glide sideways

like crabs across the sand.

We perch on green lilies, we search

beneath white rocks...

THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE

The skull of my father

grins at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie.

James Weldon Johnson

I want to continue in the celebration of African-American History Month and share the work of another amazing poet, James Weldon Johnson. Like Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen, Johnson is a poet of the Harlem Renaissance, that amazing time of artistic expression in the 1920s. Johnson was a prolific and articulate writer as well as a civil rights activist, serving as one of the first presidents of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People).

The poem below, "Lift Every Voice and Sing," is considered by many to be "the Negro National Anthem" and was adopted by the NAACP as its hymn. It expresses the power of black faith, endurance, and strength. I have also included Johnson's personal intro to the poem and a link to the song so you can hear it as well.

The poem that follows it is one of my personal favorites. I used to teach "The Creation" when I was a teacher of freshman English and we had many units on reading the Bible as literature. This poem reshapes the creation story of Genesis and humanizes God as he molds the clay and breathes life into it to create Adam, his precious son.

Lift Every Voice and Sing

By James Weldon Johnson 1871–1938

A group of young men in Jacksonville, Florida, arranged to celebrate Lincoln’s birthday in 1900. My brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, and I decided to write a song to be sung at the exercises. I wrote the words and he wrote the music. Our New York publisher, Edward B. Marks, made mimeographed copies for us, and the song was taught to and sung by a chorus of five hundred colored school children.
Shortly afterwards my brother and I moved away from Jacksonville to New York, and the song passed out of our minds. But the school children of Jacksonville kept singing it; they went off to other schools and sang it; they became teachers and taught it to other children. Within twenty years it was being sung over the South and in some other parts of the country. Today the song, popularly known as the Negro National Hymn, is quite generally used.
The lines of this song repay me in an elation, almost of exquisite anguish, whenever I hear them sung by Negro children.

 

Lift every voice and sing   

Till earth and heaven ring,

Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;

Let our rejoicing rise

High as the listening skies,

Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,

Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us.   

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,

Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,

Bitter the chastening rod,

Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;   

Yet with a steady beat,

Have not our weary feet

Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,

We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,

Out from the gloomy past,   

Till now we stand at last

Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,   

God of our silent tears,

Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;

Thou who hast by Thy might   

Led us into the light,

Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,

Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;

Shadowed beneath Thy hand,   

May we forever stand.   

True to our God,

True to our native land.

?

 

Source: Complete Poems (2000) 

The Creation             

James Weldon Johnson, 1871 - 1928

And God stepped out on space,
And he looked around and said:
I’m lonely—
I’ll make me a world.

And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said: That’s good!

Then God reached out and took the light in his hands,
And God rolled the light around in his hands
Until he made the sun;
And he set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said: That’s good!

Then God himself stepped down—
And the sun was on his right hand,
And the moon was on his left;
The stars were clustered about his head,
And the earth was under his feet.
And God walked, and where he trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.

Then he stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And he spat out the seven seas—
He batted his eyes, and the lightnings flashed—
He clapped his hands, and the thunders rolled—
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;
And God smiled again, 
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around his shoulder.

Then God raised his arm and he waved his hand
Over the sea and over the land,
And he said: Bring forth! Bring forth!
And quicker than God could drop his hand,
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said: That’s good!

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that he had made.
He looked at his sun, 
And he looked at his moon,
And he looked at his little stars;
He looked on his world
With all its living things,
And God said: I’m lonely still.

Then God sat down—
On the side of a hill where he could think;
By a deep, wide river he sat down;
With his head in his hands,
God thought and thought,
Till he thought: I’ll make me a man!

Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, 
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand;
This great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till he shaped it in is his own image;

Then into it he blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen.      Amen.

 

Louise Erdrich/ Genre of Captivity Narratives

"Captivity narratives go back to the very beginnings of American literature in the 17th century, and were the first literary form dominated by women’s experience. The earliest and most popular was “A True History of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson” (1682), which went through four editions the year it was published, and 15 when it was republished in America and England. Rowlandson, the wife of a Puritan minister, and her three children were taken hostage by Narragansett Indians in February 1676. Six-year-old Sarah was wounded in the raid on their village, and died nine days later in her mother’s arms; the other two children were sold to different tribes, and Mary was forced to travel with her captors, trekking about 150 miles north until she was ransomed to her husband in May."       

 

       "Rowlandson had never written anything before she was kidnapped, but her book vividly dramatizes the psychological stages of the abduction experience, from the violent and disorienting “taking” to the “grievous” captivity, which Rowlandson divided into “removes,” because the Indians moved camp 20 times. Step by painful step, she was being removed from her life as a pious Puritan matron and entering the harsh world of the Narragansetts, where she found that her will to survive was stronger than her fear or grief. She surprised herself with her endurance and ability to adapt. She ate food that previously would have disgusted her, including raw horse liver and bear meat. Regarding the Indians as savages, she also learned to acknowledge their humanity, and to negotiate and bargain with them. After being ransomed, Rowlandson relived her ordeal for many months in dreams and flashbacks of “the night season.” But as she slowly adjusted to her return, Rowlandson came to understand how much she had changed, and found emotional expression, religious grace and public acceptance through writing her story. As an author of a book about suffering and redemption, she was able to re-enter Puritan society in a new role."

          - excerpted from "Dark Places" by feminist critic, Elaine Showalter 

 

The whole essay, which considers Mary Rowlandson's captivity alongside the modern kidnapping cases of Jacee Dugard and the three girls who were held in captivity in Cleveland, can be read using the link below:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/09/books/review/tradition-of-captivity-narratives.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 

An incredibly talented Native American writer, Louise Erdrich, composed the poem, "Captivity" below in response to Rowlandson's narrative. Erdrich is primarily a novelist, know for great books like Tracks and The Round House, but here she uses her lyrical voice to show the human capacity to love and accept within crisis.

Just as a side note, one of top 5 favorite books is Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. That novel fits into this genre of tales of kidnapping and how one can affiliate, understand and even love one's captor. It explores an upheaval in a fictional South American country where a whole mansion of diplomats, socialites, and even the opera singer brought in to entertain them are held hostage by political dissidents. I highly suggest you read it, and anything else by Patchett!

Captivity

By Louise Erdrich b. 1954 Louise Erdrich

He (my captor) gave me a bisquit, which I put in my pocket, and not daring to eat it, buried it under a log, fearing he had put something in it to make me love him.

—From the narrative of the captivity of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, who was taken prisoner by the Wampanoag when Lancaster, Massachusetts, was destroyed, in the year 1676

The stream was swift, and so cold   

I thought I would be sliced in two.   

But he dragged me from the flood   

by the ends of my hair.

I had grown to recognize his face.

I could distinguish it from the others.   

There were times I feared I understood   

his language, which was not human,   

and I knelt to pray for strength.

We were pursued by God’s agents   

or pitch devils, I did not know.

Only that we must march.

Their guns were loaded with swan shot.

I could not suckle and my child’s wail   

put them in danger.

He had a woman

with teeth black and glittering.   

She fed the child milk of acorns.

The forest closed, the light deepened.

I told myself that I would starve

before I took food from his hands   

but I did not starve.

One night

he killed a deer with a young one in her   

and gave me to eat of the fawn.

It was so tender,

the bones like the stems of flowers,   

that I followed where he took me.   

The night was thick. He cut the cord   

that bound me to the tree.

After that the birds mocked.

Shadows gaped and roared

and the trees flung down

their sharpened lashes.

He did not notice God’s wrath.

God blasted fire from half-buried stumps.

I hid my face in my dress, fearing He would burn us all   

but this, too, passed.

Rescued, I see no truth in things.   

My husband drives a thick wedge   

through the earth, still it shuts   

to him year after year.

My child is fed of the first wheat.   

I lay myself to sleep

on a Holland-laced pillowbeer.   

I lay to sleep.

And in the dark I see myself   

as I was outside their circle.

They knelt on deerskins, some with sticks,   

and he led his company in the noise   

until I could no longer bear

the thought of how I was.

I stripped a branch

and struck the earth,

in time, begging it to open

to admit me

as he was

and feed me honey from the rock.

?

 

Louise Erdrich, “Captivity” from Original Fire: Selected and New Poems. Copyright © 2003 by Louise Erdrich. Reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Barbie

"If Barbie were an actual woman, she would be 5'9" tall, have a 39" bust, an 18" waist, 33" hips and a size 3 shoe. She likely would not menstruate... she'd have to walk on all fours due to her proportions." Slayen estimates Barbie would weigh 110 pounds and have a BMI of 16.24."- Huffington Post

This is the image of beauty that many little girls internalize through their toys. Barbie is not real. She doesn't represent an attainable aesthetic yet this concept of beauty has dominated our culture. What's beautiful? Long, flowing hair. Perfect skin. Even Barbies with different skin colors look just the same- they just literally changed the skin color of the doll. Tiny feet, tiny waist, tiny everything... except long legs and big breasts.

I reject Barbie! When my daughters decided to give their Barbies mowhawks and decorate them with permanent markers, it was a strange vindication. The poem below, by Marge Piercy, represents the experience of a little girl who is not like Barbie and satirically reveals what happens to her from having accepted the Barbie-like culture of beauty.

Following is a link to a video about a new doll that just came out about Barbie's real self- an actual shape, with realistic skin tone and features. The manufacturer made this doll because there were no dolls that looked real.


"Barbie Doll" by Marge Piercy

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.