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.