Friday, March 29, 2013

The Inner Child in the Poet

Hopscotch chalk colors driveways and sidewalks, thrashers are singing lustily, kites high-flying gustily. The world is bursting with life, song, and hope after winter's torpor. April, appropriately designated Poetry Month, beckons each creature to join the creative process. 

Writing poetry often occurs first as a response to such beauty and exuberance, and some people think of it only that way, but poetry's an appropriate expression for life in all its guises. It captures the comedic irritation of spring winds and Russian-immigrant tumbleweeds in...

AH, SPRING!   Wind herds tumbleweeds/ down the Southwest interstate/ at posted speed./ Oncoming car grills grin/ through Russian thistle whiskers.

Poetry exposes the underbelly of war in the last stanzas of... 

*CODE TALKER   [he] meets two other camouflaged survivors/ helps the famished men set snares/ for chickens they'd heard scratching/ in the brush.// He had passed the hens - - -/ themselves once famished in this war - - -/ as they plumped themselves/ on maggots feasting/ upon fallen-soldier flesh. 

Although many authors begin in childhood, I came to writing--beyond thank-you notes, letters, and school papers--with graying hair. Writing this blog couldn't have been imagined, much less happened, in my youth. Writing would have kept me inside. I was an outside kid playing ball, flying kites, and exploring along the local creek.

My fondest childhood hours were spent at the end of our block in a large vacant lot where things grew WILD. Up in the cherry tree, I was a bird viewing the world below. Lying on the ground, I imagined what life was like for beetles and crickets with grasses tall as trees towering above. I puzzled why ants walked single-file like second graders returning to class.

I'd heard that God punished the snake for its role in Eden by depriving it of legs. I, however, couldn't see how the garter snake was disadvantaged as it slithered with a grace unequaled by footed creatures. Nor was it bothered by skinned knees, stubbed toes or broken bones from falling. I amassed my observations and kept them to myself. I certainly didn't write about them. Nor could I have predicted, many years later, being so touched by an intact snake skeleton that I'd write... 

*SNAKE SPEAKS   Among the dunes/ beneath a ponderosa pine/ articulated skeleton of snake// speaks to me/in supple syllables/ of vertebrae/ and curved ribs/ fine as needles// till I can hear/ it slither-stitch/ its shifting shape/ across the sand/ in search of prey. 

After my dad died, we moved to an older neighborhood without a vacant lot. As the oldest of three children I took on more family responsibility. Life progressed with its hormonal changes, work at the corner drugstore, college, teaching, and marriage--all in cities. I had assumed life's traditional roles and forgotten the vacant lot until many years later when my husband and I settled on ranch land in New Mexico among red rock mesas and miles of space.

I learned to recognize our new neighbors as much by sound as by sight: the whhipp whhipp whhipp of ravens flying overhead, the descending co coo coo coooo of the romantic roadrunner. In October my pulse responded to the warbling call of gray waves of sandhill cranes lapping their way across the sky along an invisible path first marked millions of years ago.

Among the neighbors I was getting to know was a black widow spider, the first one I'd ever seen, her telltale red hourglass on a body sleek as polished jet. She lived, not in the neat orb of garden spiders, but in a ragtag web littered with gray exoskeletons hanging about like ghosts of her previous meals.

In those days before PCs were common and Google was a verb, I took notes, wrote down questions, and went to the bookmobile to learn that the tiny brown spider that awkwardly approached my black widow wasn't just a meal, but was her mate plucking the lines of her web like a harp to announce his intentions, that the marble-size silk ball she turned and tended was her egg sac. I watched spiderlings hatch one by one by one by one and sail off in the breeze on strands of silk like kite tails that delivered hundreds of young to new homes.

I had reconnected to my vacant lot, responding to nature with the awe and wonder of a child. Only now my vacant lot was 60 acres and I didn't have to grow up.

But I did feel the need to capture these experiences in a tangible way after I'd all but lost them for those many years. I also wanted to share my findings and excitement with children who don't have the advantage of exploring undeveloped places. "A Dangerous Lady," about the black widow spider, was my first article. It appeared in Cricket magazine. I continued to write.

Poetry crept into my writing along with the rhythms and sensuousness of the seasons. I watched extravaganzas of horizontal lightning on onyx nights, accepted the extremes of drought and floods, and attended to the details of a land many call barren. I started to read poetry and took classes. I began writing with much more awareness of my writing tools.

In addition to sounds, pattern, repetition, rhythm, and rhyme, I consider point of view, shape, and poetic form. I try to listen for what a poem needs. Capturing emotional truth often means not always or in all ways telling exactly what happened. In the following excerpt I chose first person to enhance the poignancy of 

*THE WATCH MAN   The way I know it's my birthday is when Mom tells me to stay home from school to wait for him. . . . I take the small box he pushes into my hand. Open it he commands. It's a watch. It's always a watch. Thanks I say. You're thirteen now, he notes. Be good. Be good startles me. It's the most interest he's ever expressed in what I do. It's the last time I see my dad.

Rather than using a strict traditional form or even free verse, I felt the prose poem format suited the emotional bleakness in "The Watch Man."

I no longer separate poetry from nature. Even the worst disasters call me to dip into the well of poetic choices for adequate expression. So did gross aspects of eating and being eaten seek to become 29 children's poems about the food chain in What's for Dinner? Quirky, Squirmy Poems  from the Animal World. A dose of humor helps make distasteful facts more palatable.

When I hear children or adults giggle or say, "I didn't know that," I know I've succeeded in communicating my fascination with nature's facts and idiosyncrasies.

As a children's writer, there's a special satisfaction when my words are paired with complementary art such as David Clark's illustrations for the cover and poems in this book:


For me, a silver-haired eight year old, what it means to be a poet is to be childlike, in the sense of seeing with unbiased eyes and heart, and to write honestly in the best language possible for the subject and for my audience. 


Posted by Katherine B. Hauth, author of What's for Dinner? Quirky, Squirmy Poems from the Animal World. All poems in this post are written by Katherine. Poems marked with an asterisk (*) are from the six-poet anthology, 66 Poems from the Route.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Live from the Tower of London: Queen Anne Boleyn

Strange stuff, this 21st century. Lurking around my eternal resting place, the Tower of London, I encounter all sorts of oddities. First of all, people do not run from this place anymore, but instead, they seem to flock to it! And what’s more—they pay money to do so! They all seem intrigued by the stories and tales of the people murdered and imprisoned here. If only they knew . . .

I appear to be quite the topic of conversation around here. And rightfully so! I was imprisoned here, wrongfully, at the hand of my husband, King Henry VIII. He said I betrayed him, that I ran around with other men! Ha! The real truth is that I did not bear him a son and, anxious to try anew with someone else, he threw me in the Tower like a common criminal, ended my life by beheading me here. How kind of him to wait until I was true and dead to engage himself to Jane Seymour—a whole day he waited! Well, let me say—Jane may have bore him the son he always wanted, but it was I who gave birth to Elizabeth, the greatest queen of England.

The Tower of London

And what’s more, there is a dreadful display right at the site of the scaffold where many were executed—myself included. I suppose I should feel . . . honored? After all, the literature I see tossed in the rubbish bins calls this disdainful monstrosity a “memorial site.” A glass pillow sits there, as though the act of losing one’s head is a relaxing experience. Quite the contrary!

Scaffold site at the Tower of London

Aside from the changes in the Tower, I’ve also heard news of a book about me, Bad Girls. I have several problems with it: first of all, I am not bad! I was wronged! Secondly, I am not a girl! I am a Queen! (And it would do you well to remember that.) Third of all, I do not appreciate being lumped together with the likes of some of those women. Surely I did nothing to deserve being bound together in literary eternity with Mary Tudor!

To the authors of this . . . strange book: 

Ms. Yolen, I appreciate your tendency to argue on my behalf. Quite the queen, you’d make. 

Ms. Stemple, since when is being manipulative a crime? However, you seem to me someone who would have gotten the better of my late husband, and for that I must admire you somewhat. 

And to the illustrator, Ms. Guay . . . a fine job you’ve done. It’s quite astounding how well you managed to capture my essence—have we met?

Posted by Queen Anne Boleyn, the woman who lost her head for love. Bad Girl from circa 1500-1536.

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Friday, March 1, 2013

Don't judge the Queen

You, old woman, scribe with the strange name, write this down. Write it truly. I know well you scribblers often lie. The heiroglyphs of my life make wounds. Even the letters my Roman husbands used can cut deep. But remember this: you cannot judge me. You are but a writer. I am the queen. Only I can judge.

You sneer at me, oh I know. I have had your words translated. You think to laugh at my brother-marriage. Well know this: in Egypt we royals kept the blood lines pure by marrying ourselves. But I was the oldest. My brother schemed with crafty men. He had to die. There was no shame in ordering it. You cannot judge. I am the queen.

You laughed at me marrying the old Roman men. Well, know this: they held great power. It is no shame to marry that way, to keep the power lines strong. Only power can hold on to power, only power can breed more power. You cannot judge. I am the queen.

You thought the style of my life was an excess of feasts and festivals, of great barges and beautiful clothing, dazzling jewels. That I had servants and slave. Of course I did. There was no shame in it. The poor expect it. They lived through me. I was their mornings, I was their evenings. You cannot judge. I am the queen.

And in the end when all was lost, you pitied me. I did not want your pity. I did not want their pity. A queen who encourages pity is a queen who is lost. Lost to her kingdom, lost to her people, lost to history. The asp was my choice, the poison my salvation, death my new life. You cannot judge.

Only I can judge. After all, in death as in life, I am the queen.

Posted by Cleopatra, The Queen of Denial. Bad Girl from 69-30 BCE.
©2013 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

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