Poetry Friday

I've had picture books on the brain a lot recently, for a number of different reasons. Partly because I'm driving out tonight to pick up my favorite picture book of all time (The Library by Sarah Stewart and David Small) that I ordered from my local bookstore. Second because of my children's book blog. The third reason I hope to tell you about soon but I'm trying hard not to write or think about at the moment.

We also had our first real taste of snow yesterday and today I just want to hibernate. I was reminded last night how much I hate winter. When the snow starts to fly I just want to stay indoors, curl up under a blanket, read, sip cocoa, and hibernate. What better way to do that than with a poem about both picture books and winter.

Picture-Books in Winter
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes—
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.

We may see how all things are,
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books?

Rainy Day Reading

I had so much that I was going to get done today. I had been so productive last night and I was looking forward to really making progress on a couple of projects today. I have a letter for our homeowners association that I need to draft in the next day or so. That hung over my head all day. I have a house that severely needs to be cleaned out. We have reached that extremely cluttered stage that drives me crazy. I had some writing I was going to get done. But I woke up late this morning with a headache (stupid wine) so instead I drank endless pots of coffee, ate most of a loaf of beer bread, and spent the entire day reading.

I'm currently reading Salt: A World History by Mark Kurlansky which is a rather fascinating history of how the salt trade and production has shaped our world. I got interested in the book after reading At Home by Bill Bryson last week. Bryson had done a small section on salt and pepper for his dining room section. He didn't list where the salt information came from but when I found the book at the bookstore, I figured I'd found a definitive history. I love seeing how one product has impacted us so immensely. I would rank Salt right up there with A History of the World in Six Glasses as one of the more incredible food based histories I've read.

I read some of Salt, but the rainy day called for a little lighter fare today. So it was off to the library to return my stack of books and pick up more pictures books for my 1001 Children's Book Challenge. I picked up a brand new stack. I can't seem to leave the library without at least a dozen books. I brought them home and lay on the floor reading, like I was 10 again. I even started craving hot chocolate. I laughed and I marveled. So many of the books were just great. Diary of a Wombat by Jackie French made me laugh so hard I snorted. Even Jeff was surprised at how hard I was laughing. Joyful Noise, Poems in Two Voices has such interesting insect poems that I found myself rereading the poems over and over. A Van Allsburg made me gasp at the beauty of the illustrations. It wasn't the most productive day but it was a good one. A perfect rainy day.

Love Songs and Poems

I developed my love of picture books from my mother, who would sit for hours with all five of us curled around her. I still remember snuggling up to her on the living room couch while she would read the stories until she fell asleep. And we always woke her, prodded her on with the next sentence. Exhausted and sleep-deprived as she was, she always continued reading. I love her for that.

So I loved picture books because of my mother but I loved poetry because of my father. Dad was always reading bits of poetry out to us. As I've mentioned before The Raven was a favorite. The Jabberwacky for humor or the wonderful Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service (which most of us kids can quote, at least the start). He read us The Twins although the author always escapes me about a case of mistaken identity. And one of the other ones he would throw out often was this line. "Let us go then, you and I. When evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table." With him as a doctor it made sense to us but it would take me years before I was brave enough to tackle T.S. Eliot's greatest poem. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock".

I knew the first lines by heart and by the age of 12 I could recite the entire first stanza. This was still before reading the poem in full. Nowdays I can't think the words "let's go" without that poem popping to mind. Jeff has even started quoting the first couple lines even though he's never read the full poem. So for this Poetry Friday and for my father, I present a part of the poem in all its middle-aged, indecisive, awkwardness. It's a poem that I learned to recite before I learned to love it. It's long, I'll warn you, so I won't post the whole thing here. You can read it in full here. And I recommend, if you haven't read it, to try it. You be surprised by how many references from this you have heard before. (measured out my life in coffee spoons, Do I dare to eat a peach)

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.