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The 5th Gift of Christmas in Room 13, Oliver Street School, 1944

51Z3YQ1adYL._SX258_PJlook-inside-v2,TopRight,1,0_SH20_BO1,204,203,200_From The Hundred Dresses by Eleanor Estes:

Dear Miss Mason: How are you and Room 13? Please tell the girls they can keep those hundred dresses because in my new house I have a hundred new ones all lined up in my closet. I’d like that girl Peggy to have the drawing of the green dress with the red trimming and her friend Maddie to have the blue one. For Christmas. I miss that school and my new teacher does not equalize with you. Merry Christmas to you and everybody. Yours truly,
Wanda Petronski

“The teacher passed the letter around the room for everybody to see. It was pretty, decorated with a picture of a Christmas tree lighted up in the night in a park surrounded by high buildings.”

Since bullying is the topic du jour these days in children’s books and school assemblies, a retrieval of this classic story about Polish immigrant Wanda Petronski and her encounters with the girls of “Room 13” would certainly remind us that the problem of the strong pushing around the weak is not a new one. And the story gives some keys to the solutions: empathy developed by understanding, distance sometimes, and inner strength. Art helps, too.

Today’s Gifts from Semicolon
A song: In the Bleak Midwinter, lyrics by Christian Rossetti, music by Gustav Holst.

A booklist: Biographies of the U.S. Presidents (books I’m planning to read)

A birthday: Christina Rossetti, b.1830.
Walt Disney, b. 1901. The movie, Saving Mr. Banks, about Walt Disney and author P.L. Travers and the making of the movie version of Mary Poppins opens in theaters December 20th.

A poem: Love Came Down at Christmas by Christina Rossetti.

Poetry Friday: Charlotte Zolotow and the Poets

The recently deceased children’s author Charlotte Zolotow was also an editor and a poet herself. She edited many of the most gifted authors of poetry for children of the twentieth century during her tenure at Harper and Row.

Lee Bennet Hopkins wrote of his editor Charlotte Zolotow: “Charlotte was editor-supreme. Her respect for an author, her insight, foresight, her vision of what could be — become — has been a highlight of my career. Lucky is one to be caught in the true Charlotte’s web.”

Paul Fleischman, winner of the 1989 Newbery Medal for Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices was also edited by Ms. Zolotow. In a tribute to her editorial skills, he says: “In matters of larger scope, her vision was truly exceptional. She was an astounding discoverer of talent. Once she’d found you, she didn’t rewrite you any more than she did your sentences. Ideas for books weren’t thrust upon you. The latest trends in publishing were never bandied about. Charlotte operated on the theory that the best book you had inside you was the one you most wished to write, no matter what happened to be selling at the moment.”

61AjTymBiWL._SX258_PJlook-inside-v2,TopRight,1,0_SH20_BO1,204,203,200_Poet Karla Kuskin, also a friend and protege of Ms. Zolotow, wrote a poem for a 1990 celebration of Charlotte Zolotow’s work:

There is that smile
that warms us like the sun.
There is the ouevre
(fine work done,
fine work yet to come).
There is all this, and more
combined
with that well honed and stainless
steel trap mind…

Mind and imagination combined made Charlotte Zolotow a formidable and talented author and editor and poet. Here are a couple of poems by Ms. Charotte herself:

51CA533HDML._SY344_PJlook-inside-v2,TopRight,1,0_SH20_BO1,204,203,200_Ladybug by Charlotte Zolotow

Little ladybug
With your
Glazed red wings
and small black polka dots
you look like a porcelain statue
until suddenly
you
fly
away.

People by Charlotte Zolotow

Some people talk and talk
and never say a thing.
Some people look at you
and birds begin to sing.

Some people laugh and laugh
and yet you want to cry.
Some people touch your hand
and music fills the sky.

Poetry Friday: David McCord

Children’s poet David McCord was born on November 15 (or December 15 or 17), 1897 in New York City. (Most internet sources say December 15th or just 1897.) He grew up in New Jersey and Oregon, and went to school at Harvard, where he later worked as a fundraiser for the Harvard College Fund.

He once said about writing poetry for children:

“Whatever may be said about this small but graceful art, three things should be remembered: good poems for children are never trivial; they are never written without the characteristic chills and fever of a dedicated man at work; they must never bear the stigma of I am adult, you are a child.”

“McCord said he developed a love of words and a fine sense of rhythm from reading aloud the Bible to his elderly grandmother.” (Obituary, Harvard Gazette, April 17, 1997)

This poem is the one by Mr. McCord I remember reading over and over again until I practically had it memorized. I used to read my library books while perched in the mulberry tree next to my house, so I suppose this poem was something close to my own experience.

51VY32VQ2hL._SY344_PJlook-inside-v2,TopRight,1,0_SH20_BO1,204,203,200_Every time I climb a tree
Every time I climb a tree
Every time I climb a tree
I scrape a leg
Or skin a knee
And every time I climb a tree
I find some ants
Or dodge a bee
And get the ants
All over me.

And every time I climb a tree
Where have you been?
They say to me
But don’t they know that I am free
Every time I climb a tree?

I like it best
To spot a nest
That has an egg
Or maybe three.

And then I skin
The other leg
But every time I climb a tree
I see a lot of things to see
Swallows rooftops and TV
And all the fields and farms there be
Every time I climb a tree
Though climbing may be good for ants
It isn’t awfully good for pants
But still it’s pretty good for me
Every time I climb a tree

Lee Bennett Hopkins discusses David McCord and his poetry.

Poetry Friday Roundup this week is at Jama’s Alphabet Soup. I can’t think of a more poetical place to visit on a crisp November day.

Poetry Friday: Nobody’s Secret by Michaela MacColl

In 1846 fifteen year old Emily of Amherst, Massachusetts, meets a mysterious young man whom she nicknames “Mr. Nobody.” Since he refuses to tell Emily his real name, she is regrettably unable to identify him when he turns up dead in her family’s pond. However, Miss Emily Dickinson feels a responsibility not only to find out the name of the deceased but also to determine just how he died.

I was reminded of Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce mysteries as I read this murder mystery featuring a fictionalized Emily Dickinson as amateur detective. Emily, as portrayed in Nobody’s Secret, is a sharp, intelligent, and very private young lady who is already scribbling down poems in a secret notebook that she keeps hidden in a very secret place. Like Flavia, Emily is not afraid of dead bodies or possible confrontations with murderers, and she is just as determined and ingenious as that other fictional girl detective.

However, in this novel we have the added flavor and pleasure of poetry, and not just any poetry but the verse of Miss Dickinson herself. The author of this YA mystery writes in a note at the end of the book, “Emily’s poems inspired this story, especially ‘I’m Nobody! Who Are You?,’ which is about how enticing anonymity might be in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog! –

Emily Dickinson’s use of “creative punctuation”–particularly all the dashes– annoyed editors and publishers in the nineteenth century and provoked them to change her punctuation marks to more acceptable ones. That kind of editing, in turn, provoked Emily Dickinson, and as a result she did not allow very many of her poems to be published, or “corrected,” during her lifetime. Her poems also often had several versions. I memorized the one above a long time ago with the words “banish us” instead of “advertise”, and that’s the way I quote it, frequently, to my children.

A good solid mystery woven around immortal poetry: what more could one desire? Nobody’s Secret would be an excellent Cybils nominee in the category of Young Adult Fiction.

Poetry Friday is hosted today by Jen at Teach Mentor Texts.

Poetry Friday: To Autumn by John Keats

'Yellow fruitfulness' photo (c) 2008, Tim Green - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

'' photo (c) 2012, Larry Miller - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

'Ickworth Park (NT) 01-04-2007' photo (c) 2007, Karen Roe - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

What lovely descriptive lines:
“season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”
“thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind”
“barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day”
“the small gnats mourn among the river sallows”

Could you even begin to describe a season, or a day, or a mood so vividly and beautifully? I couldn’t, which is why John Keats is the poet and I am me, a humble admirer of Keats’ craft.

Listen to Robert Pinsky read To Autumn.

For more poetry on this Friday or any day, see Poetry Friday at Author Amok.

Poetry Friday: Plagiarizing Donne

The following poem was kinda, sorta plagiarized by me from John Donne’s poem, A Lecture Upon the Shadow. I was trying to write some song lyrics for my musician son to put to music, and I liked the images and thoughts in Mr. Donne’s poem. So I captured them in my own poem/song, and I also used a quote from Downton Abbey that I liked and believe to be true. Quoth Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham: “One way or another, everyone goes down the aisle with half the story hidden.”

So, anyway, here’s my take on shadows and secrets and the clarity of love:

'No thank you!' photo (c) 2011, Mathias - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
Stand still and I will read to you,
A shadow lecture in the sun
Three hours we’ve spent, two shadows went,
A-walking hand in hand.
A-walking hand in hand.

And everyone goes down the aisle
With half the story hidden.

The sun is just above our heads,
The shadows underfoot.
In clearness brave, all things reduced,
Disguises flow away,
Disguises flow away.

'Hochzeit M & R' photo (c) 2010, !Koss - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/But everyone goes down the aisle
With half the story hidden.

And after noon new shadows shall
We make the other way.
At first we’re blind, these come behind,
And westwardly decline.
And westwardly decline.

Oh love’s day is short, if love decay,
Love needs a growing or constant light;
His first minute, after noon, is night.

And everyone goes into night
With half the story hidden.

Poetry Friday: Tap Dancing on the Roof by Linda Sue Park

Picture Book Around the World: Reading Through Korea I’m working hard on my Picture Book Around the World sequel to Picture Book Preschool, my preschool read aloud curriculum for homeschooling your preschooler or kindergartner. This week at Semicolon, we’re going to continue to visit Korea through the medium of a treasure trove of picture books featuring that country and its children.

POCKETS

What’s in your pockets right now? I hope they’re not empty:
Empty pockets, unread books, lunches left on the bus–all a waste.
In mine: One horse chestnut. One gum wrapper. One dime. One hamster.

Linda Sue Park’s poem, POCKETS, is an example of a Korean sijo (see-szo or she-szo, with the j pronounced as the French pronounce Jacques), a three or six line poem with a fixed number of stressed syllables and an unexpected twist or joke at the end. Tap Dancing on the Roof is a book of sijo. These deceptively simple poems are a delight, but after reading over the end page, “Some Tips for Writing your own Sijo”, I am even more impressed with the difficulty inherent in writing a “simple” poem. Making it look easy isn’t easy.

Sijo were originally meant to be sung, and the songs “often praised the beauty of the seasons.” Yes, they’re similar to haiku, but whereas haiku are usually nature poems, sijo are about all kinds of subjects. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries many sijo were written by women who were court singers. These sijo were often about love and romance. The poems in Tap Dancing on the Roof are about kid stuff nature, games, daily tasks, and family relationships.

I thought I might try writing my own sijo for this review, but after I read the poems in Tap Dancing on the Roof and thought about it some more, I decided that I’m not that talented as a poet. So here’s a poem I liked from the Sejong Cultural Society website:

The spring breeze melted snow on the hills, then quickly disappeared.
I wish I could borrow it briefly to blow over my hair
and melt away the aging frost forming now about my ears.
춘산(春山)에 눈 녹인 바람 건듯 불고 간듸업네
저근듯 비러다가 뿌리과저 머리우희
귀밋헤 해묵은 서리를 불녀볼까 하노라
U-Taek (1262-1342)

My Name Is Yoon by Helen Recorvits

Picture Book Around the World: Reading Through Korea I’m working hard on my Picture Book Around the World sequel to Picture Book Preschool, my preschool read aloud curriculum for homeschooling your preschooler or kindergartner. This week at Semicolon, we’re going to be visiting Korea through the medium of a treasure trove of picture books featuring that country and its children.

“I write my name in English now. It still means Shining Wisdom.”

Yoon, newly arrived in the United States with her family from Korea, doesn’t want to write her name in English letters with all their circles and lines and sharp cornersand lack of continuity. She wants her name to be written in Korean: “My name looks happy in Korean. The symbols dance together.”

'RSDigby_1628' photo (c) 2009, Robert S. Digby - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/

She’s right. The Korean hangul do lend themselves to artistry, don’t they?

I think the take-away from this story of a Korean girl finding her place in a new country and culture is that we do give up some things when we cross cultures. Yoon learns to write her name in English. But she still knows that it means “Shining Wisdom”, and she still keeps her attachment to words and the way they sound and look. Yoon is something of a poet as she tries on the new English words to see how they fit her.

We give up some things and gain others. Yoon makes new friends, and she learns to understand her new teacher who smiles at her in the end.

Helen Recorvits and Gabi Swiatkowska have collaborated on two other books about Yoon: Yoon and the Christmas Mitten and Yoon and the Jade Bracelet. On the basis of this first book, the other two would be worth seeking out.

Poetry Friday

I’ve been both ill and busy, and I forgot all about Poetry Friday–which is supposed to be HERE today! Have you ever invited people over and then forgotten that they are coming? That’s how I’m feeling–an embarrassed hostess!

However, I could use some poetry today. So leave your link in the linky and we’ll forget all about the dilatory and unprepared hostess.

1. New Hampshire Rock Garden
2. Becky Shillington (Charleston Nights)
3. Florian Cafe
4. Michelle H. Barnes (Inside the Mind’s Eye)
5. Robyn Hood Black (Margarita Engle interview)
6. Father Goose (The Couplet as Metaphor)
7. Jeff@NCTeacherStuff (Horizon)
8. Margaret at Reflection on the Teche (The Lake)
9. Catherine Johnson (Two Left Feet)
10. Keri Collins Lewis (Tabatha’s tritina & more)
11. Irene Latham (Poems about pocket treasures)
12. Random Noodling (The Last Laugh)
13. Tabatha (Still)
14. Kurious Kitty (Cocoon)
15. Kurious K (the wild mind)
16. Teacher Dance (The Vacation)
17. Elizabeth Steinglass (Sunflower)
18. Mary Lee Hahn (The Speed of Time)
19. Joy Acey (Modern Haiku)
20. Tabatha Yeatts (Still)
21. Charles Ghigna (Father Goose) – “The Couplet as Metaphor”
22. Linda (I Will Remember You)
23. Little Willow (from Hamlet by Shakespeare)
24. Violet N (Bullied Abecedarium)
25. The Poem Farm (Building and Visitors!)
26. Joy Acey (Gravitational Force)
27. Catherine (A Splot, Buildings, and a Windmill)
28. Karen Edmisten (Midsummer, Robert Fitzgerald)
29. Anastasia @ Poet!Poet! (Hacked)
30. Donna (Mainely Write – Remember when I made that cake…)
31. Cathy (A New Me)
32. Carol (Harrowing)
33. Janet Squires (A Fire in my Hands)
34. Betsy (Sun Night Light)
35. Iphigene @ GatheringBooks (A Widow’s Reply)
36. Fats @ GatheringBooks (Grave of the Fireflies)
37. Holly Thompson

Powered by… Mister Linky’s Magical Widgets.

Matt Forest at Radio Rythm and Rhyme very kindly put up a post with links when he saw that I was AWOL, so you can leave links here or there–or both places. The more poetry, the better.

'BETH'S POETRY TRAIL No 7.  PHILIP LARKIN' photo (c) 2012, summonedbyfells - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

I found this poem picture at Wylio, my contribution to the party.

The Convert by G.K. Chesterton

It’s National Poetry Month, and I haven’t done much poetry. It’s been one of those months so far, fast and furious and full of sounds, signifying I’m-not-sure-what-yet.

At any rate, here’s a poem by one of my favorite people, G.K. Chesterton. Does anybody know of a good, well written, popular biography of Chesterton? I’ve read his autobiographical Orthodoxy and others of his writings, but a really cracking good bio would be of interest.

The Convert
by G. K. Chesterton

After one moment when I bowed my head
And the whole world turned over and came upright,
And I came out where the old road shone white.
I walked the ways and heard what all men said,
Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed,
Being not unlovable but strange and light;
Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite
But softly, as men smile about the dead

The sages have a hundred maps to give
That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree,
They rattle reason out through many a sieve
That stores the sand and lets the gold go free:
And all these things are less than dust to me
Because my name is Lazarus and I live.