Poetry Wednesday: Cookie Monster, Poet

Cookie Monster, via Sesame Street, tweeted the following poem:

This is just to say
Me have eaten 
the cookies 
that were in the cookie jar

and which 
you were probably 
saving 
for snack time

Forgive me 
they were so delicious 
and om nom nom

Me love poetry... and cookies!


You may recognize its inspiration: "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams.

I have eaten

 the plums

 that were in the icebox

 and which

you were probably

saving 

for breakfast 

 Forgive me 

they were delicious

 so sweet 

and so cold

Thanks, Cookie Monster!

Night Reading and E-Books: Making an Important Decision

I am a fan of the electronic reader. I keep my Kindle with me at all times — one never knows when the need to read shall arise. A quiet lunch? A visit to the doctor's office? Unexpected downtime? All those and more translate into extra reading time, and I am glad I have my choice of books.

I also keep my magazines on it so I'm never without a New Yorker. (Hey, I've got to be prepared for every contingency.)

However, there's a limit to how I will use an e-book.

Now, I didn't understand my limitations until recently, more than a year after I started loading my Kindle — and, now, my iPad (thank you, Kindle Reader app!).

My limitation is simple, but clear: I will not take my Kindle to bed.

Oh, I may work like a demon on my computer until 2 am and I may Pinterest or BuzzFeed on my iPad until way later than I should; I am, after all, only human (despite evidence to the contrary).  Electronics are valuable. However, I always shut off the electronics when I climb between the covers.

Well, now. I must admit, I haven't always made that decision. Until recently, I had no issue with perusing my Kindle or iPad before picking up my book.

Then I realized I couldn't fall asleep.

There is evidence that the light from tablets suppresses melatonin, which can throw off a person's circadian rhythm.

That's science. Here's my own evidence: I don't fall asleep easily or quickly after using electronics with a screen. It takes me an hour or more after computer time before I  am ready to fall asleep.

Don't get me wrong: I am tired. I am weary. I am ready for the day to end. I want to fall asleep. I cannot, however, do that in front of a screen. To be fair, I cannot do it in front of a television, either: I can count on one hand the number of times I have fallen asleep while watching television. The screen hypnotizes me and keeps me awake long after my body is ready for bed.

The same, apparently, applies to tablet reading.

I will always carry and use paper books — not for the smell or heft, not for the comfort, not for the vast collection (sometimes exclusively) available in print. I don't do it because I don't want to battle for a plug in a hospital waiting room or bagel shop. I do it because I don't want to be tethered to a power source or to let the zombies know where I am at night, behind the glowing screen.

I will do it because until they build a "mousetrap" that lets this difficult sleeper fall asleep easily, I won't make my life any harder. E-books have their place — just not in my bed.

Fun Friday: A Wicked Lineup

Poetry Wednesday: Buddhist New Year Song

Buddhist New Year Song

I saw you in green velvet, wide full sleeves

seated in front of a fireplace, our house

made somehow more gracious, and you said

“There are stars in your hair”— it was truth I

brought down with me

to this sullen and dingy place that we must make golden

make precious and mythical somehow, it is our nature,

and it is truth, that we came here, I told you,

from other planets

where we were lords, we were sent here,

for some purpose

the golden mask I had seen before, that fitted

so beautifully over your face, did not return

nor did that face of a bull you had acquired

amid northern peoples, nomads, the Gobi desert

I did not see those tents again, nor the wagons

infinitely slow on the infinitely windy plains,

so cold, every star in the sky was a different color

the sky itself a tangled tapestry, glowing

but almost, I could see the planet from which we had come

I could not remember (then) what our purpose was

but remembered the name Mahakala, in the dawn

in the dawn confronted Shiva, the cold light

revealed the “mindborn” worlds, as simply that,

I watched them propagated, flowing out,

or, more simply, one mirror reflecting another.

then broke the mirrors, you were no longer in sight

nor any purpose, stared at this new blackness

the mindborn worlds fled, and the mind turned off:

a madness, or a beginning?

By Diane di Prima

From Pieces of a Song

Courtesy Poetry Foundation

Fun Friday: One at a Time

Poetry Wednesday: The Swan at Edgewater Park

The Swan at Edgewater Park

Isn't one of your prissy rich peoples' swans
Wouldn't be at home on some pristine pond
Chooses the whole stinking shoreline, candy wrappers, condoms
      in its tidal fringe
Prefers to curve its muscular, slightly grubby neck
      into the body of a Great Lake,
Swilling whatever it is swans swill,
Chardonnay of algae with bouquet of crud,
While Clevelanders walk by saying Look
      at that big duck!
Beauty isn't the point here; of course
      the swan is beautiful,
But not like Lorie at 16, when
Everything was possible—no
More like Lorie at 27
Smoking away her days off in her dirty kitchen,
Her kid with asthma watching TV,
The boyfriend who doesn't know yet she's gonna
Leave him, washing his car out back—and
He's a runty little guy, and drinks too much, and
It's not his kid anyway, but he loves her, he
Really does, he loves them both—
That's the kind of swan this is.

by Ruth L. Schwartz
 from Edgewater. © Harper Collins, 2002
Courtesy of The Writer's Almanac

Fun Friday: Fairy Tales Are More Than True

Poetry Wednesday: América

América

I.

Although Tía Miriam boasted she discovered
at least half-a-dozen uses for peanut butter —
topping for guava shells in syrup,
butter substitute for Cuban toast,
hair conditioner and relaxer —
Mamà never knew what to make
of the monthly five-pound jars
handed out by the immigration department
until my friend, Jeff, mentioned jelly.

II.

There was always pork though,
for every birthday and wedding,
whole ones on Christmas and New Year's Eves,
even on Thanksgiving Day — pork,
fried, broiled or crispy skin roasted —
as well as cauldrons of black beans,
fried plantain chips and yuca con mojito.
These items required a special visit
to Antonio's Mercado on the corner of 8th street
where men in guayaberas stood in senate
blaming Kennedy for everything — "Ese hijo de puta!"
the bile of Cuban coffee and cigar residue
filling the creases of their wrinkled lips;
clinging to one another's lies of lost wealth,
ashamed and empty as hollow trees.

III.

By seven I had grown suspicious — we were still here.
Overheard conversations about returning
had grown wistful and less frequent.
I spoke English; my parents didn't.
We didn't live in a two story house
with a maid or a wood panel station wagon
nor vacation camping in Colorado.
None of the girls had hair of gold;
none of my brothers or cousins
were named Greg, Peter, or Marsha;
we were not the Brady Bunch.
None of the black and white characters
on Donna Reed or on Dick Van Dyke Show
were named Guadalupe, Lázaro, or Mercedes.
Patty Duke's family wasn't like us either —
they didn't have pork on Thanksgiving,
they ate turkey with cranberry sauce;
they didn't have yuca, they had yams
like the dittos of Pilgrims I colored in class.

IV.

A week before Thanksgiving
I explained to my abuelita
about the Indians and the Mayflower,
how Lincoln set the slaves free;
I explained to my parents about
the purple mountain's majesty,
"one if by land, two if by sea"
the cherry tree, the tea party,
the amber waves of grain,
the "masses yearning to be free"
liberty and justice for all, until
finally they agreed:
this Thanksgiving we would have turkey,
as well as pork.

V.

Abuelita prepared the poor fowl
as if committing an act of treason,
faking her enthusiasm for my sake.
Mamà set a frozen pumpkin pie in the oven
and prepared candied yams following instructions
I translated from the marshmallow bag.
The table was arrayed with gladiolus,
the plattered turkey loomed at the center
on plastic silver from Woolworths.
Everyone sat in green velvet chairs
we had upholstered with clear vinyl,
except Tío Carlos and Toti, seated
in the folding chairs from the Salvation Army.
I uttered a bilingual blessing
and the turkey was passed around
like a game of Russian Roulette.
"DRY", Tío Berto complained, and proceeded
to drown the lean slices with pork fat drippings
and cranberry jelly — "esa mierda roja," he called it.
Faces fell when Mamá presented her ochre pie —
pumpkin was a home remedy for ulcers, not a dessert.
Tía María made three rounds of Cuban coffee
then abuelo and Pepe cleared the living room furniture,
put on a Celia Cruz LP and the entire family
began to merengue over the linoleum of our apartment,
sweating rum and coffee until they remembered —
it was 1970 and 46 degrees —
in América.
After repositioning the furniture,
an appropriate darkness filled the room.
Tío Berto was the last to leave.

by Richard Blanco

Fun Friday: Priorities

Poetry for Independence Day: I, Too

I, Too

I, too, sing America.

 

I am the darker brother.

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes,

But I laugh,

And eat well,

And grow strong.

Tomorrow,

I’ll be at the table

When company comes.

Nobody’ll dare

Say to me,

“Eat in the kitchen,”

Then.

Besides,

They’ll see how beautiful I am

And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

by Langston Hughes
from Collected Poems
Courtesy Poetry Foundation

Poetry Wednesday: I Hear America Singing

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
    Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
              and strong,
    The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
    The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off
              work,
    The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-
              hand singing on the steamboat deck,
    The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
              as he stands,
    The woodcutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morn-
              ing, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
    The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
              or of the girl sewing or washing,
    Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
    The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
              fellows, robust, friendly,
    Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. 

by Walt Whitman
Courtesy Poem of the Week

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15752#sthash.NaiToFfb.dpuf

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15752#sthash.NaiToFfb.dpuf

Independence Day — What Does It Mean To You?

What does "Independence Day" mean to you? Parades, barbecues, fireworks?

How about sedition, treason and risking everything for what you believe?

Watch this video produced by Declare Yourself — and pause to think about it.

Be brave, be true. Happy Independence Day.

If you can't get to the National Archives, take a gander below: here's what the Declaration of Independence looks like:

Read the text here.