Modeling Your Writing

One of the techniques I love to use when teaching young poets is modeling poetry directly from well-written, classic poetry. Here, I’ve used a poem called “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon. I analyzed the poem, line by line, to determine what each line was about and then wrote it to reflect my life. Granted, it’s not an “original” poem, but it’s an excellent exercise to play with words. Here is my version of her poem:

based on Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon

 

I am from white shoe polish

from Murphy’s oil soap and Johnson Wax

I am from the face powder under my mother’s dressing table
(fine, smooth
it smelled like roses.)
I am from the pussy willow bush,
the Catulpa tree
whose white flowers I remember
cascading with confetti strings.

I’m from panuche and bowling balls

          from Ruth and Robert.
I’m from the pinochels
          and Michigan rummies,
from You can be anything! And Listen to me!
I’m from thou shalt not
         under a canopy of crossed swords
         and the Act of Contrition on a cheat sheet.

I’m from Emil and Magdelina’s branch,

chicken and dumplings and sauerkraut.
From the lungs my grandmother sacrificed
          to her cigarettes,
the finger my father had sewn back on during the war.
 

In the upstairs closet is a potato chip carton

protecting old pictures,
a puzzle of known and unknown faces
to float in the recesses of my mind.
I am from those moments --
snapped before I was thought of --
the oldest branches from the family tree.

                              - Roberta Worthington

In Celebration of Shakespeare

Shakespeare is 400 years old today! Most people speculate his birthday was today, anyway, his death was.
 

I appreciate Shakespeare although I must confess I have not experienced the bulk of his writing. A painting reflecting A Midsummer Night's Dream hangs in my youngest daughter’s bedroom. I have a Shakespeare nutcracker and I can recite lines from my favorite plays: Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth and Julius Caesar.
 

He invented words, was a writer in the truest sense of the word – he knew his audience and wrote for them. He is bawdy and funny, serious and thought-provoking. He wrote to make a living – developed a five-act plot formula that worked every time. And he was a poet – ah, what English teacher hasn’t used his lines to teach iambic pentameter?
 

But his words – his ideas – still resonate today. The lines below from Romeo and Juliet introduce the idea of love at first sight!

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

Nighthawks

One of my favorite paintings has always been Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Art often serves as wonderful inspiration for a writer, so why not choose a picture and write a poem? Or a story!

Light from the diner

slices through the night
like a knife through ham on rye
at Phillie’s.
Strong 10 cent coffee
sits cooling in indestructible mugs,
untouched.
A man at the counter
huddles over the nutty smell
of his roasted blend
pretending not to be
listening
to the couple’s conversation
that wanes with the early morning hours.
She finds the matches
more interesting
than the man with the cigarette.
Its ashes and smoke
cast a fog over their relationship
on display for everyone to see –
except there is no one,
but the white-capped boy
behind the counter,
whose comment shocks the stillness.
"Have you heard?
We’re at war!”

            -Roberta Worthington

Pancakes and Relic

What a wonderful morning!

I spent several hours at the Smallwood Elementary School pancake breakfast! Although it wasn’t an occasion to sell books, I got to talk with a lot of great folks about writing, publishing, and, of course, Relic!

Lots of foks – old and young – were interested in Relic, and I’m hoping pick up a copy at one of the local stores or through Amazon. If you do pick up a copy, catch up with me at another event and I’ll sign it for you!

Thanks for a great start to my day!

 

Ides of April Poetry

 

Chinese Politics in My Notebook

Mike knew all the words
to John Denver’s “West Virginia,”
and after gentle
but continued verbal prodding
from the more fun-loving
members of the group,
shared his rendition --
as long as we sang along –
(his only condition).

Pungent fish markets

and cyclists
flashed by our windows.
The stark contrast of country roads
taking us home
and congested highways taking us
to the Great Wall.

He was really Zhao Ying.

His hated American name
chosen to make him
more palatable to us tourists.
His father was an architect
before Mao came to power,
imposing
imprisoning
the country’s intellects.
His talents wasted,
his politics hardened
in a cement factory.

This son’s future

soon cut in stone --
no money for education.
A brain wasted as a tour guide.
His story jotted in my notebook
along with his comments
on a government long gone
but still resonating:
“Those who had nothing
Thought he was great.”
                     - by Roberta Worthington

Happy Monday Poetry!

My Hand Held Device

I am warned:
“You’ll get one.
They are a must with kids.”

How did we survive?

Unattached by
the cellular umbilical cord,
we went home
when the streetlights went on,
called from a neighborhood game
of hide and seek
running through yards,
hopping hedges
as twilight turned the sky violet –
not by our mother’s voices,
but by the flicker
of illuminating street lights.

I am listening

to breeze-rustled leaves,
birds whispering secrets,
old lyrics – one line of which
has caught in my brain.
My thoughts –
nothing thoughts.

I don’t want to be

connected
uploaded
friended
found.
I want the handheld device
to be my daughters’ hands,
my husband’s hand.
                     - By Roberta Worthington

Friday's Poetry a Day Late!

Chinese folklore says there is an invisible red thread connecting those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.

Our Red Thread

It is said that a red thread
connects us,
but the symbolism is lost on me.
I look too deeply.

Is it a sewing thread
fine and agile,
manipulated with capable hands
and barely seen,
but holding us fast?

Or is it a woven thread,
coarse and nubby,
warp of a strong fabric
which we can wrap around us
like a culture blanket from another land?

I feel the warmth
of the fabric - sewn or crafted
and I drift to a memory
of a young man holding a book
and claiming with excitement,
“Look what I found on my father’s bookshelf!”
The complete memoir --  
a snippet of which
we had read in class.
And on the cover I saw the resemblance
of my German grandma
staring back at me through Chinese eyes.
My inexplicable connection,
years before I met you,
to a land I did not know.
                              - Roberta Worthington