Monday, June 21, 2010

After Work

I spent an hour of Father's Day scouring books and books of poetry, looking for a certain poem of a father and son that, alas, I did not find. I read and in many cases reread poems of fathers and families, but of all that I read, Richard Jones' "After Work" stayed with me the longest. I love it.
After Work
Richard Jones

Coming up from the subway
into the cool Manhattan evening,
I feel rough hands on my heart—
women in the market yelling
over rows of tomatoes and peppers,
old men sitting on a stoop playing cards,
cabbies cursing each other with fists
while the music of church bells
sails over the street,
and the father, angry and tired
after working all day,
embracing his little girl,
kissing her,
mi vida, mi corazón,
brushing the hair out of her eyes
so she can see.
* mi vida, "my life"
* mi corazon, "my heart"

While searching the internet for a copy of "After Work," I came across this brilliant little site, Poetry 365, that posts a poem a day, tagged by author and subject. Judging by the limited selection I perused, this poet lover and I share very much the same tastes in poetry. I will certainly be visiting again.
Happy Father's Day, most particularly to my own dear Dad.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Children's Poetry Archive

I've recently come to adore the Children's Poetry Archive. I love how colorful it is and how easy the website is to navigate. You can search by poet, poem, theme, or even form. Other things I love are recordings of each poem, poet bios, links to other poetry sites, lists of publishers,  and links to buy CD's and books of the poetry. My only complaint is the limited number of poets included on the site, which excludes many of my childhood favorites. Still it's definitely worth a look, particularly if you, dear reader, have small children you want to lure into the world of poetry, or if you yourself wish to be lured.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Drifted Away

The human memory has always been intriguing to me. I am one who scrawls away in journal after journal, taking pictures of each day, haunted by all that there is ahead of me to be forgotten. And yet, a thousand words and a hundred pictures can only freeze the memory on paper, and not in the mind. Just today, I remembered having forgotten the name of a boy I was once friends with, and the word for "mother" in sign language. What of all that I don't even recall having forgotten? I love Billy Collin's poem on the topic of forgetting, particularly this unique portrayal of it.