Poetry Friday: The Round Up Is Here

Peter Mark Roget, inventor of the slide rule but most famous for his thesaurus, boon to poets everywhere, was born on this date in 1779. In his honor, I give you not a poem but an entry:

poetry, poetics, poesy, Muse, Calliope, tuneful Nine, Parnassus, Helicon, Pierides, Pierian spring. versification, rhyming, making verses; prosody, orthometry.
poem; epic, epic poem; epopee, epopoea, ode, epode, idyl, lyric, eclogue, pastoral, bucolic, dithyramb, anacreontic, sonnet, roundelay, rondeau, rondo, madrigal, canzonet, cento[obs3], *monody, elegy; amoebaeum, ghazal, palinode.

When I signed up several months ago for today's round-up, I didn't know about two days of snow and windstorms that would create drifts to complicate farm chores considerably, or that the round up would land smack dab in the midst of the annual three-day Farm Curl, where Tom and the kids and one adult friend make up one of the teams (no, I don't curl and after 13 years still haven't figured out the rules or the scoring; the only thing I find that makes curling tolerable, besides my kids' shining faces, is Paul Gross). And after a morning of chores and curling all afternoon, Laura and I head to a three-hour 4H meeting at 7 pm.

So please leave your poems with Mr. Linky, and a comment below, too, please, and I'll try to do my assembling on Saturday before setting out for the curling rink yet again.

I take it back -- just a wee bit of verse from Robert Service ("the Canadian Kipling"), born 16 January 1874. He composed some of his first lines at the age of six,

God bless the cakes and bless the jam;
Bless the cheese and the cold boiled ham:
Bless the scones Aunt Jeannie makes,
And saves us all from bellyaches. Amen

Susan at Chicken Spaghetti is still celebrating Twelfth Night with Shakespeare and continuing to enjoy her Christmas present to herself, the Complete Arkangel Shakespeare. Why? Because, as Susan writes, "you can't see, hear, or read too much Shakespeare."

Stacey at Two Writing Teachers stumbles into a colleague's first grade classroom and discovers poet Zoe Ryder White, who turns a sentence into a poem with line breaks.

Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect shares Louisa May Alcott's Thoreau's Flute, and encourages you to read this week's poetry stretch results, which include "some great centos created from titles of favorite books". By the way, for those of you who would like to share the Alcott poem -- her tribute to her old friend and mentor, Henry David Thoreau, with whom she shared many nature walks -- with your children, see if you can find Louisa May and Mr. Thoreau's Flute by Julie Dunlap and Marybeth Lorbiecki, with illustrations by the great Mary Azarian (who also illustrated Snowflake Bentley and the new Tuttle's Red Barn). There's more here on Thoreau's Flute as well.

MsMac at Check It Out is going back in time to the First Friday in January, with some original poems from some very young and very talented writers in her classrooms.

Becky at Becky's Book Reviews has been revisiting Narnia and offers a musical Narnia tribute.

Kelly at Big A little a is making the best of yet another Snow Day, with the help of Billy Collins. And don't miss the bonus snow day poem in Kelly's comments, either.

Melissa Wiley at Here in the Bonny Glen is in an Elizabeth Bishop mood today, with an elegant villanelle on the relaxing art of losing.

Suzanne at Adventures in Daily Living is also thinking snowy thoughts, with Mary Oliver's "poem of the night", Snowy Night. And, as she does every Friday, Suzanne offers a delightful personalized Poetry Friday button, as you can see at the top of this post; the html code is available at her post. Thanks, Suzanne!

Rebecca at Ipsa Dixit offers the sheer poetry that is Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, and a poem by some fellow named Shelley -- "You just keep your mind off the poetry and on the pajamas and everything will be alright, see." Perfectly delightful. Thanks, Rebecca.

Mary Lee at A Year of Reading, after a hard day's work, has what one of her commenters aptly calls a most "satisfying" poem by Marge Piercy.

John Mutford at The Book Mine Set serves up pure Canadian content with the original epigram Newfoundland Diet PSA.

More Shakespeare, now from cloudscome at a wrung sponge, who has his Sonnet No. 116 ("Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments") and takes it out of the realm of the couple to the family. cloudscome writes, "Now that I've reached middle age and been a parent for over 20 years [the sonnet] makes even more sense."

Over at Read Write Believe, Sara Lewis Holmes is Crossing Unmarked Snow with William Stafford, in a poem that reflects Sara's post earlier in the week about her new notebook and her plans for it.

writer2b at Findings has an original poem about her young daughter's passion and the horses that fill their worlds. And nifty quotes from Pablo Picasso and Rachel Carson, too.

Andrea and Mark at Just One More Book offer a podcast Straight from the Pooches’ Mouths -- a review of the children's poetry book Good Dog by Maya Gottfried, illustrated by Robert Rahway Zakanitch.

Laura Salas at Writing the World for Kids has two entries for today. She shares some poems and some of the process too, from her her new children's book, Tiny Dreams, Sprouting Tall: Poems about the United States. Congratulations, Laura! And Laura also has some of the results from her snowy 15 Words or Less photopoetry project, and a standing invitation to join in the fun.

jama rattigan celebrates the birthday of A.A. Milne, born on this date in 1882, with thoughts on loving a bear and Milne's poem Teddy Bear.

Shelf Elf shares a Pablo Neruda poem and one of her "most treasured books: Pablo Neruda’s Ode to Common Things. It is full of perfect, deceptively simple seeming poems in praise of ordinary objects and creatures."

Elaine Magliaro as always has multiple offerings to tempt us. At Wild Rose Reader, Elaine gave this week's poetry stretch (see above) a try and wrote two centos with children's poetry book titles, with terrific results. And at Blue Rose Girls, Elaine has advice on How to Change a Frog Into a Prince.

Christine M. at The Simple and the Ordinary is celebrating her husband's birthday and A.A. Milne's too with balloons and morning walks, which sounds like a dandy way to celebrate. Many happy returns and "HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY" to you, Mr. M.! And if you recognize that from "Eeyore Has a Birthday", you can have a balloon, too.

Mary Ellen Barrett at Tales from The Bonny Blue House offers her daughter's beautiful selection for their home school poetry reading next month.

Ruth at Two Writing Teachers tries something new for Poetry Friday, an original poem in etheree form accompanied by a photo quatrain. Ruth writes in the comments below, "It's focused on syllables, starting in line one with one syllable and increasing each line until you get to ten. I loved the way it stretched me creatively on this Friday morning."

Little Willow offers up the fun to read aloud Cat Scat. No, it's probably not what you're thinking. Think along the lines of Ella Fitzgerald instead. Well, Ella Fitzgerald by way of Mozart.

Karen Edmisten is making a joyful noise today with her kids and a classic book of children's poetry.

Dawn at By Sun and Candlelight and her family take a walk through the snowy woods with Robert Frost and a camera, and she writes, "Doesn't poetry compliment nature so nicely?" Of course, Dawn goes the extra mile (in the snowy woods and elsewhere) and comes up with yet another nifty project idea.

Sylvia Vardell at Poetry for Children has a post about the surprising number of poetry books that received recognition from the ALSC/YALSA awards this week. Sylvia notes, "I’m happy to say that ALL of these books appeared on my own lists of the best poetry of 2007 (see Dec. 31, 2007) or 2006 (see Dec. 29, 2006). How wonderful to see these rich and engaging works of poetry get the recognition they deserve. Now I hope they will also find their way into the hands of many young readers!"

TadMack at Finding Wonderland has X.J. Kennedy's moths to the flame. And don't miss TadMack's link to LitLinks (the first link in her post).

MotherReader is another Poetry Friday participant taking Tricia's book title cento challenge, with some of the 2007 books she's planning to read.

Anne Boles Levy at BookBuds has a review of Nikki Grimes' new book, "Oh, Brother!" about the shrinking step between new brothers.

Kelly Fineman at Writing and Ruminating, with one of my all-time favorite blog banners, has an original poem and one of my favorite post titles for today -- In the Bathtub of Possibilities. Speaking of possibilities, Kelly's poem has been included in Laura Salas's new book, Write Your Own Poetry. Congratulations, Kelly!

Jill at The Well-Read Child (where the tag line is "Instill the joy of reading in your child") offers Phenomenal Woman, which she was once lucky to hear Maya Angelou recite in person. I have it on good authority that at least fifty percent of all well-read children grow up to be phenomenal women...

Sheila at Greenridge Chronicles writes that she's feeling silly but short (I'm assuming she means time rather than stature), and gives us a little bit of Ogden Nash, always a delightful way to start the weekend.

Chris Rettstatt has a poetry mash-up -- he's posted the first line of a collaborative poem and has turned it into a contest. Chris writes that "the person who adds the final line in the comments “kills” the poem. And wins a signed copy of his Kaimira: The Sky Village.

It's the first Poetry Friday for Devin McIntyre at Speak of the Splendor, and we extend a big Poetry Friday welcome. Devin has a lovely poem from Emily Dickinson.

Jennifer at S/V Mari Hal-O-Jen heads for land to go fly a kite, as she writes in the comments below, getting a jump start on the Chinese New Year with one of our favorite Christmas presents." Don't miss the great kite and Chinese New Year book links at the end of her post. Happy flying and sailing, Jen!

Liz Garton Scanlon at Liz in Ink makes good on a promise in a big way with an original villanelle inspired by a George Bellows lithograph at the Blanton Museum of Art (UT-Austin). Liz writes, "A poet friend solicited the work, inspired by pieces in the museum's permanent collection. Some of the poems will eventually be posted next to their visual muses in the gallery, and all of them will come together in some sort of collection -- printed or online."

Anamaria at Books Together, who lives within easy visiting distance of the Smithsonian museums, has a review of the new children's poetry title Behind the Museum Door: Poems to Celebrate the Wonders of Museums, compiled by the indefatigable Lee Bennett Hopkins. My request for this one has been in to interlibrary loan for a while, so I'm heartened to hear that the wait is worthwhile!

Tiel Aisha Ansari at Knocking From Inside offers an original sonnet, Paper Jam: "This is a hybrid rhyme scheme -- call it a Spenserian/Italian sonnet."

Ruth at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town offers hope, comfort, understanding, and poetry for refugees, in light of current events in Kenya.

Miss Erin sets off on travels with Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Charlotte at Charlotte's Library offers a look at Four Fur Feet by Margaret Wise Brown, "with never before seen illustrations and an additional verse, plus a useful poetry-related web link" for explaining alliteration to young children.

Crispus Attucks at Dominant Reality shares For I Must Sing of All I Feel and Know, probably one of the lighter and more hopeful poems by the Victorian-era Scottish poet James Thomson (B.V.).

Jennie at Biblio File is dancing in the snow with Emily Dickinson.

Marcie at World of Words is nibbling on icicles.

Anastasia Suen at Picture Book of the Day, a blog where Anastasia explains how to teach the six traits of writing, shares a bit of verse from Where in the Wild?: Camouflaged Creatures Concealed…and Revealed by David Schwartz and Yael Schy, with photography by Dwight Kuhn, which includes "animal facts (in poetry and prose) and an 'I spy' element." By the way, Where in the Wild is one of the Cybils 2007 Nonfiction Picture Book finalists.

Felicity at Look Books also offers Edna St. Vincent Millay on the joys of limited travel.

The Reading Zone shares another Scottish poet named Thomson, this time Alexander Thomson and an excerpt from his ode to Glasgow.

Literacy Teacher at Mentor Texts, Read Alouds & More shares a recently discovered resource for finding Found Poetry.

And there, that's it -- all 50 entries for this week's Poetry Friday! Many thanks to all who participated for their poems and patience, and apologies again for the delayed rounding up. Though I'm delighted to report that the Farm School team won their second curling match in a row yesterday and head toward the last day's game in very good spirits today. Tom told me last night when we returned from the curling rink that toward the middle of the neck-and-neck match, seven-year-old Davy stuck his head in door and asked with a grin, "Are we winning yet, Dad?".

Poetry Friday

No. 668, c1863
by Emily Dickinson

"Nature" is what we see –
The Hill – the afternoon –
Squirrel – Eclipse the Bumble bee –
Nay – Nature is Heaven –
Nature is what we hear –
The Bobolink – the Sea –
Thunder – the Cricket –
Nay – Nature is Harmony –
Nature is what we know –
Yet have no art to say –
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

Today's Poetry Friday round-up is here, hosted by John Mutford over at the Book Mine Set. Thank you, John.

By the way, John, who hails from Iqaluit, Nunavut, has the Great Canadian Book Challenge, which could be a fun way to spend the new year. You definitely have plenty of time to read 13 Canadian books before Canada Day.

And just a head's up that Poetry Friday will be hosted here next Friday!

Poetry Friday: That's life

Life
by Charlotte Brontë

Life, believe, is not a dream,
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day:
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
Oh, why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly.

What though death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though Sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell,
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

* * *

Mary Lee and Franki at A Reading Year aren't content to celebrate the new year and their blogiversary with just a four-day blog birthday gala. No, they're hosting today's Poetry Friday round-up too! Thanks, Mary Lee and Franki, and all best wishes for the new year.

Poetry Friday: Poems for late December

An old favorite, and something new, at least to the blog.

I Heard a Bird Sing
by Oliver Herford (1863-1935)

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember:

"We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,"
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.


Time, You Old Gypsy Man
by Ralph Hodgson (1871-1962)

Time, you old gypsy man,
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?

All things I'll give you
Will you be my guest:
Bells for your jennet
Of silver the best;
Goldsmiths shall beat you
A great golden ring;
Peacocks shall bow to you;
Little boys sing.
Oh, and sweet girls will
Festoon you with may.
Time, you old gypsy,
Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,
Last night in Rome,
Morning, and in the crush
Under Paul's dome;
Under Paul's dial
You tighten your rein --
Only a moment,
And off once again;
Off to some city
Now blind in the womb,
Off to another
Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gypsy man,
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?

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The last Poetry Friday roundup for 2007, and some Ogden Nash, can be found over at MsMac's Check It Out.

With get well wishes for MsMac, and wishes for a happy and healthy New Year to all, from Farm School!

Poetry Friday: Christmas and Solstice favorites

I've posted the first two poems before, and figured it's the time of year to visit old friends.

The first poem isn't a proper poem, and I'm not a proper Jethro Tull fan. But I do like the words on the winter solstice.

The Christmas poems comes from a charming Random House Pictureback holiday anthology, Diane Goode's Christmas Magic: Poems and Carols, published in 1992 and probably out of print but worth tracking down, especially because Diane Goode is the Diane Goode who did such a marvelous job illustrating When I Was Young in the Mountains by Cynthia Rylant, and other delicacies. Ms. Goode also has excellent taste in children's Christmas poetry. I found our copy at the local Goodwill shop when Laura was a baby.


Ring Out, Solstice Bells
by Jethro Tull

Now is the solstice of the year,
winter is the glad song that you hear.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Have the lads up ready in a line.

Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.

Join together beneath the mistletoe.
by the holy oak whereon it grows.
Seven druids dance in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.

Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.

Praise be to the distant sister sun,
joyful as the silver planets run.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.
Ring out those bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.
Ring on, ring out.
Ring on, ring out.


In the Week When Christmas Comes
by Eleanor Farjeon

This is the week when Christmas comes.

Let every pudding burst with plums,
And every tree bear dolls and drums,
In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every hall have boughs of green,
With berries glowing in between,
In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every doorstep have a song
Sounding the dark street along,
In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every steeple ring a bell
With a joyful tale to tell,
In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every night put forth a star
To show us where the heavens are,
In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every stable have a lamb,
Sleeping warm beside its dam,
In the week when Christmas comes.

This is the week when Christmas comes.

Merry Christmas
from St. Nicholas Magazine*

M for the Music, merry and clear;
E for the Eve, the crown of the year;
R for the Romping of bright girls and boys;
R for the Reindeer that bring them the toys;
Y for the Yule log softly aglow.

C for the Cold of the sky and the snow;
H for the Hearth where they hang up the hose;
R for the Reel which the old folks propose;
I for the Icicles seen through the pane;
S for the Sleigh bells, with tinkling refrain;
T for the Tree with gifts all abloom;
M for the Mistletoe hung in the room;
A for the Anthems we all love to hear;
S for St. Nicholas -- joy of the year!

*St. Nicholas Magazine was an American children's magazine published by Scribner's from 1873 to 1941; its first editor was Mary Mapes Dodge, best known for writing Hans Brinker. I'm lucky to have one of Henry Steele Commager's hardbound anthologies of the magazine, from 1948, which includes at the end a selection of works by children in the "St. Nicholas League" -- the contributors include a 17-year-old Edna St. Vincent Millay (an Honor Member then, in 1910); Eudora Welty, age 15 (in 1925); Stephen Vincent Benét, age 15 (1914), and his brother William Rose, age 16 (1902); Cornelia Otis Skinner, age 11 (1911), who would go on to write one of the funniest books ever; Sterling North, all of eight in 1915; and Rachel Lyman Field, age 16 (1911). If you're interested in learning more about the magazine, this comprehensive website is a wealth of information.

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Gina at AmoxCalli is the festive holiday host for today's Poetry Friday Round-Up. Thanks, Gina, and greetings of the season to all!

Poetry Friday: North

North
by Philip Booth (1925-2007)

North is weather, Winter, and change:
a wind-shift, snow, and how ice ages
shape the moraine of a mountain range.

At tree line the chiseled ledges
are ragged to climb; wind-twist trees
give way to the trust of granite ridges,

peaks reach through abrasive centuries
of rain. The worn grain, the sleet-cut,
is magnified on blue Northwest days

where rock slides, like rip-tide, break out
through these geologic seas. Time
in a country of hills is seasonal light:

alpenglow, Northern lights, and tame
in October: Orion, cold hunter of stars.
Between what will be and was, rime

whites the foothill night and flowers
the rushes stilled in black millpond ice.
The dark, the nightfall temperatures

are North, and the honk of flyway geese
high over valley sleep. The woodland
is evergreen, ground pine, spruce,

and deadwood hills at the riverbend.
Black bear and mink fish beaver streams
where moose and caribou drink: beyond

the forests there are elk. Snowstorms
breed North like arctic birds that swirl
downhill, and in a blind wind small farms

are lost. At night the close cold is still,
the tilt world returns from sun to ice.
Glazed lichen is North, and snowfall

at five below. North is where rockface
and hoarfrost are formed with double grace:
love is twice warm in a cold place.

* * * *

If you need hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows to warm you up after reading that, see the previous post.

Tricia has today's Poetry Friday round-up, and a lovely Dusting of Snow, over at The Miss Rumphius Effect.

Sorry today's entry is so skimpy -- the kids and I have to plow through some pretty big snow drifts shortly to do the farm chores so we can get to town in time for today's special performance for students of "Blithe Spirit". Tomorrow evening Tom and I go. The kids have been primed with a viewing of David Lean's movie version with Rex Harrison on DVD, and are keen to see Mme. Arcati and Elvira in the flesh, as it were...

Poetry Friday: Winter words of wisdom from Edward Bear and A.A. Milne

The more it snows
(Tiddely pom),
The more it goes
(Tiddely pom),
The more it goes
(Tiddely pom),
On snowing.

And nobody knows
(Tiddely pom),
How cold my toes
(Tiddely pom),
How cold my toes
(Tiddely pom),
Are growing.

from The House at Pooh Corner, 1928, by A.A. Milne

Becky at Becky's Book Reviews has today's Poetry Friday round-up here. Many thanks!

* * *

The busy holiday season is upon us. I had a Christmas party Monday evening, Laura had a 4H meeting/Christmas gift exchange Wednesday, and yesterday art lessons in the little village, getting to which by the northern back roads was rather fraught because the lack of trees and fences meant the snow blew over the roads and made the road part rather indistinguishable from the ditches. There weren't anyone else's tracks to follow for love or money, though the school bus had gone by in the morning. However, we were cheered considerably by the Christmas carols on the radio and, on the way home, the sight of three moose gazing at us.

Yesterday evening the Santa parade in town, and afterwards as usual we drove around town to look at all the lights. And now, two blissful quiet days at home today and tomorrow to do our baking and start watching some favorite holiday meetings. Then the parties begin again on Sunday, with a taffy pull for the kids and the big annual gathering of neighbors on Monday.

Poetry Friday: 'Tis the season...

...to brave the stores.

Enigma for Christmas Shoppers
by Phyllis McGinley (1905-1978)

It is a strange, miraculous thing
About department stores,
How elevators upwards wing
By twos and threes and fours,

How pale lights gleam, how cables run
All day without an end,
Yet how reluctant, one by one,
The homing cars descend.

They soar to Furniture, or higher,
They speed to Gowns and Gifts,
But when the bought weighs down the buyer,
Late, late, return the lifts.

Newton, himself, beneath his tree,
Would ponder this and frown:
How what goes up so frequently
So seldom cometh down.

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Two Writing Teachers are hosting today's Poetry Friday Round-Up. Thanks, and happy reading (and writing)!

Poetry Friday: Black Friday edition

A Modern Romance
by Paul Engle (1908-1991)

Come live with me and be my wife
And we will lead a packaged life,
Where food, drink, fun, all things save pain
Come neatly wrapped in cellophane.

I am the All-American boy,
Certified as fit for joy,
Elected (best of all the breed)
Hairline most likely to recede.
My parchment scroll to verify
Is stamped in gold and witnessed by
Secretary-Treasurer of
Americans Hundred Per Cent For Love.

You are the All-American girl,
Red toe to artificial curl,
Who passed all tests from skipping rope
And using only Cuddly Soap
To making fire in any weather
By rubbing boy and girl together.

We are the nation's nicest team,
Madison Avenue's magic scheme
To show how boy gets girl: my style
Succeeds by using Denta-Smile.

How merchandised that ceremony!
The minister was scrubbed and bony,
And all was sterile in that room
Except, one hoped, the eager groom.

Married, with advertising's blessing,
We can begin togethernessing.
Before I carry you, my bride,
Across the threshold and inside,
I'll take, to help my milk-fed bones,
Vitamins, minerals and hormones.

Now look how quickly I have fixed
A dry martini (ready-mixed).
So drink to our day, consecrated,
In chairs of leather, simulated.
While you are changing out of those
Nylon, dacron, rayon clothes,
I cook the dinner, without fail
Proving a real American male,
Humble, without too much endurance,
But lots of paid-up life insurance.

From the deep-freeze, to please your wish,
A TV dinner in its dish,
All ready-seasoned, heat it up.
Pour instant water in this cup
On instant coffee from a can.
Be proud, love, of your instant man.
Innocent food, mechanized manna
(Except the delicate banana),
Can you endure -- forgive the question --
The messy horrors of digestion?

Even our love is pasteurized,
Our gentle hope homogenized.

And now our pure, hygienic night.
To our voluptuous delight
Your hair is up, restraints are down,
And cream is patted on your frown.
The brand-name mattress on the bed
Is wrapped in paper like fresh bread.
We can, to make our own campfire,
Turn the electric blanket higher.
We will cry, Darling, I do care,
In chastely air-conditioned air.

We've read the books, know what to do,
By science, wife, I offer you
This helpful, vacuum-packed, live nerve
(Just add devotion, dear, and serve).
Hurry! Out back I seem to hear
The landlord's Plymouth prowling near.

If this efficient plan produces
By chance (those awful natural juices!)
That product of a thousand uses,
A Junior, wrapped in elastic
Inexpensive bag of plastic
(Just break the seal and throw away)
From antiseptic throats we'll say:
It was an All-American day.

from Poetry for Pleasure: The Hallmark Book of Poetry (Doubleday, 1960)

* * *

Susan Taylor Brown at Susan Writes has today's Poetry Friday Round-Up, and a lovely poem by Alfred Kreymborg. Thank you, Susan, from under a sunny sky.

Poetry Friday: Choosing laughter

I've always liked the idea of Barbara Howes's "carnival hour" so much better than the "arsenic hour" I started hearing about when my three were tots. As the Poetry Foundation's wonderful online biography notes, Miss Howes's "verses paint a world of family, natural surroundings, and the wisdom inherent in natural inclinations" (emphasis mine).


Early Supper
by Barbara Howes (1914-1996)

Laughter of the children brings
The kitchen down with laughter.
While the old kettle sings
Laughter of children brings
To a boil all savory things.
Higher than beam or rafter,
Laughter of the children brings
The kitchen down with laughter.

So ends an autumn day,
Light ripples on the ceiling,
Dishes are stacked away;
So ends an autumn day,
The children jog and sway
In comic dances wheeling.
So ends an autumn day,
Light ripples on the ceiling.

They trail upstairs to bed,
And night is a dark tower.
The kettle calls; instead
They trail upstairs to bed,
Leaving warmth, the coppery-red
Mood of their carnival hour.
They trail upstairs to bed,
And night is a dark tower.

from Poetry for Pleasure: The Hallmark Book of Poetry (1960), selected and arranged by the editors of Hallmark Cards, who did a surprisingly good job, all things considered

* * *

Although Barbara Howes was a finalist for the National Book Award in poetry in 1995 for her Collected Poems 1945-1990, her poems were little known during her lifetime. In his New York Times review of Collected Poems, New Criterion poetry editor Robert Richman praised Miss Howes's "ability to sketch domestic scenes" as well as her "formal adeptness and lyric skill" (Early Supper is, after all, a triolet -- not to be confused with the French board game, by the way). He also called her "as obscure a worthy poet as I can think of."

Poet Dana Gioia wrote wrote in his review of Collected Poems and appreciation of the poet,

Howes's current obscurity is difficult to understand. Before A Private Signal [a finalist for the 1978 National Book Award], she had published five books of poetry, each of which met with a very favorable reception: The Undersea Farmer (1948), In the Cold Country (1954), Light and Dark (1959), Looking Up at Leaves (1966) and The Blue Garden (1972). Her admirers constitute an impressive club that has included Richard Wilbur, Stanley Kunitz, Carolyn Kizer, Robert Phillips, Robert Penn Warren, and Katherine Anne Porter. Reviewing her second book, Louise Bogan [The New Yorker's poetry critic for 38 years] called her "the most accomplished woman poet of the youngest writing generation—one who has found her own voice, chosen her own material, and worked out her own form," an opinion she repeated in subsequent reviews of Howes's work. Yet over the year Howes's reputation has not grown. She has become a poet known mostly to other poets of her own generation.

Miss Howes was born in 1914 in New York and adopted by a Massachusetts family. She was raised outside of Boston in Chestnut Hill and attended Bennington College in Vermont; according to her New York Times obituary, "While she was a student, she sought, and learned, the identity of her natural parents and found that her ancestors included Anne Bradstreet, the 17th-century American poet." After graduating in 1937, she worked for a time for the Southern Tenant Farmer's Union in Mississippi, founded three years earlier.

Miss Howes later moved to New York, living in Greenwich Village and working as an editor; she was literary editor of the magazine Chimera from 1943 to until her marriage in 1947 to the poet William Jay Smith. The following year saw the publication of Barbara Howes's first volume of poetry, The Undersea Farmer.

The couple, who had two sons, Gregory Jay Smith and David Smith, lived for a time in England and Italy while Smith studied at Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar and the University of Florence. William Jay Smith has written of their life together,

In the year 1947 everything that I had been working toward for some time seemed to come together. I had spent a year at Columbia University as a graduate student in English and comparative literature while at the same time teaching classes in beginning and intermediate English and French. I had applied for a Rhodes scholarship from Missouri. The age limit for applicants for the scholarships had been extended so that veterans might apply. In the spring I went out for interviews in St. Louis and in Iowa and I was one of those chosen to enter Oxford in the fall. At the same time my friends Claude Fredericks and Milton Saul, who had founded the Banyan Press in New York, came to ask if I had a book of poems ready for publication. I quickly put together what I thought were my best twenty-one poems and just as they were completing the printing of the book, which I had called simply Poems, a letter was forwarded to me by the editors of the little magazine Furioso, which had printed a poem of mine entitled "Cupidon." The letter from poet Marianne Moore stated that she considered this poem "a permanence, a rare felicity." Marianne Moore gave us permission to quote her and although the book had no dust jacket a special band with her statement was made to wrap around each copy. The result was that she really launched my poetic career: her recommendation meant that the book was reviewed by the New York Times and other important newspapers and magazines, which was very unusual for a first book by an unknown poet published by a new and unknown press. Then just three days before leaving for Oxford I married the poet Barbara Howes. We had met in New York when she accepted a poem of mine for Chimera, the literary quarterly that she edited. The rules for Rhodes scholars had been changed, and for the first time, because of the dislocation of the war years, members of our class were allowed to be married. I arrived in Oxford as a married man and a published poet. Stephen Spender, whom I had met on his first trip to New York, had accepted a poem of mine for publication in Horizon, which he edited in London with Cyril Connolly. We had introductions to some of the leading poets, among them the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, who was then living near Oxford. We used to see him and his wife Caitlin regularly along with other Oxford friends such as Enid Starkie, a lecturer in French, the historian A. L. Rowse, and Lord David Cecil. Living in Oxford at the time was not easy; food was still rationed and heating was difficult. But I was delighted to have the opportunity to meet such talented writers and scholars.

I went on writing poetry, but rather than stay on at Oxford to complete my doctorate, we left at the end of the year to take up residence in Florence, where we had gone to visit friends. Florence at the time was like Paris after World War I: it attracted a great number of American artists and writers. Living was inexpensive and we were able to rent a villa on the outskirts of the city while I studied Italian language and literature at the university. We stayed for two years and our elder son David was born there. We returned to America to settle in Pownal, Vermont, in a farmhouse that Barbara, who had attended Bennington College nearby, had purchased before our marriage. I then began teaching part-time at Williams College, just over the border in Massachusetts. But Italy drew us back again and we spent a second two-year period in Florence from 1955 to 1957. ...

The couple divorced in 1965. Thereafter Miss Howes lived at her Vermont farm, spending time as well in the Caribbean. She continued to write -- her works often appeared in The New Yorker -- and to edit; some of her best compilations of the time include From the Green Antilles: Writings of the Caribbean (1966) and The Eye of the Heart: Short Stories From Latin America (1973). Her final volume of her own verses, Collected Poems 1945-1990, appeared in 1995. Barbara Howes died the following year at age 81 in Vermont. Reflecting on her writing, the poet Richard Wilbur remarked, "Some of her poems have the tartness of up-country New England, yet she can speak fantastically, to evoke the fantastic clamors of New York; and in many a southerly poem, she speaks, for our pleasure, the tongue of pure felicity."

For a bibliography and more of her poems, see the Poetry Foundation page for Barbara Howes.

* * *

Today's Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by Kelly Herold at Big A little a. Speaking of choosing laughter, Kelly's Poetry Friday selection is Bruce Lansky's "Confession". Thanks for hosting, Kelly, especially because this sounds like a very busy weekend!

Poetry Friday: Remembrance Day edition

I was going through One Hundred Years of Poetry for Children the other week, and in the section on "War", I came across the old Rudyard Kipling poem "My Boy Jack", which I thought I would use this week, about his heartbreaking search for his only son who was lost in action at the age of 18, after only two days at the front, at the Battle of Loos on September 27, 1915.

And then in checking to see if the poem was somewhere online so I could just cut-and-paste instead of type it all out, I discovered that my selection is timely:

[Television channel] ITV is prepared for complaints over My Boy Jack, the story of the author’s son [played by Daniel Radcliffe], who went missing in action on a First World War battlefield after his father pulled strings to get him a commission. ... [T]he £10 million film, [will] be screened on Sunday as part of the channel’s Armistice Day commemorations. The film shows the fate of Lieutenant John “Jack” Kipling at the Battle of Loos in France with brutally violent clarity.

Radcliffe, 18, whose first television role this is, said that he wanted young Potter fans to watch the two-hour film. “I hope people are moved,” he said. “The thought of forgetting all those people who fought is terrible. We are lucky not to have to endure those conditions now.” ...

The Imperial War Museum in South London is holding an exhibition about Lieutenant John “Jack” Kipling, which opens today, to coincide with the film. ...

When John failed the Forces medical on three occasions, because of severe shortsightedness, Kipling used his influence to get his son a commission with the Irish Guards.

John was posted to France on his 18th birthday. He was reported wounded and missing six weeks later in his first action at Loos, in September of 1915.

The anguished Kipling blamed himself for his role in the loss of his son, believed to have been killed in a mortar-shell attack. ...

Not surprisingly, I suppose, the Imperial War Museum website includes links where one can buy the DVD of the ITV drama as well as the book published to accompany it, and five links to Daniel Radcliffe fan sites, but nowhere on the website could I find the poem reproduced, or a link to the poem elsewhere.


My Boy Jack
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

"Have you news of my boy Jack?"
Not this tide.
"When d'you think that he'll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
"Has any one else had word of him?"
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.

* * *

In 1917 the poem was set to music and sung by the famed English contralto Louise Kirkby-Lunn (1873-1930); you can hear it here.

For years Kipling tried to trace his son, interviewing survivors from the battlefield and carrying with him a description of the spectacles his son had been wearing. John's whereabouts have been more or less of a mystery, as ably recapped in a Guardian article earlier this week,

The grieving poet and his American wife, Carrie, embarked on a long campaign to find their only son, hoping to discover he was still alive. Kipling tracked down old soldiers who took part in the battle, pleading: 'Have you seen my boy Jack?'

Only in 1919 did he accept John had died. Then he refocused his energies on commemorating all those who had fallen in the Great War. Then, 15 years ago, the Commonwealth War Graves Commission named a previously unknown soldier buried in St Mary's Advanced Dressing Station Cemetery near Loos. The previous anonymous headstone was replaced by one with John's name.

The Holts, however, claim to have identified a more likely occupant of the grave. Arthur Jacob, a lieutenant in the London Irish regiment, is known to have been fighting in the area. The Holts say their theory matches both the map location and the rank recorded by the burial search party which found the body in 1919, although the Holts say the party confused the Irish Guards with the London Irish.

This is more credible, the Holts argue, than two assumptions which led the commission to identify John Kipling. They question the belief of the commission's researcher that the search party made a mistake in the map reference. Second, they contend, the researcher assumed that John held the rank of full lieutenant when he went missing, whereas in fact he was only a second lieutenant, not receiving promotion until after his death.

Tonie Holt, co-author of the newly updated book My Boy Jack?: The Search for Kipling's Only Son [originally published in 1998], does not want to disturb the grave for a DNA test but called for the commission to reconsider the material available. 'We would like a proper analysis of the evidence we've uncovered so far.'

Peter Francis, spokesman for the commission, said the Ministry of Defence had re-examined the evidence and stated in 2002 that it still believed the grave was John Kipling's. 'However, if the Holts wished to resubmit their case, based on new evidence, we would be more than happy to pass it on,' he added.

David Haig, for whom the TV programme is the culmination of 20 years' study, said: 'I'm pretty certain it's not John Kipling's grave...There's a great longing by the Kipling estate and all the followers to bring this full circle and find a moral atonement for Rudyard Kipling after sending his son off to war. But if the Holts' evidence is fairly compelling, the case should be reopened.'

John Kipling's name is on a memorial to the missing at Loos, under the words "Known unto God", a phrase selected by his father in his capacity as a commissioner of the Imperial War Graves Commission, established in 1917, and known today known as the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (with a very informative website by the bye). Kipling also selected the phrase "Their name liveth for evermore" (Ecclesiasticus 44:14) to be inscribed on the large Stones of Remembrance, designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, which mark one thousand or more burials.

In memory of his son, Kipling wrote a two-volume history of his regiment, The Irish Guards in the Great War, published in 1923.

And, available online, Kipling's deeply affecting short story, The Gardener, about a childless woman whose nephew, whom she has raised as her son, is lost in action in World War I. After receiving the news, Kipling writes,

Helen, presently, found herself pulling down the house-blinds one after one with great care, and saying earnestly to each: ‘Missing always means dead.’ ...

A man knelt behind a line of headstones — evidently a gardener, for he was firming a young plant in the soft earth. She went towards him, her paper in her hand. He rose at her approach and without prelude or salutation asked: ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Lieutenant Michael Turrell — my nephew,’ said Helen slowly and word for word, as she had many thousands of times in her life.

The man lifted his eyes and looked at her with infinite compassion before he turned from the fresh-sown grass toward the naked black crosses.

‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘and I will show you where your son lies.’

When Helen left the Cemetery she turned for a last look. In the distance she saw the man bending over his young plants; and she went away, supposing him to be the gardener.

Read the entire short story here. And remember — the fallen and their families.

* * *

Cloudscome is hosting today's Poetry Friday roundup at A Wrung Sponge. I don't have the exact post link since I'm posting this Thursday evening (tomorrow will be yet another day away from home, this time for a funeral in the extended family), but I'll add it tomorrow as soon as I can.

Poetry Friday: Savoring and listening

The library is one of our family's favorite places, a home away from home. And Valerie Worth's little nugget is just the right size for our busy week, which was full of Halloween festivities including another party and trick or treating, a home school facilitator meeting yesterday, and, yes, our weekly trip to the library to pick up the latest goodies.

library
by Valerie Worth (1933-1994)

No need even
To take out
A book: only
Go inside
And savor
The heady
Dry breath of
Ink and paper,
Or stand and
Listen to the
Silent twitter
Of a billion
Tiny busy
Black words.

From One Hundred Years of Poetry for Children, compiled by Michael Harrison and Christopher Stuart-Clark; originally appearing in Small Poems Again by Valerie Worth. The New York Times wrote in its 1994 obituary of Miss Worth,

Mrs. Bahlke, who wrote under her maiden name, Valerie Worth, had many interests, from astronomy to gardening to meditation, which became the subject matter she wove into her poetry. She sought to present ordinary things in a fresh way.

She was most widely known for her "small poems" for children, composed in simple free verse. The poet and teacher Myra Cohn Livingston wrote of Ms. Worth's work in The New York Times Book Review in 1988, "The treasures Ms. Worth offers do not lie in some distant, golden land but in the everyday world."

* * *

Valerie Worth's posthumous Animal Poems has already been nominated in the poetry category of this year's Cybils (and reviewed here by two-time poetry panelist Elaine Magliaro), and just this morning I nominated the new picture book edition of the late Myra Cohn Livingston's Calendar, illustrated by Will Hillenbrand.

* * *

Today's Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by Literacy Teacher at Mentor Texts, Read Alouds & More. Thanks, LT!

Happy Halloween!

We're heading into town -- kids in costume, of course -- after lunch for music lessons and errands (it seems I have several parcels, with any luck Cybils-related, to collect). And once all the music lessons are done, we're meeting friends for a quick non-sugary supper before the kids head out for trick or treating. I'm holding my breath because the forecast for today, including this evening, is unseasonably warm; daytime highs of around 40-50 degrees Fahrenheit, and not below freezing in the evening. Though the kids eagerly agreed with my suggestion to wear longjohns "just in case".

Now all I have to do is to keep my fingers crossed for more M&Ms than Smarties in the treat bags....

* * * *


Halloween
by Molly Capes

Bolt and bar the front door,
Draw the curtains tight,
Wise folk are in before
Moonrise tonight.

Halloween, Halloween,
Chestnuts to roast,
A gift for the fairy,
A prayer for the ghost.

Who will have their fate told
This night is known,
Whose hand is full of gold,
Who goes alone.

Halloween, Halloween,
Snapdragon blue,
A lover for me
And a fortune for you.

Stars shiver blue and green,
Moon's wide and white;
There tattered clouds between
Witches take flight.

Halloween, Halloween,
Apples a-bob,
Elves at the keyhole
And imps on the hob.

"Twelve" calls the deep bell
To the hollow night;
"Twelve" whisper steeple tops
Far out of sight.

Halloween, Halloween,
Fires burn high,
Who shall say certainly,
Who can tell truthfully
What solemn company
Pass through the sky?

From Ghosts and Goblins: Stories for Halloween, compiled by Wilhelmina Harper and illustrated by William Wiesner, originally published in 1936 with a revised edition in 1965 (and now unfortunately out of print). The acknowledgments page credits The London Evening Standard for the above poem, which would have been writtten prior to 1936.

Poetry Friday: Halloween is Coming edition

This poem is sadly appropriate because the woods and fields are most certainly wintry this October morning, covered with more than just a dusting a snow and it is still snowing; even sadder, my children are delightedly pulling on snow pants to go out and shovel as I type. Temperatures are supposed to rise a few degrees into the the 30s today, so while I'm urging the thermometer up, the kids are urging more snow down. Drat.

The Witch in the Wintry Wood
by Aileen Fisher (1906-2002)

This is the story of timid Tim
who thought that witches went after him
when the night was dark and moon was dim.
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

This is the tale of how Tim one night
didn't start home until candlelight
when the sky was black and the snow was white.
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

He walked through the woods like a frightened goat,
hist muffler twisted around his throat,
expecting to jump at a witch's note:
"Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO."

Out of the night came a sheep dog's yowl,
which Tim was sure was a witch's howl,
a terrible witch on a wintry prowl.
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

Tim, the timid, began to race,
certain he sighted a witch's face
back of each shadowy hiding place.
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

He ran through the woods on his lonely trek
till horrors! a hand went around his neck,
holding his headlong flight in check.
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

Around his throat went a witch's hand
that jerked poor Tim to a sudden stand.
His heart was water, his legs were sand!
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

Nobody knows how long he stood
with that hand on his throat in the silent wood
until he could find some hardihood...
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

Then he looked around like a shaky calf,
thinking of words for his epitaph,
and "Oh, ho, ho!" he began to laugh...
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

For what he saw was a funny sight --
it wasn't a witch at his throat by night,
but a pine branch pulling his muffler tight!
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

The more Tim chuckled, the more he thought
how most of his fears were like mufflers caught
and stretched much tighter than mufflers ought.
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

And the end of this story of timid Tim
is -- nevermore, when the night was dim,
did he fear that witches were after him!
Woo-HOO, woo-HOO, woo-HOO.

* * *

This poem is from Ghosts and Goblins: Stories for Halloween, compiled by Wilhelmina Harper and illustrated by William Wiesner, which I found on the shelf of the little village library while the kids were art lessons. The book, originally published in 1936 with a revised edition in 1965 (and now unfortunately out of print) includes not just stories -- mostly folk tales from around the world, including several by Joseph Jacobs -- but also poems -- Carl Sandburg's Theme in Yellow, Walter de la Mare's Someone -- and is great readaloud fun in the weeks leading up to Halloween.

Wilhelmina Harper compiled several other holiday anthologies, also out of print, including Easter Chimes, The Harvest Feast, and Merry Christmas to You. Worth searching your library for.

* * *

Sylvia Vardell at Poetry for Children had a wonderful Poetry Friday birthday post for Aileen Fisher in September of last year.

* * *

The last Poetry Friday round-up for October 2007 -- boo! -- can be found today at
at Sandhya Nankani's Literary Safari. Because yesterday was St Crispin's Day, Michele at Scholar's Blog has the St Crispin's Day speech from Shakespeare's Henry V, one of Laura's favorite passages to recite.

Paddle your own canoe

Shooting the Rapids, oil on canvas, 1879, by
Frances Anne Hopkins


We were doing farm chores and driving around in truck the other week with the radio set to CBC, as usual, when I caught a bit of music and Shelagh Roger's comment that it was based on the Caldecott Honor book by Holling Clancy Holling -- long appreciated by homeschoolers as an author of marvelous living geography books -- Paddle-to-the-Sea, originally published in 1941, about a young Indian boy from Nipigon, on the shores of Lake Superior, who carves the small figure of a man, named Paddle-to-the-Sea, in a canoe, which begins its journey on a snow bank near a river leading to the Great Lakes and ultimately to the Atlantic Ocean, in a journey fraught with danger. Think of it as a North American version of Hans Christian Andersen's Steadfast Tin Soldier (to which the modern Ratatouille also owes a debt), but less morose and more delightful. Since the Sounds Like Canada's website didn't have the information up right away, I Googled around for a bit and, though I didn't come across the answer I was looking for (until the next day), I did discover a few interesting things.

First, there's a National Film Board movie version of the book, directed by the legendary naturalist, canoeist, film maker and author Bill Mason (1929-1988). The movie, made in 1966 and running just under 30 minutes, is available to purchase here and here, and to rent from Zip.ca. From the NFB's website: "For all children and those adults for whom the romance of journeying is still strong. This great NFB children's classic is adapted from a story by Holling C. Holling. During the long winter night, an Indian boy sets out to carve a man and a canoe. He calls the man "Paddle to the Sea." The boy sets the carving down on a frozen stream to await the coming of spring. The film charts the adventures that befall the canoe on its long odyssey from Lake Superior to the sea. This delightful story is photographed with great patience and an eye for the beauty of living things, offering vivid impressions of Canada's varied landscape and waterways."

Second, celebrated Canadian classical guitarist (and one-time squeeze of late PM Pierre Trudeau, which becomes more interesting shortly) Liona Boyd in 1990 put out a CD of original music along with her reading of the book. The CD is out of print, but I've been able to find a copy on audio CD through interlibrary loan. You can listen to a few of the tracks here (see sidebar at left). But still in print is a a Boydless unabridged audio CD of the book available from Audio Bookshelf, read by Terry Bregy.

So we've begun rereading the book (which Davy barely remembers), listening to the CD, poring over maps, talking about trees, and when we're all done we'll watch the movie.

* * *

Holling Clancy Holling, the American author and illustrator, was born in Jackson County, Michigan in 1900. After graduating from the school of the Art Institute of Chicago in 1923, he went to work in the taxidermy department of the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago and also worked under assistant curator and noted anthropologist Ralph Linton. In 1925 he married Lucille Webster, and they worked together in the writing and illustrating of numerous books. Before turning to writing full-time, Mr. Holling also worked as a teacher at NYU, a freelance designer, an advertising artist, and illustrator for other people’s books.

Mr. Holling's last books, from Paddle-to-the-Sea onwards, are a masterful blend of history, nature, art, and storytelling (which, yes, sadly, may be too slow-moving for many of today's high-speed children), and the marginalia is fascinating. Holling Clancy Holling died in 1973.

Holling C. Holling books still in print:

Paddle-to-the-Sea (1941)

Tree in the Trail (1942); "The story of a cottonwood tree that watched the pageant of history on the Santa Fe Trail where it stood, a landmark to travelers and a peace-medicine tree to Indians, for over 200 years."

Seabird (1948); a carved ivory gull becomes a mascot for four generations of seafarers aboard first a whaler, then a clipper ship, a steamer, and finally, an airplane.

Minn of the Mississippi (1951); a turtle hatched at the source of the Mississippi is carried through the heart of America to the Gulf of Mexico.

Pagoo (1957), illustrations credited to both Holling C. Holling and Lucille Webster Holling; the study of life in a tide pool through the story the hermit crab, Pagoo.

* * *
For more wonderful movies by Bill Mason, including several with more paddling:

Song of the Paddle (1978); "Outdoorsman Bill Mason, his wife, and two children set out on a wilderness canoe camping holiday. In this film, the art of canoeing is more than technical expertise; it becomes a family experience of shared joy. Along the way there are countless adventures and much lovely scenery, including the Indian rock carvings of Lake Superior."

The Path of the Paddle series, Quiet Water and Whitewater

and two classics about wolves, Cry of the Wild and Death of a Legend

A few extra Canadian canoe resources:

The Canadian Canoe Museum, in Peterborough, Ontario, whose website includes a page of profiles of patriotic paddlers, including Bill Mason and Pierre Trudeau, who paddled as well as he pirouetted, and who wrote an essay in 1944, when he was 25, Exhaustion and Fulfillment: The Ascetic in a Canoe: "What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature."

Trudeau's fringed buckskin jacket and canoe have been on exhibit at the Canadian Canoe Museum since 2002; though the canoe at the moment is on temporary loan to the ROM in Toronto, through earhttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifly January as part of the Canada Collects exhibit.

UPDATED to add the Old Curmudgeon's suggestion, Canoeing with the Cree, the late reporter Eric Sevareid's account of the expedition he, then 17, and 19-year-old friend Walter Port embarked upon several days after graduating from high school. The boys paddled 2,250 miles in an 18-foot canvas canoe, from the Mississippi River at Fort Snelling to Hudson Bay.

And finally, from the Canadian Poetry Archive,

Said the Canoe
by Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850-1887)

My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar;
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins and, laughing, said:
"Now she shall lay her polished sides
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!"

My masters twain their camp-soul lit;
Streamed incense from the hissing cones;
Large crimson flashes grew and whirled;
Thin golden nerves of sly light curled
Round the dun camp; and rose faint zones,
Half way about each grim bole knit,
Like a shy child that would bedeck
With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck,
Yet sees the rough shield on his breast,
The awful plumes shake on his crest,
And, fearful, drops his timid face,
Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.

Into the hollow hearts of brakes--
Yet warm from sides of does and stags
Passed to the crisp, dark river-flags--
Sinuous, red as copper-snakes,
Sharp-headed serpents, made of light,
Glided and hid themselves in night.

My masters twain the slaughtered deer
Hung on forked boughs with thongs of leather:
Bound were his stiff, slim feet together,
His eyes like dead stars cold and drear.
The wandering firelight drew near
And laid its wide palm, red and anxious,
On the sharp splendour of his branches,
On the white foam grown hard and sere
On flank and shoulder.
Death--hard as breast of granite boulder--
Under his lashes
Peered thro' his eyes at his life's grey ashes.

My masters twain sang songs that wove--
As they burnished hunting-blade and rifle--
A golden thread with a cobweb trifle,
Loud of the chase and low of love:

"O Love! art thou a silver fish,
Shy of the line and shy of gaffing,
Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing,
Casting at thee the light-winged wish?
And at the last shall we bring thee up
From the crystal darkness, under the cup
Of lily folden
On broad leaves golden?

"O Love! art thou a silver deer
With feet as swift as wing of swallow,
While we with rushing arrows follow?
And at the last shall we draw near
And o'er thy velvet neck cast thongs
Woven of roses, stars and songs--
New chains all moulden
Of rare gems olden?"

They hung the slaughtered fish like swords
On saplings slender; like scimitars,
Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars,
Blazed in the light the scaly hordes.

They piled up boughs beneath the trees,
Of cedar web and green fir tassel.
Low did the pointed pine tops rustle,
The camp-fire blushed to the tender breeze.

The hounds laid dewlaps on the ground
With needles of pine, sweet, soft and rusty,
Dreamed of the dead stag stout and lusty;
A bat by the red flames wove its round.

The darkness built its wigwam walls
Close round the camp, and at its curtain
Pressed shapes, thin, woven and uncertain
As white locks of tall waterfalls.