This summer and fall the chipmunks have been cavorting in the gardens around our house. They seem to have minimal fear of us or even of our two geriatric cats. We’ve had great fun watching them gorge on sunflower seeds, pose for pictures, linger in the sun, and generally enjoy the high life–or at least as high of a life as a chipmunk can enjoy.  This poem, by Robert Gibb, appeared in my Inbox today, courtesy of the Poetry Foundation’s Poem of the Day.

For The Chipmunk In My Yard

To enjoy more poetry, click here to go to the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Michelle Hendrich Barnes at This Little Ditty.

Early one day recently I woke up, instantly remembering that I’d left the kitchen a mess the night before. Eventually, I sighed, dragged myself out of bed, and wandered out, prepared to deal with the accumulated dishes. I was stunned to walk into a pristine kitchen–no dirty dishes, clean counters, and no mess. Wow, someone did the dishes! I thought. It must have been Kurt.  It was such a lovely and unexpected surprise. When my husband awoke later, I made it a point to thank him enthusiastically (because I was truly thankful and because I was hoping to reinforce the behavior.)

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, accepting my fervent thanks nonchalantly.

The next night the dishes were done again. “Wow! Thanks, guys! This is great.” I commented.  “Did you do the dishes again, Kurt?”

“No, I did, “piped up my daughter.

“Thanks!”I said, “What a nice surprise to have someone else do them two nights in a row-and without me asking!”

“Yeah,” she said, offhandedly,  “I did them last night, too.”

“What!?” I said, as my husband looked away. “I thought Dada did them.”

“No,” she said, “I did.” She paused, “I was kind of surprised you didn’t say anything.”

My disbelief grew. I looked over at my husband, sitting on the couch trying to look innocent, avoiding eye contact. “I thought Dada did them,” I repeated slowly. I looked at my daughter. “I even thanked him,” I said to her, “and he didn’t say anything to deny it!”

We both turned and stared at him. After a long silence, he finally looked up.

“Well, I didn’t actually say I did them,” he said sheepishly.

I’m still speechless.

Recently while browsing through my brimming bookshelf, I picked up a copy of The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke and began reading. This poem, with its initial lyrical images of autumn, captured me and then jolted me with the final haunting stanza.

Autumn Day
by Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander on the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

Rilke wrote “Autumn Day” in German and it has been translated many, many times. (Click here if you’d like to see the original German poem and/or if you’re interested in reading multiple translations.) As I read, I was amazed by the differences in the translations. I began to wonder–Is it the translator’s job solely to translate, word by word, or to ensure that the translation includes the rhythm and meaning, the heart of the poem? Or something in between? I found it fascinating to think about the role of translation and the additional demands of translating poetry.

A lifetime ago I was a German major and so I could compare (rustily!) the original and various translation. Below is the translation I thought most closely adhered to Rilke’s original.

Autumn Day (translated by J. Mullen)

Lord: it is time. The summer was great.
Lay your shadows onto the sundials
and let loose the winds upon the fields.

Command the last fruits to be full,
give them yet two more southern days,
urge them to perfection, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who now has no house, builds no more.
Who is now alone, will long remain so,
will stay awake, read, write long letters
and will wander restlessly here and there
in the avenues, when the leaves drift.

Do you prefer one version over the other?  I prefer the Merrill version, but I’ve begun to think of it as more of a collaboration than a translation. What do you think?

The amazing Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at her blog, The Poem Farm. Click on the link to enjoy some more poetry.

A huge thank you to Amy Warntz (Runner, Reader & Rockin’ Mom)for the structural inspiration for this post! On this first day of school, I couldn’t have written without it. Thanks, Amy!

goodbye to not knowing the day of the week
hello to TGIF
goodbye to lazy, lounging PJ days
hello to picking out work clothes
goodbye to slow, easy dawns filled with writing and bird song
hello to setting alarms and rushed grab-and-go mornings
goodbye to first grade and a wonderful team
hello to fourth grade and exciting new challenges
goodbye to shorts, tank tops, and iced lattes
hello to slippers, fuzzy socks, and hot coffee
goodbye to sun-ripened berries and juicy pit fruit
hello to the warmth of cinnamon and pumpkin
goodbye to cook-outs and refreshing salads
hello to robust stews and soups bubbling on the stove
goodbye to my girls as they head back to college
hello to weekend visits for concerts or a meal
goodbye to August filled with anticipation and preparation
hello to September and lively, learning days

Beannacht translates from Irish to blessing in English, and this poem is a blessing indeed. I found it difficult to know which stanza to share as each moves me deeply. I have written about my “Make Good Choices” refrain with my children. I wish I could recite this poem to them each time they set off. I love the idea of the wind wrapping words around them protectively. I finally chose to share the second stanza of the poem because of the image of a “flock of colours” awakening a “meadow of delight.” To read the entire poem, just click on the title or click on the video link to hear John O’Donohue recite his work. He has crafted a powerful, beautiful incantation of blessing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Beannacht
by John O’Donohue
…
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
…

To enjoy more poetry, click here to travel Penny Parker Klosterman’s blog and this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup!

You know those people who pack up and move and three (or maybe ten) years later still have sealed boxes shoved in closets or perhaps stored on the second floor of their barn? Well, if you didn’t and you’re reading this, now you do.  We’ve been digging through some accumulated clutter lately and have finally ventured to unpack a few of “those” boxes. What treasures we’ve found!

The first box, bursting at the seams, was filled with my children’s elementary school writing and guaranteed a nostalgic, laughter-filled evening (and material for a different post at another time).  When my husband brought in another box the next day, I dug into it eagerly. It contained a mish mash of items: a college psychology notebook, electric bills from 1994, long-expired coupons, a high school notebook, a horribly angsty poem scribbled on a torn out piece of spiral bound paper, a creased baby picture of me, and more. How had all these items ever been combined into one box?  I felt like an archaeologist, sifting carefully through accumulated layers, wondering what would be revealed.

And then I found the letters. My grandmother must have given me these, but I have no recollection of receiving them and have never read them before. How they came to be in this box is a mystery to me. They are letters that my mother wrote to her parents. They remain in their envelopes, postmarked Birmingham, Alabama from 1965-1969.  Some are casual and chatty, others more occasion-specific. Only one was written after I was born.

Overall, these letters were a precious, unexpected gift– a window into my mother’s daily life as a mother, a wife and a daughter and a glimpse into the times. In July of 1969, my  mom was ending her week-long stay on the maternity ward and wrote to share the name of my newly-born younger sister. She confided that she had read 7 books and written notes, but was bored and didn’t have enough to do. She also detailed how my older sister had been “burning up the wires”, having figured out how to call her at the hospital, and noted that she must “driven the switchboard crazy!”At the end of another letter she shared an anecdote about my older brother, who was maybe 4 or so at the time. They’d been talking about his dark brown eyes and he’d solemnly stated, “I guess I must have drank a lot of coffee, Mommy!” Her shortest note was a heartfelt thank you to her mother, my grandmother, for an unnamed yet clearly meaningful gift that had moved her to tears.  She wrote with news of neighbors and friends, asides about rinsing diapers and doing laundry, information about a raise for my dad, stories of her children, and in one letter described a large November snowfall in Birmingham that set the town into frenzies of excitement and snowman building. My intrepid older sister was apparently “thrilled to death” while my brown-eyed brother became furious every time his gloves got wet. One letter even enclosed the “profile shot you were promised” of my mother 5 1/2 months pregnant with me–and gloriously large already!

 I read each letter again and again and I held them in my hands, tenderly, knowing my mother once held them in her own hands. She wrote these words, sealed these envelopes, addressed them to her parents, certainly never dreaming that I’d be their recipient so many decades later. I’m sure she never imagined that she wouldn’t be here and that these simple, chatty letters would connect us through time on a random sunny morning in 2016. Nor did she imagine that I would read them aloud to my daughters, hoping they would feel a connection to this woman they had never met–that these letters, artifacts of a long-ago time, would help them to imagine their grandmother. Finding and reading these letters was such a gift, albeit a bittersweet one.

I’ll close with my mother’s written words to her mother as they seem especially apt for this moment of connection, 51 years after this letter was written and 35 years after she died.

“I have an enormous lump in my throat – so enough for now.
So, daughter to Mother – I love you.”

Ogden Nash is a favorite of mine. I think I fell a little bit in love with him when I discovered The Tale of Custard the Dragon about that “realio, trulio, little pet dragon.” His word play is so clever and his work is permeated with such a sense of fun. Who can forget his wonderful The Germ?  I was looking for some lighthearted fun today so I’m sharing one of Ogden Nash’s, hoping you enjoy it as well.

Pretty Halcyon Days
by Ogden Nash

How pleasant to sit on the beach,
On the beach, on the sand, in the sun,
With ocean galore within reach,
And nothing at all to be done!
No letters to answer,
No bills to be burned,
No work to be shirked,
No cash to be earned.
It is pleasant to sit on the beach
With nothing at all to be done.
…
(click on the title to read the rest)

In these late days of August with school’s advent looming, I can’t quite embrace the “nothing at all to be done” feel of Nash’s poem, but his words inspired this effort.

Late Summer Charade

How lovely to sit on the porch
on a chair with a drink in the shade
surrounded by gardens afleck
with blossoms beginning to fade
My In-box is flooding
with e-mails a-stacking
I should be in school now
my classroom unpacking.
But ’tis lovely to sit on the porch
enjoying my care-free charade.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Hope your summer days are still unfolding with moments when you can enjoy “nothing at all to be done” or at least a convincing charade. To enjoy more poetry, head on over to Heidi Mordhorst’s delightful blog, My Juicy Little Universe, where she’s hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

It was a lovely evening. The day’s heat had eased to a comfortable level and the crowd gathered around the stage was relaxed, enjoying a free concert and time with friends and/or family. Those with foresight sat comfortably in a sea of lawn chairs. Others sprawled on the lawn and we sat on a nearby curb. The musicians pumped their “alternative folk”‘ music through the air, making casual conversation impossible.

It was a perfect opportunity to people watch. My eyes wandered through the crowd, watching people interact, imagining their comments and relationships. The audience swayed to the music, tapping time with their sandaled feet, smiling, laughing. Young children swirled and twirled safe in the circle of their families, delighting in the music and movement. To the side of the stage a sign language interpreter fluidly signed the lyrics to a small group before her. Her hands were poetry in motion, language made visible, a silent song in the air.

Across the way a splash of color drew my eye. A young boy, perhaps 7 years old, with a bright red shirt and neon green and yellow shoes knelt on the grass. In his arms he held a young child, maybe 2 or 3, whose head rested on his shoulder. The boy was kneeling tall, struggling to hold the child, as he was large enough that he overfilled the boy’s lap. With one hand he clasped the child to him and with the other, over and over again, he gently stroked the younger child’s back. Comforting, soothing.  His hands were poetry in motion, language made visible, a silent love song in the air.

Some time later, I looked back and the red-shirted boy no longer held the child. Instead, the boy was kneeling on the grass with his arms wide and welcoming, laughing and beckoning. The grinning child faced him across the expanse of grass then ran toward him and threw himself in his arms. They both toppled backward, a tangle of limbs, love and simple joy in a summer evening filled with music.

Look, please, look to the children
The children they know
In their eyes are the answers we seek
And their hearts feel the way to go

Look, please look to the children
They know more than we
How it feels in this world to be free
Free to love and be loved by all…

(Words and Music by Chuck Mangione
Copyright © 1971 Gates Music, Inc.)

Mornings are summer’s gift and I rise early and treasure the sights and sounds and the limpid joy of slipping into the day easily and quietly. Already I feel the slow pulse of morning slipping away, pulled inexorably into the rush of day as summer fades and the school year wakens, revving throatily like a giant engine warming up for a long journey.

Recently, I’ve turned to Mary Oliver’s Why I Wake Early, seeking to linger longer in the serenity of slow, easy mornings and the wonders of our world. While excitement and anticipation build at the coming year and the return to school and students, within me there is a quiet pool of fear that stirs–Fear that I will lose or forget to take the time to notice, to cherish, to simply be in the world around me. Mary Oliver’s poems speak to me and this one reminds me to be mindful to open myself to the glory around me and find each day something “that more or less kills me with delight.”

Mindful
By Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,…

Click to enjoy the Poetry Friday Roundup at Dori Reads. You’re sure to find wonders there as well.

I’ve always been a straight A student. As a child, a big part of my self worth derived from that and to be honest, to some extent, probably still does. For the record,  I’m not totally proud of that. There are times that that status and the perceived necessity to be “excellent” stopped me from taking risks or opening new doors. Now that I’m older, I’m recognizing some lost opportunities, for I’ve taken the safer road a lot. I’m working on recognizing that thoughtful risk-taking can offer enormous benefits and that being perfect isn’t possible, isn’t always fun, and isn’t necessarily desirable. If I try something new and the outcome is messy and less than perfect, that doesn’t mean it’s a failure. In fact, it can be a tremendous opportunity for learning and growth. I know this, intellectually, and I recognize the value of making mistakes and learning from them, but there is still part of me that shies away from that vulnerability. With school beginning in mere weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I’ve chosen to move from teaching first grade to teaching fourth grade.

I recently read an essay in How to Be The Teacher You Want to Be. In this essay,”The Journey of a Single Hour: Exploring the Rich Promise of an Immediate Release of Responsibility”, Katie Wood Ray writes about the skillful work of teacher Lisa Cleaveland. This teacher positions her kindergarten students to be decision makers on their first day of school and to build their identity as bookmakers. In a nutshell Ms. Cleaveland spends some time reading a book with her students and then shows them 6-page booklets and tells them they’ll be making books. She does not list step-by-step instructions detailing how they will do this. After a moment one student asks, “Well, how do you make books?” She responds, “What else do you think we’ll need?”, turning the question right back to them.

As I read this, I considered how I feel, even now,  when faced with an undefined task before me. Even as an adult, the inner-I-want-to-be perfect part of me squirms with discomfort. “But tell me what to do!” I want to cry.  I want the blueprint. I want the step by step instructions. They’re safer. I feel a lot like Heidi, the little girl in this essay who finally says, “But I don’t know how to.” Then her wonderful teacher says, “Well, you’ll get started.” And after a bit Heidi says, “But I can write my name.” She figures out an entry point. So as I head into teaching a new grade, I’m thinking about Heidi and about what I already do know about teaching. What I have learned and can do. How do I build off that foundation to move into new areas?  As I prepare, I’m striving to become comfortable working amidst a field of questions and recognizing that they won’t all be answered. Not even by the end of the year.

This past spring I read  Julie Falatko’s blog post on Two Writing Teachers. I was struck by this line: “Because you can’t be proud of something you got handed. You can’t be proud of it if your final finished product didn’t take any work or skill on your part.” A big part of me does want all the answers now. I want my new colleague to say, “Here, this is exactly how we do it, step by step.” But while there’s safety in that, there’s limited opportunity for growth. I opted to change because I  knew it was time for some growth. I need to dive in and do what I can do, use what I do know to get started. I’m sure it will be tangled and confusing and convoluted and there will be times when I regret making the change and am overwhelmed by the challenges. But I know that if I work through problems, over and around obstacles, I will persevere to achieve something worthwhile, even though it may not be perfect, and I can take pride in the struggle, change and growth, as much as in that finished product.

Despite my best efforts this summer, I can’t read every middle grade novel and relevant picture book. I can’t know the curriculum inside and out. But I can work from the base of what I do know and learn to revel in the unknown aspects–to walk the walk that I expect my students to every year. To make mistakes, to learn from them. To ask for help, to open myself up to criticism, trusting that it will be constructive and will help me move forward. So, I’m taking a deep breath and preparing as best as I can, knowing this could get messy but stepping forward anyway.  In the words of Ms. Cleaveland, I’m getting started. Wish me luck!