New Math

My friend, Peter Rinearson--he of the Pulitzer Prize!--sent me this wonderful link for New Math. I love it. Think concrete poetry in mathematical form.

This is why I must celebrate this site on Poetry Friday!

My favorite:
http://www.morenewmath.com/166/botox/

Poetry Friday: Scarlet

Scarlet
by S.Y. Headley

Scarlet is bold and strong.
Scarlet is a banner flying in the wind,
leaping, soaring, mocking.
It stands like a general,
waiting to fight to the death.

Scarlet is the blood shed by our ancestors,
thick and warm.
Scarlet is the fire, dancing
and flickering.

Scarlet is the story that your grandmother tells you,
ancient yet not defeated.
Scarlet is your ally,
prepared to defend you.

Scarlet is wine,
sometimes sour, sometimes sweet.
Scarlet is a rose,
beautiful but deadly.

Scarlet is free,
running with the wind,
sarcastic and jubilant.

I am Scarlet,
prepared for anything,
a stronghold.

Poetry Friday: That Man

These song lyrics moved me beyond words. My son, the poet laureate of my heart.

THAT MAN
by T.Y. Headley

He sat upon the windowsill, shrouded in gloom,
and sighed to himself, Life's sure enough a doom.
The clouds passed by,
watched from the corner of an eye,
slow, but surely, meandering high.

Just like a rock,
he was all alone
without a sock,
an unwanted felon.
Nobody knew him,
nobody cared,
in depression
and just so scared.

Three days passed: he kept looking out
for a kind soul who would not shout.
Looking about, he saw a friend,
called to him at the bend.
But the friend turned away,
and the wind seemed to say,
Give it up,
go home today.

Just like a rock,
he was all alone,
without a sock,
an unwanted felon.
Nobody knew him
nobody cared,
in depression
and just so scared.

All alone in the universe,
feeling trapped in his hearse,
hoping for something,
anything at all.
Nothing came,
not even a doll.

Just like a rock,
he was all alone,
without a sock,
and a wanted felon.
Nobody knew him,
nobody cared.
In depression
and just so scared.

Just so scared to be all alone.

Poetry Friday: Captive

A lovely poem by my daughter's amazing teacher.


CAPTIVE
by Joyce Standing

A thought
captured by a pen
memorizes
a moment.

Poetry Friday: Winter Scene

In honor of midwinter break...I give you...

Winter Scene
by Bliss Carman, 1861-1929

Now is the time, with
Winter o'er the World,

For books and friends
and yellow candle light,

And timeless lingering
byt the settling fire.

Poetry Friday: Phenomenal Woman

North of Beautiful is officially out this week, and I want to pay homage to my favorite poem that inspired the book. This was given to me by my friend, Si Oyama, one March for National Women's History Month. And now I give it to you, the phenomenal women who read my words.


PHENOMENAL WOMAN
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

Poetry Friday: I Didn't Know

I Didn't Know
by T.Y. Headley

I didn't know I loved the woods,
rustling and murmuring to me.
I didn't know I loved the streams,
bublling, whispering, and flowing.
I didn't know I loved the trails,
winding, circling, observing, guiding.
I didn't know I loved the wind,
running through the morning.
I didn't know I loved the animals,
scurrying through the undergrowth
curious to the last.

Poetry Friday: Ode to We

Ode to We

we

wii...

WHEE!

Poetry Friday: Rumi

Another wonderful rumination by Rumi...

You must have shadow and light source both.

Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.

Poetry Friday: Rumi

Another beautiful Rumi poem:

Observe the wonders as they occur around you.

Don't claim them. Feel the artistry

moving through, and be silent.

Poetry Friday: Rumi

One of my favorite necklaces that I had to leave behind in China was etched with a poem by Rumi. So when I was browsing a bookstore, I happened on a journal filled with Rumi poetry. Here, then, in the next few weeks, you can find my favorite Rumi.

Keep knocking,

and the joy inside

will eventually

open

a window

and look out

to see who's there.

Poetry Friday: I'm a Wild Child

Wild Child

S. Y. Headley

My anger's red,

bloody red.

I feel like I could

ROAR

like a wild lion.

My crying is soft,

drips and drops,

mist over the blue sky.

I'm a wild child,

roaming free.

I'm a wild child

with nobody to tell me NO.

I'm a wild child

with ratty brown hair

like logs and bark.

With eyes hazel nutty

as a rabid squirrel.

With clothes like a field of

wildflowers.

I'm a wild child,

whose anger is read as blood,

sadness white as the clouds

loathing as black as fire's coal.

I'm a wild child...

or am I just free?

Poetry Friday: Green Mountain

I find so much solace in the outdoors, hiking in the green Cascade Mountains, breathing the clean air, dipping my toes in glacial water. So now...in honor of my stay in Shanghai and my return to the Emerald City (Seattle), here is my last ancient Chinese poem, appropriately named Green Mountain.

Green Mountain

Li Bai (702-762)

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;

I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.

As the peach blossom flows downstream and is the unknown,

I have a world apart that is not among men.

Poetry Friday: Buddhist Blessing

Traditional Buddhist Blessing and Healing Chant

Just as the soft rains fill the streams, pour into the rivers and join together in the oceans,

so may the power of every moment of your goodness flow forth to awaken and heal all beings--

those here now, those gone before, those yet to come.

Poetry Friday: The Great Wall

The Great Wall

Nalan Xingde (1655-1685)

Through how many panels of mountains and seas

Do the high parapets of the long wall

Wind and wind?

Our eyes follow, slope after slope

And we understand

How it ate up the dragon hearts of our grandfathers

And in the end they built it for whom?

Poetry Friday: Winter

Winter

Ziye (c. 265-420)

When ice on the pond is three feet thick

and white snow stretches a thousand miles,

my heart will still be like the pine and cypress,

but your heart--what will it be?

Poetry Friday: Sutta Nipata

Sutta Nipata

Buddha

Let your love flow outward through the universe,

to its height, its depth, its broad extrent,

a limitless love, without hatred or enmity.

Poetry Friday: Autumn Plants, Flowers, Bamboo, Rocks

Autumn Plants, Flowers, Bamboo, Rocks

by Yun Shouping (1633-1690)

Evening wind, morning frost:

these things make solitude beautiful.

Poetry Friday: The Wind

The Wind

by Song Yu (290-223 BCE)

The wind...is the breath of heaven and earth.

Into every corner it unfolds and reaches;

without choosing between high or low,

exalted or humble,

it touches everywhere.

Poetry Friday: The Palace of Rocks

I am late joining the Poetry Friday tradition set up a year or so ago by Kelly Herold, my hero in the kidlitosphere over at Edge of the Forest and Big A, little a. For an overview of Poetry Friday, check out the fantastic article by Susan Thomsen (who blogs as Chicken Spaghetti...I love that!) published at PoetryFoundation.org with the wonderfully cheeky subtitle: "It's an online literary happy hour without the drinks."

What possible contribution could I make in this worldwide celebration of poetry with so many better versed (pun intended) experts sharing their favorite poems each and every Friday?

Then, I thought: why not offer up ancient Chinese poems that are spare yet gorgeous in honor of my yearlong stint in Shanghai? So here is my first offering (and check out how LONG ago this poem was written!!):

The Palace of Rocks

by Yuan Jie (719-772)

At the palace of rocks, spring clouds white--

white clouds are best for the green moss;

brush apart the clouds, tread the rocky path:

what ordinary man could come along?