Long gone are the days when a bard-poet would station
himself in the public square to provide entertainment both humorous and
serious. Well, there was
Roving Typist, who set up to write ‘Stories While You
Wait’ on the New York City streets this past summer (and
endured internet bullying for his efforts).
When I heard that my church was going to host a craft show,
I thought it might be a good, safe place for our Younger Daughter to become
civically engaged and put her poetry-writing ability to good use. “Let’s have a ‘Poetry Table’ at the craft
show!” I said enthusiastically. She
probably felt like she had been volunteered, but she agreed.
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Just some of the wonderful things available at our craft show.
Those lavender cookies were awesome! |
We spent some time ahead of the event choosing and printing
poems, some by famous poets, all in the public domain (e.g. Shakespeare). She also picked a few poems of her own that
she had written for other occasions.
Then she asked, “How much should I charge?” Hmm.
It is unlikely that anyone coming to a craft fair is going to pay for
poems printed on plain paper without any visual art added. So I said, “Let’s just ask for donations, and
you can send the money you collect to a charity. Pick the charity ahead of time, so you can
let people know where their donations are going.” She has aspirations of being a cell biologist
working towards a cure for cancer, so she picked cancer research as her
charity.
I encouraged her also to offer to write poems on the spot,
on a topic of the donor’s choice. This
is a hard thing to do, even if rhyme is not required, since poetry usually comes
from inspiration, not assignment. Also, penmanship, not one of YD’s strong
points, counts in this scenario.
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| Post-It Note poem in honor of Lauren |
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| The bard at work, inspired by her muse, Einstein |
People attending the craft show were wary. What is this non-craft thing being
offered? Why is Einstein at a craft show?
Some people were kind enough to
participate, either taking a pre-printed poem, or asking YD to write them a
poem on a variety of ideas, including metal, a vegetable, prayer, an acrostic
on the name ‘Lauren’, and fall leaves.
YD succeeded at writing a poem for most of the topics. Unprompted, she wrote a saga, in rhyme, about a Boy Scout who sends his mother
away when he is packing for a scout trip.
As the Roving Typist in NYC probably learned, it is hard to
make megabucks with words. Our poetry
table earned $42.50 in donations for UPCI. But YD’s sense of accomplishment was great. I think Einstein enjoyed it too.
Please enjoy three of her poems below. No copying.
A Doodle
A hand
Moves
Across the paper.
A world
Appears
Underneath my fingers.
I see
The lines
Drawn, slowly, across the years.
In one minute, two,
Millenia go by.
I watch
The things
I draw
Slowly, slowly.
A nation
A hand
Slowly make the years flash by.
An uprising
Blood
An evil overthrown
As the hand moves
The hand gives
The hand takes.
I am the God.
I am the one
Who decides the fate
Of all who I see
Bowing before me.
I am the one who is.
I draw.
© All Rights Reserved.
Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
One leaf
Two leaf
Red leaf
Yellow
A pile upon the frosty ground.
Whee!
I jump.
One, two, red, yellow, orange
Fly from me.
Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
One swing
Two swing
Back swing
Forward
Whee!
I jump.
The swing swings far
Behind me.
Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love
thee?
Let me count the ways.
One branch
Two branch
Thin branch
Broken
A warning to the waiting climber.
Whee!
I jump.
I grab a branch, the ground far
Below me.
Oh, deciduous trees, how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
But how can one count the two
Hundred
Ways that you,
Oh deciduous trees,
Have let me leap
Not back to the ground
But back, back
Back into the time
Of childhood.
© All
Rights Reserved.
The Saga of the Packing Boy Scout
Once, in suburban mountains cold
There lived a Boy Scout, large and strong
Who felt, though he was twelve years old
That he had to bring a pack along
For soon a quest would take him off
Deep into parts of worlds unknown
And he knew, though you might now scoff,
That a pack would help him hold his own.
And so he packed, this great Boy Scout,
Three pairs of socks, and uniform,
Food, water, a map (for the route),
And set off into growing storm.
The Scout trekked long, but soon he found
He hadn’t brought a woolen hat
Or gloves, for he his mom profound
Had sent away when he had packed.
So now the Scout, he wanders still
Through the unknown parts of old
With no hat against the chill
Once, in suburban mountains cold.
© All Rights Reserved.
