Archive for the ‘Art’ Category
I think today the title tells you everything you need to know. Here’s a selection of poetry written by children from English-speaking countries around the world. It always makes for a really good read and often motivates me to write poetry of my own. Enjoy. . .
THE SEA
By Susan Shoenblum, Age 11, United States
The untamed sea is human
Its emotions erupt in waves,
The sea sends her message of anger
As the waves roll over my head
💌💌💌
THE SPIDER
By J. Jenkins, age 10, New Zealand
With black, wicked eyes, hairy and legs and creepy crawling movements
Black shoe polish coat shining dully,
Hairy black thin legs.
Beautiful, silky and soft web
Dew hangs like miniature diamonds on lazy fingers.
A quick movement and this monster disappears.
💌💌💌
SHADOW
By Pramila Parmar, Age 11, Kenya
My shadow is very bad and foolish
Wherever I go it follows,
I lash it, I whip it,
still, it follows me.
One day I will kick it and it will never follow me.
😕😕😕
By me . . .
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I feel like a poet
And so can you!
🤪
Here we go again with another rainy and gray day. Spring really wants to make an appearance but for some reason she’s having difficulties. The sun shines brightly for 2 hours a day broken up into 15-minute segments. The problem then becomes when you have a “freezing your ass off” moment every time a cloud goes by. Truthfully Mother Nature is really starting to piss me off.
Now let me get back to the subject. A few months ago, I purchased a pile of old used books which appear to have once been library books. I have books from libraries all over the country. One in particular is a book of limericks (mostly clean) written by some well-known authors and celebrities. See what you think.
By: Lewis Carroll
His sister named Lucy O’Finner,
Grew constantly thinner and thinner,
The reason was plain,
She slipped out in the rain,
And was never allowed any dinner.
💥💥
By: Ogden Nash
It was an old man of Calcutta,
Who coated his tonsils with butta,
Thus, converting his snore
From a thunderous roar
To a soft, oleaginous mutta.
By: Oliver Wendell Holmes
The Reverend Henry Ward Beecher
Called a hen a most elegant creature.
The Hen, pleased with that,
Laid an egg in his hat,
And thus did the hen reward Beecher.
💥💥
By: Rudyard Kipling
There was once a small boy in Québec
Stood buried in snow to his neck.
When asked: “Are you friz?”
He said: “Yes, I is,
“But we don’t call this cold in Québec.”
💥💥💥
As you can imagine I read hundreds of limericks a month but even I was taken by surprise when I read these four. Just goes to show you that even celebrated writers and authors have a real bitch of a time writing limericks. I’m sure that if of you took a few minutes, you could write better stuff than this. Only one of these four showed me something interesting and that was the one by Oliver Wendall Holmes. Read it carefully and see if you spot his clever efforts.
LIMERICK WRITERS RULE!
When I started this blog many years ago it took me a while to come up with a proper name. Once the decision was made to call it “every useless thing” I was hooked into providing as many weird and unusual facts as I could find. I’ve created a rather large library of totally useless information and it’s my pride and joy. If I’ve calculated properly, I have enough facts and trivia to continue this blog for 10 more years and never repeat the same item twice. I get to find them and post them, and unfortunately you get to read them. Here we go . . .
- Reese Witherspoon has two pet donkeys.
- Keanu Reeves was born in Lebanon.
- The iconic mask used in the 1978 horror film Halloween was a plastic Captain Kirk mask from Star Trek, spray-painted white and with its eyeholes enlarged.
- The S. S. Minnow of Gilligan’s Island fame was named after former chairman of the FCC, Newton Minnow, who considered television to be a “vast wasteland.
- The maiden name of Betty rubble from the Flintstones show was Betty Jean McBricker.
- To complete the pair, the maiden name of Wilma Flintstone was Wilma Slaghoopel.
- In the United States, the last year that somebody officially died of “old age” was 1951 That’s the last year “old age” was listed on death certificates. It’s now referred to as death by “natural causes.”
- Robert Williams is the first known person to be killed by a robot. He worked at a Ford automobile factory and was struck in the head by a robot in 1979.
- Amalie Auguste Melitta Benz was the un-famous inventor of the coffee filter.
- The first mechanically sliced loaf of bread was sold under the famous Wonder Bread brand in 1930.
AND THE BEAT GOES ON
I’m a fan of some poetry. That being said I prefer short poetry like haikus or limericks. What I like even more is poetry written by younger children because it seems they write what they’re feeling and that makes it special. In the past I’ve posted poems from younger children collected from English-speaking countries around the world and today I offer four more excellent examples of their work. Their poetry is alarmingly good for their young ages and today’s topic will be Feelings. Enjoy!
By Paul Wollner – Age 7 – United States
I love you, Big World.
I wish I could call you
And tell you a secret:
That I love you, World.
*****
By Mary Flett – Age 9 – New Zealand
A loving arm
Shelters me
From any harm.
That shelteredness
Of kindness
Flows around me.
*****
By Ngaire Noffke – Age 12 – New Zealand
I shook his hand.
I touched him.
How proud I felt.
He said “Hello” softly.
I lost my voice,
But in my mind
I said everything.
*****
by Karen Crawford – Age 9 – United States
Have you ever felt like nobody?
Just a tiny speck of air.
When everyone’s around you,
And you are just not there.
*****
THANKS ONCE AGAIN TO RICHARD LEWIS
If you’ve read this blog at all you know I consistently use famous quotations from famous people to help make a point. Over the years having all of those quotes available has made my life much easier. Not all quotes are complementary, and I found almost as many nasty and mean quotes as good ones. Here are some quotes that some people probably wish they hadn’t made. You be the judge…
“Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them.” Bill Vaughn
“You have set up in New York Harbor a monstrous idol which you call Liberty. The only thing that remains to complete the monument is to put on its pedestal the inscription written by Dante on the gates of Hell: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” George Bernard Shaw
“St. Laurent has excellent taste. The more he copies me, the better taste he displays.” Coco Chanel
“Everyone wants to understand painting. Why don’t they try to understand the singing of the birds? People love the night, a flower, everything which surrounds them without trying to understand. But painting – that they must understand.” Pablo Picasso
“There are moments when art attains almost the dignity of manual labor.” Oscar Wilde
This next section concerns a prolific contributor to every subject imaginable: Anonymous. I truly enjoy these mean and nasty unidentified criticizers.
“Critics are the stupid who discuss the wise.”
“An architect is two percent gentleman and ninety-eight percent renegade car salesman.”
“The Eiffel Tower in Paris is the Empire State Building after taxes.”
“A modern artist is one who throws paint on a canvas, wipes it off with a cloth, and sells the cloth.”
“They couldn’t find the artist, so they hung the picture.”
“Poetry is living proof that rhyme doesn’t pay.”
“Dancing is the perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.”
LIFE SUCKS AND THEN YOU DIE
(ANONYMOUS)
As I was preparing this post, I decided midsentence to step away from poetry for a day or two and to return to one of my favorite things which are limericks. I have quite the collection of limericks of all types and unfortunately, I have hundreds that I really can’t post on this blog, no matter how much readers continue to request them. I’ve picked out a few random samples from different historical periods and I’ll post them over the next few weeks. Here is my history by limerick . . .
***
World War II
A lady of doubtful nativity
Had an ass of extreme sensitivity.
She could sit on the lap
Of a Nazi or Jap,
And detect Fifth Column activity.
🪖🗽🪖
Don’t dip your prick in a WAC
Don’t ride the breast of a WAVE.
Just sit in the sand
And do it by hand
And buy bonds with the money you save.
🪖🗽🪖
There was a young lady from Beaman,
Who was known as a sexual demon.
“These soldiers,” said she,
“Mean nothing to me,
For what I really like is the semen.”
🪖🗽🪖
A female Nazi from Bredo
Advances her sinister credo,
By displaying her charms
During air raid alarms,
Inflaming the warden’s libido.
***
“The poet is a reporter interviewing his own heart.”
Christopher Morely
***
Poetry at times can be beautiful. It can bring tears to your eyes and joy to your heart but as with anything it also has the ability to become something dark and disturbing. I try to make a point of reading samples of poetry from as many poets as I can. Some of the most touching poems are not about happy moments running through fields of flowers with birds flying around, but of deep sadness and pain.
On a regular basis I make purchases from thrift bookstores on eBay. A book arrived at my home recently and I knew reading it was going to be extremely difficult. It’s a selection of poetry written by young people who have had to deal with divorcing parents. The book is titled “broken hearts… healing”, Young Poets Speaking Out, compiled and edited by Tom Worthen, Ph.D. I just finished reading the first half of that book and it forced me to deal with the pain I caused to my own son. Many years ago, I ended a twenty-year marriage and caused a great deal of pain to a young man that we adopted (at age twelve) from a number of state-run foster homes. He deserved better than we were able to give him at the time, and this book brought it all back with a vengeance. Here are two poems that brought tears to my eyes.
TUG OF WAR
Nobody has the life I have,
I can’t imagine if the whole world did.
My parents don’t even talk,
They get to ask who wants us and when.
It is like me and my two sisters are in the middle of everything.
So I hope you don’t have the life I have,
And if you do I’m sorry.
by Beth, Age 11
***
WHERE IS MY DAD?
He comes around like he cares,
but when I was young he was not there.
He has a new family and a wife to love dear,
when I was around he made me feel weird.
When I was alone crying in my bed,
was he there, no, it was mom instead.
When I look at my friends with their moms and dads,
I think if he didn’t mess it up,
Oh, what I could have had!
by Dana, Age 13
***
“Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking.”
by John Wain
***
As I worked my way slowly through the public school system back in the 1960’s I received little or no information or exposure to poetry. It was mentioned in passing in some classes but there never was any serious time devoted to it. It just seems to me that making some poetry (not just the classics) available to younger students might just motivate them to either read more poetry or to write their own. A gentlemen named Richard Lewis, a lecturer on children’s literature and creative writing, apparently agreed with me. In cooperation with UNESCO, he traveled through eighteen English speaking countries around the world collecting poetry written by children between the ages of five and thirteen. Three thousand poems were collected with the best 200 published in his book, “Miracles” published in 1966. I’ve picked out two samples to give you some idea of just how talented many of the youngsters can be when expressing their thoughts in a poetic fashion.
THUNDER
by Glenys Van Every, Age 9, Australia
I hear
the drummers
strike
the sky.
***
SUMMER
by Margaret Bendig, Age 10, United States
Inviting, rippling waters
Waiting for little toes
Hurry, go get changed!
***
After reading a few pages of these poems I had a minor epiphany. These children were not trained in poetry but as they wrote their poems many of them began to look very much like free-verse haiku’s. Having no set restrictions on the length of lines and syllable counting allows the young poets freedom to truly express themselves.
Of course, being the irreverent SOB that I am I decided to write this haiku of mine and take it down a road not normally traveled. It contains some reference to nature but also just a touch of my humor. It’s a poetic mortal sin to write them this way and I’m sure it will tweak the noses of a few people. It’s always fun at times to make some people a little crazy.
*❤️*
NATURAL
by Me, Age: Old
Out of the corner of my eye
A bird sails quietly by.
A flash of golden sunlight,
And I have bird shit on my thigh.
***
SMILE, I DID INCLUDE SOME NATURE
‘The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps . . . so that something
that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash, or thunder in.”
Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Well, welcome back to 2024. I hope you enjoyed the last post concerning Mr. Poe because I certainly did. I thought today I would begin talking about haikus. The current requirements for haikus are a first line with five syllables, a second line with seven syllables, and a third line of five syllables. When I first discovered the haiku I thought the rigidity of this design didn’t make a lot of sense. The more I learned about haikus the wiser I thought I became. Here are two examples of haiku’s written by a gentleman from Japan who is considered the father of haikus, Matsuo Kinsaku (1644-1694). He began writing haikus under the name of Basho in 1672. In Basho’s humble opinion a haiku should be created using a minimum of words to paint a mental picture for the reader. Basho included descriptions of nature in most of his haikus but wasn’t limited to a fixed syllable count. I’m all for free-verse haiku’s but I still find the nature requirement of Basho a bit restrictive. Here are couple of samples of Basho’s haikus published in the 1680’s. See what you think.
Spring rain –
under trees
a crystal stream.
***
On the dead limb
squats a crow –
autumn night.
The structure of haikus as mentioned above were created by two poets, Sokan (1458-1546) and Moritake (1472-1549). In Basho’s opinion their works were terse but failed to adequately evoke nature. Three hundred years later a haiku school, the Soun, was opened celebrating Basho’s free-verse approach. The haiku should be based on content not on the number of syllables in each line. With this I whole heartedly agree.
Here is a little something I discovered recently. It’s shows the form of a free-verse haiku but was simply published as a standard poem. References to nature are gone offering a more interesting take on life, love, and people.
we are the dreamers
we are the dancers
life is the music
love is the song.
For all of you Star Trek fans out there, this was written some years ago by Leonard Nimoy and was included in his book of poetry “A Lifetime of Love” published in 2002.
“The true poet dreams being awake.”
Charles Lamb
I thought I’d start this year with a most interesting writer and poet, Edgar Allen Poe. I was introduced to him in high school way back in the days of covered wagons and wild Indians (that was sarcasm). His poetry was spooky, dark, and mysterious which drew me to it immediately. What 15-year-old kid wouldn’t love that? As with most school systems of the time they offered only a few of his writings for classroom work and discussion. The Raven stands as one of his greatest works and we were required to read and memorize certain passages to get a passing grade and then we moved on to other things. My second Poe favorite was Anabel Lee. A love story for the ages except Anabel doesn’t long survive the experience. The flow of his words in that poem grabbed me immediately and I was able to quote some of its passages for years and occasionally still do.
As I aged and was able to read more about Poe and his strange approach to life, the more attention I began to pay to poetry in general. I still think that actual world class poets are few and far between, but Poe was the real deal. Along with Emily Dickenson they are my two favorites. I especially liked Poe because he wrote what he felt and really did nothing to pander to the masses. In my opinion that’s what gives his works real meaning and weight.
Another of Poe’s works has slowly over the years made its way to the top of my favorites list, even more so than the Raven and Anabel Lee. I stumbled on to it quite by accident years ago and it has become one of those rare things that periodically calls to me to be read again. As with all of Poe’s poetry it’s best read while wrapped in a warm blanket on a dark and stormy night by candlelight.
ALONE
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were – I have not seen
As others saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring –
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow – I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone –
And all I lov’d – I lov’d alone –
Then – in my childhood – in the dawn
Of a most stormy life – was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still –
From the torrent, or the fountain –
From the red cliff of the mountain –
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold –
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by –
From the thunder, and the storm –
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
1829
***
WELCOME TO 2024
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