Magnetic and Other Kinds of Poetry
So, on Monday, Mac and I spread many magnetic poetry words across the carpet, then categorized them on a dry erase board. Nouns vs. verbs, like a smackdown semantic wrestling match.
Music, I say, squinting at a miniature word. Is that a person, place, or thing, or something that you can do?
Something that you can do, Mac insists.
I shake my head. I explain to him that you can play music, sing it, or listen to it, but that you can't really do it. Mac crosses his little Charlie Brown arms. I examine the letters and I think about how I feel when cocooning myself in a coat of music. I think about that day, last week, when Iranawayfromhome, and how music carried me through rush hour traffic to the Rio Center, where the soundtrack of my life and my heels on the sidewalk were inseparable.
Then, I say to Mac, Well, whaddya know? Maybe mom's wrong. If you think that music is something that you can do, I'm not going to tell you that you can't.
When we are finished, I toss in a few conjunctions, adjectives, and prepositions. Then, we scramble the words into a dry omelet. It sticks a little, far from perfect yet satisfying.
I read our poem slowly. Mac and I look at each other and laugh. I decide that my favorite line is "love food . . . yes." I can feel the pause and the satisfied "yes." The "yes" that sounds like a balloon leaking air. Yessssssss.
Mac's favorite line is "cheese music." We decide that maybe this kind of music is bold, like parmesan cheese, shaved off of a block. Or it's like music with holes. Music that is velvety but rough--as if Sinatra were cheese, dressed in a suit.
I've been appreciating poetry again. In my purse, I have Naomi Shibab Nye's book, "Words Under the Words." In my head, I have Frances Chung's "Page 22/oh lucky me." In my Amazon shopping cart, I have Frances Chung's "Crazy Melon and Chinese Apple: The Poems of Frances Chung," and I am hoping that by the end of the week, that book will be in my mailcarrier's hands.
My mail carrier needs a poem. He wears a pith helmet and smokes as he walks from house to house and hasn't used a vacation day in months. If he wants, he can read my Frances Chung book before he gives it to me.
As long as it doesn't take him too long, and as long as he is willing to tell me which poem was his favorite.
Music, I say, squinting at a miniature word. Is that a person, place, or thing, or something that you can do?
Something that you can do, Mac insists.
I shake my head. I explain to him that you can play music, sing it, or listen to it, but that you can't really do it. Mac crosses his little Charlie Brown arms. I examine the letters and I think about how I feel when cocooning myself in a coat of music. I think about that day, last week, when Iranawayfromhome, and how music carried me through rush hour traffic to the Rio Center, where the soundtrack of my life and my heels on the sidewalk were inseparable.
Then, I say to Mac, Well, whaddya know? Maybe mom's wrong. If you think that music is something that you can do, I'm not going to tell you that you can't.
When we are finished, I toss in a few conjunctions, adjectives, and prepositions. Then, we scramble the words into a dry omelet. It sticks a little, far from perfect yet satisfying.
I read our poem slowly. Mac and I look at each other and laugh. I decide that my favorite line is "love food . . . yes." I can feel the pause and the satisfied "yes." The "yes" that sounds like a balloon leaking air. Yessssssss.
Mac's favorite line is "cheese music." We decide that maybe this kind of music is bold, like parmesan cheese, shaved off of a block. Or it's like music with holes. Music that is velvety but rough--as if Sinatra were cheese, dressed in a suit.
I've been appreciating poetry again. In my purse, I have Naomi Shibab Nye's book, "Words Under the Words." In my head, I have Frances Chung's "Page 22/oh lucky me." In my Amazon shopping cart, I have Frances Chung's "Crazy Melon and Chinese Apple: The Poems of Frances Chung," and I am hoping that by the end of the week, that book will be in my mailcarrier's hands.
My mail carrier needs a poem. He wears a pith helmet and smokes as he walks from house to house and hasn't used a vacation day in months. If he wants, he can read my Frances Chung book before he gives it to me.
As long as it doesn't take him too long, and as long as he is willing to tell me which poem was his favorite.
posted by Cate at 12:48 PM
8 Comments:
Funny, when I read "cheese music" I thought of something smooth and creamy, but sometimes a little heavy...like it would soothe in small doses and smother in large amounts. I love hearing about what images words spark in others.
I'm expecting a package in my mail carrier's hands too (hopefully tomorrow) but he can NOT have it! :-)
I wonder who he takes after? He definitely has a strong personality.
Also love the cheese music line.
Deb, I like your interpretation! I'm the same about hearing other people's impressions--I would go wild administering that Rorschach Test! I'm excited for you about your delivery--maybe he can borrow it when you're done :)?!
Lou, it was a good line. We're going to have to scramble up another poem later tonight.
I like this playfulness with words. How lovely that your son is excited about poetry.
My two sets of magnetic words won't even begin to fit on the fridge, but Richard made me a metal slate with wood framing so I can play with poetry anywhere.
It's good to see you back. You've been missed.
You're back Cate!
Happy New Year. (:
It is nice when you can get a moment, a quiet, back to basics moment with "one" child, and savour all that it is and every bit of creative learning going on! Tender.
And on the flip side, if you start sharing poems with your mail carrier, I might wonder what you would dare to share with the milk man.....hmmmmph. Hey Cate, just keeping it lively.......
Cheese music: rich and comforting...
like your writing. Missed your words.
Hugs,
a.
Deirde, thanks for your comment! I'm trying to get him excited about poetry, excited about words and language--not always a success but I'm hoping that when he's older, he will have an appreciation (andbeacriticallyacclaimedwriter . . . just kidding!). Your Richard is a good guy--a board for magentic poetry is the best kind of gift.
Cheryls,
Hi! It's good to be writing again. Happy New Year to you, too!
B, you said it about the "one child" thing. I really appreciate those moments--all I'm doing when there are two is refereeing fights. And you cracked me up with the milkman line . . . you never know what goes on here when I am home alone all day, without any company except for service men! xo
P.S. I sent my mom over to your site last night to see your "felted up" post, and she loves your purses! They are so beautiful.
A,
I need a little rich and comforting cheese music right now--I woke up with a headache! Thank you for stopping by! Hope you are having a good weekend. xo
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