Poem of the Week

This has been the longest week in the history of longest weeks. EVERY DAY this week I have said to myself, "At least tomorrow is Friday ..." I was wrong about that for a very long time.

About 15 years ago, on Monday, Christie received a letter from the OSPA informing her that one of her students scored an honorable mention in their student contest. The next day I received a letter at work informing me that one my students also took an honorable mention. I've been nagging my kids for going on ten years to enter that stupid contest and, lo and behold, one of them finally did. I honestly can't say whether I'm more proud of Wrig or of my student. (When I told that to my student, he said, "Better stick with the family, Mr. Kline. Better stick with the family." Smart kid.)

So this poem was written last Sunday, during and shortly after Wrig's magnificent performance. It is not - directly, anyway - about Christie, though you might like to think it is. Perhaps one of our lurkers might recognize herself. Perhaps not.

Anyway, I'm kind of tired of posting poems about parenting but, honestly, it's all I've got. If you're dying for a poem about nature or springtime or something, let me know.

The Look
March 16, 2008

After ninety minutes of watching other people’s children
mumble and stutter, stumble and mutter, her daughter
finally takes the stage. And as the set pieces
shuffle and rumble, the look creeps across her face:

Features sharpen, eyes narrow, lips purse –
a look painted partly with fear, mostly with hope.
She leans forward in her wobbly chair, ready to leap
to the rescue should her daughter fall, should she fail.

She is not alone in this crowded audience. No one
says it out loud, but we cling to the belief that if we
love our children enough, if we watch them as intently
as we intend, our looks alone should shield them from harm.

So we all wear this look to protect ourselves when
our children attempt their most dangerous feats
of derring-do: barreling breathlessly down the block
on two wheels, leaping into clear, cold water,

or, worst of all, falling in love.

Ed is always forgetting stuff

Ed forgot to tell you that Wrigley (and her teacher, yours truly) was also invited to an awards ceremony where she would have the opportunity to read her poem to the audience. Oh, and the awards ceremony would end with dessert. This detail amuses me because it is a detail that was mentioned only in Wrigley's letter and not in mine. We can't go to the ceremony, as it is scheduled the same weekend as our annual Mother's Day cabin camping trip, but if I were six and I had that to look forward to, the dessert part would stick in my head.

If we were able to go, we wouldn't have had to worry about the public poetry "reading" performance. Wrigley had her debut in that arena this past weekend. Her drama class had its semester performance on Sunday. Last Thursday, Wrigley was taken with Daffodowndilly, a spring celebration poem by AA Milne. She decided she would ask Samantha, her drama teacher, if she could perform it. She did just that, and Samantha agreed that Wrigley could open the performance by reciting the poem and making the announcement about turning off your cell phone.

Gack, just before time, I was all atwitter.


You see, the drama class performance is really all about cute small kids bounding about the stage with the drama teacher right there on stage as part of the play acting as narrator and line prompter to keep the storyline rolling along.


There can be no mistakes because no matter how badly they forget, move to the wrong place, get silly, distracted, speak softly or even pee (poor girl) on stage, Samantha is right there keeping it going and in the audience are all parents who are all also parents of 5-10 year olds who are also doing the same things.

So here it is time for Wrig's big solo debut and I've got butterflies. If Wrigley did too, I couldn't tell. She spoke clearly and projected. She didn't forget a thing, though, afterward she mentioned that she got one of the words wrong. I also now know the poem by heart, and I didn't notice.


It was quite an event. Then the next day, she finds out about the Oregon State Poetry Society award. She's feeling pretty good about her talents right now.

Uh-Oh! Somebody's Got Competition

To quote a letter we recently received (by which I mean we received four hours ago) from the Oregon State Poetry Association: "Dear Wrigley, It is our great pleasure to inform you that your poem, I Need, has won an Honorable Mention in Category I of the 2008 Oregon State Youth Poetry Contest."

That's right - my child, champion poet. She wins a certificate, a medal, and $5 (that's two and a half packs of gum!).

To quote the Wrigley: "Pretty cool, huh?" Later, she qualified her comment: "I think it's pretty cool winning the poetry contest. I've never won a contest before."

Without further ado, here's a BONUS poem of the week:

I Need
by Wrigley Kline
January 31, 2008

I need some wool to spin into string
I need some knitting needles to knit the hat for the queen
I need some sheep for wool
I need some farmers to shear the sheep
I need some money to pay the farmers for shearing my sheep
I need a spinning wheel to spin the yarn to knit the hat for the queen

Poem of the Week

In an effort to draw more people to the site (Hi Romy!), I've given my poem a title bound to turn up in a web search or two ...

Dirty Words
March 12, 2008

I am on my knees in my garden,
madly in love with dirt: dirt dark
as dreams, dirt damp with dew,
deep, deep dirt drawing me into mud.
This good dirt, this dirt of my garden,
will make food grow. From this dirt
comes carrots and garlic and kale,
swiss chard and snap peas and spearmint.
This good dirt, this dirt of my garden,
covers my hands and knees and gets
between my toes. This good dirt breathes.

I want to wallow in words this way,
warm them, water them, watch
them grow wild and willful.
I want to feed you with poetry,
off rhymes ripe from the vine,
sell synonyms sweet as cinnamon
from a fruit stand on a farm road,
a farm road beside a fallow field
full of good dirt, deep, deep dirt,
where you will find me on my knees
in my garden, madly in love with words.

Oh, Okay ...

... if you insist ...

Lost Glove
March 1, 2008

Where is the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the book,
in its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the bag
made of sturdy cloth fiber
that holds the book,
with its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the shoulder,
knotted with worry,
that carries the bag,
made of sturdy cloth fiber
that holds the book,
with its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

And where is the father
with his hands in his pockets,
who bears the shoulders,
knotted with worry,
that carry the bag,
made of sturdy cloth fiber
that holds the book,
with its crinkly new cover,
that fits the hand
that fits this glove,
alone in the mud
outside the
Belmont Library?

He’s alone in the dark,
outside the
Belmont Library,
with a bag
for a book,
looking for the glove
that fits the hand
of the daughter
he loves.

Poem of the Week

Woo hoo! It was a six poem week this week. I had such a hard time choosing this week that I cheated and let Christie read the runner up. I wonder if she preferred the runner up or the one I posted. I wonder if she'll comment with an opinion?

Oh, the thrills.

By the way, of the six, three of them were pretty awful; however, I liked the idea behind the awful poems, so who knows? Maybe I'll try, try again.

Spring Rain
March 8, 2008

The rains returned today,
and I mean that in the best
possible way,

the way prodigals return
to feasting and open arms,

the way good deeds come back
to you sevenfold, or tenfold if you’re lucky,

the way we return to our bed each night,
safe in the weight of our covers.

The rains returned today,
and I mean that in the best
possible way,

bearing with them
the fragrance of forgiveness,
generosity, and love.

Playing Around

This morning, Wrig made her own board game. It's complex - not Calvinball complex, but complex nonetheless. It involves toothpicks, googly-eyes, and a pack of cards that Wrigley drew herself.

Now, despite her genetic predisposition, I'm pretty sure Wrigley is not going to grow up to be an artist. She enjoys drawing, yes, and loves to post her art about the house, but I haven't seen any particular flashes of brilliance (unless you're a big fan of Pollock or Picasso). Granted, she is six and I'm hypercritical, but I don't see gallery shows in Wrig's future.

All that said, the 13 cards she made for her game are brilliant. Not for their artistic excellence, but for Wrig's clever details. She drew a dog and a cat. The difference? The picture of a dog has a slobbery tongue hanging out of its mouth. The difference between a duck and a chicken? The chicken has a bunch of feathers. The pig has a curly tail. She also drew habitats for her farm animals. Her pig pen looks like a flattened circle. The horse pasture looks like a pig pen, but Wrig added vertical lines for fenceposts. The chicken coop looks like a horse pasture, but Wrig added horizontal lines to turn fenceposts into chicken wire.

Christie was just reading an article about how kids often notice details that adults miss. Wrig may not be an artist, but she sure does have an artist's eye.

And PS: Her game was really fun!

February in Review

If you haven't been to Christie's flickr site recently (and if you haven't - why not?), you don't know that Wrigley mastered the art of riding a bicycle on two wheels this week. It's both an amazing development and a mundane event at the same time. Mundane, of course, because everybody learns to ride a bike and (spoiler alert!) every hack poet writes a poem about it. And amazing, of course, because I honestly thought Wrigley would never learn to ride a bike. I, proud papa, have done absolutely nothing to help her. No encouragement, no running through the park holding her handlebars while squirrels frolic and birds sing, no training wheels - nothing. Christie spent some time (not much time) last spring and summer hauling Wrig around on the trail-a-bike, but it's been months since Wrig even sat on her trail-a-bike.

But spring springs (actually, false spring springs) and we've been outside all week. Wrig has been rolling through the last few months on her scooter - teaching herself about balance and momentum. Suddenly, she felt the time was right to learn how to ride. After one major meltdown (maybe one and a half), she was flying down the sidewalk, happy as an "eagle soaring through the air" (her poetry, not mine). Really, it was that easy.

With a little more effort, could we have taught Wrigley to ride a bike last summer? or even the summer before? Maybe. Maybe not. But it surely wouldn't have been a "piece of cake" (my cliche, not Wrig's).

February Stats:
Days in the Month of Feb: 29 (!)
Days Spent Completely, Utterly, Uselessly Ill: 6.5
Poems Written: 16
Poems I like: 13
Poems Posted: 4
Embarrassingly Bad Poems Written About Leap Day on Leap Day: 1

Year to Date:
Days: 60
Poems: 36 (36 poems out of 60 days? Not so good. 35 poems more than grand total for all last year? Pretty dang good.)
Poems I like: 22

Without further ado-whack-ado:

This is How Fatherhood Feels
February 26, 2008

You are following the bike
which, despite wobbling
treacherously between
fence on the left
and curb on the right,
relentlessly gains speed.

Your jaw aches
from biting back advice
neither wanted nor necessary,
and your feet ache
from the endless chase.

Your knees complain
that you haven’t run like
this in fifteen years,
and your chest is tight
with the running
and the running
and the feeling
that is not running
but tightens your
chest anyways.
You move as fast
as dignity and gravity
allow, so you will never
catch her laughter.

The freewheeling hopes
you’ve spun
in your mind’s eye
and the tire-screeching fears
that squeal in your gut
collide somewhere
near your throat as –
for the first time
in her life –

she turns the corner
on two wheels, looks
over her shoulder
with a grin as wide
as an eight lane highway,
and disappears
into her future.