Judul : This Poem is Green
link : This Poem is Green
This Poem is Green
I am away from my desk today, attending the Georgia Children's Book Festival, but I did want to pop in for St. Patrick's Day to share a green poem. :)
Also, if you haven't signed up for our 2017 Progressive Poem, there are just two slots left! Sign up here.
About St. Patrick's Day: I have never felt a particular affinity for the holiday, even though during the years we lived near New Orleans, participating in the St. Patrick's Day parade was a pretty big deal. All the guys would dress up in green-trimmed tuxedos and march through the streets kissing girls. We watched safely from a balcony -- yes, there was alcoholic beverages involved, and this is the Big Easy we're talking about... not the best place for a tween girl!
Anyhow, fast forward to last year, when I visited Bismarck, North Dakota for some sessions on One Little Word, but mostly to see my father. Not only did I find out we actually DO have Irish blood (something about a fiery red-headed great-grandmother?!), but someone also snapped what would turn out to be the last photo of me and my father together.
Isn't he adorable in his leprechaun hat? So now St. Patrick's Day fills me and empties me. I'm glad to be busy today.
And here is a poem, freshly written, green spots and all:
This Poem is Green
Green like a hillside
gowned in clover,
green like sea-washed glass.
It's pushing up through hardscrabble soil,
tender leaves unfurling
on a frosty March morning.
Each day it begins,
or begins again –
there is always something new to learn.
Sometimes it gets wobbly,
like now: it's queasy heart
squeezed by the tides
of opinion.
Sometimes it sees other poems
that are far better-dressed,
poems with wings,
and this poem grows even green-er.
What else is there to do then,
than retreat to the forest?
This poem knows to listen
to giants. It carried their wild songs
like DNA in each syllable,
it holds lost fathers and daughters
in its branches,
and when it breathes,
the sky tastes like salt.
See? This poem is so green
it's already turning blue.
- Irene Latham
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