Note 1: This teacher’s description of Keesha’s House (novel for teens composed of sestinas and sonnets) is intriguing; adding it to my library list.
Note 2: I haven’t gotten past the masthead page in the April 2011 print issue of O Magazine, but I was tickled to see various staff members’ names linked to their answers to “Who Is Your Favorite Poet?” Quite a range (and, if I’m not mistaken, all 20th-21st century folk except for Kabir) — in addition to Milosz, Neruda, Angelou, Hughes, and other perennials, there’s also mention of Harryette Mullen and Matthea Harvey.
Note 3: I don’t agree with the thrust of David Orr’s critique of the issue in the March 27 New York Times Book Review, but one of his complaints — “roughly a fifth of the coverage is devoted to Mary Oliver, about whose poetry one can only say that no animals appear to have been harmed in the making of it” — made me laugh. (For the record, I personally like Oliver’s work — and the guest editor of the issue was Maria Shriver, who listed Oliver as her favorite poet. But I know of at least one other member of the collective who will concur with Orr, and God knows I’m guilty myself often enough of wanting something to be what I want rather than what it is… *wry smile*)
I picked up Sharon Creech’s Hate That Cat at a sale, thinking it might make a good birthday present for a friend.
Two things I didn’t realize:
(1) It’s a sequel. (Guess I’ll have to keep or donate it instead.)
(2) It’s about poetry! I’m 32 pages in and there’s already been an entry on William Carlos Williams that made me laugh.
From Luc Reid’s “What Goes Around, Stays Around” (flashfic):
“Mechaieh … the poet?”
“Of course the poet.”
“But I heard that all of her poems turned into flocks of birds when you read them.”
“That’s only her recent ones. This is one of the old ones.”
“So you’ve read it?”
“Of course not. You think I want it to turn into a flock of birds?”
Not much going on with me poetry-wise at the moment, although I’ve got a couple ideas I might try to turn into flocks of birds later tonight, after the roasting of a chicken and napping à la cat. (One of these years I will swing a full night’s sleep before Easter services. This year’s was nice — the readings included two poems by Rilke and one by e.e. cummings — but I confess there were also stretches where I simply let my mind wander, focusing less on the sermon and more on the gorgeous cerulean blue of the thangka (traditional Buddhist painting) behind the pulpit.)