Arbor Day Poem

Last week, I was reading our city's quarterly newsletter and was quite excited to see my name, reprinted as a winner of the Arbor Day writing contest from the year before.  So today I share with you that poem (which is a revision of a poem I had previously posted on this blog).

A Tree in its Season

By Rebecca Klamert

Leaves in yellows, reds, and oranges

provide shelter to dull olive green goldfinches,

blend in with the song of cardinals,

and await the arrival of the indigo buntings

lacking only their brilliant blue feathers.

Looking up on a cloudless night

stars twinkle and dance between bare limbs

of a maple, swaying in the gentle breeze.

A nearby owl surveys the snow covered ground

and intimidates others with its hoo hoo hoo.

Buds turn to shiny bright green growth

as a robin’s monkey-laugh song echoes.

Scurrying, a chickadee seeks scraps for its nest.

Fragrant flowers of an apple tree

beckon each passing person to pause.

A hairy woodpecker, red stripe on its head,

heard long before it’s spotted,

clings high in an elm tree, feasting on insects.

Mother and child play with a toy train and drink lemonade

on a blanket under the shade of a soaring oak.

Frost

Frost
By Rebecca Klamert

Each blade, tipped with a star, blinks
     on a cloudless crisp morning.
Flyer wagon red leaves form
     a stark contrast to the blanket of white.
The twinkle disappears at a pace,
     not
     much
     behind
     the fog of my breath.

October 30, 2014

October 30, 2014

By Rebecca Klamert

As my mind awakened

aches shivered through me

Eyes still closed, a battle

waged within

Dressed and showered

I stepped out the front door,

starting at my normal pace

Over the length of the half-mile,

I slowed

Approaching an intersection, I pushed forward

at the pace

of the cars

waiting

for the red light

to turn green

Song Lyrics with Meaning to me

Song writers are a special kind of poet.  They have the added challenge of making words work with melody and have the ability to reach far larger audiences.  Reading poetry, I fear, is becoming a lost art.  Sadly, I can't remember the last time I picked up one of my poetry books.

Listening to music I believe will always be a strong piece of most any culture.  So today I would like to share with you some excerpts of song lyrics that really mean something to me.

Stand
Written by Danny Orton and Blair Daly
Recorded by Rascal Flatts

"You feel like a candle in a hurricane
just like a picture with a broken frame
alone and helpless
like you've lost your fight
but you'll be alright, you'll be alright

'Cause when push comes to shove
you taste what you're made of
you might bend 'til you break
'cause it's all you can take
on your knees you look up
decide you've had enough
you get mad, you get strong
wipe your hands shake it off
then you stand"

"Every time you get up
and get back in the race
one more small piece of you
starts to fall into place"


Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)
Written by Gary Allan, Hillary Lindsey, and Matt Warren
Recorded by Gary Allan

"Oh so you're standing in the middle of the thunder and lightning
I know you're feeling like you just can't win, but you're trying
It's hard to keep on keepin' on when you're being pushed around
Don't even know which way is up, you just keep spinning down, 'round, down

Every storm runs, runs out of rain
Just like every dark night turns into day
Every heartache will fade away
Just like every storm runs, runs out of rain"

"It's gonna run out of pain
It's gonna run out of sting
It's gonna leave you alone
It's gonna set you free
Set you free"


Diamonds
Written by Sia Furler, Benny Blanco, and StarGate
Recorded by Rihanna

"Find light in the beautiful sea
I choose to be happy"

I crunch leaves

I crunch leaves

By Rebecca Klamert

Nausea sets in as I grip the desk and pause

Focused pain spreads through and through

I falter

Finding the floor of a conference room

I stretch as tears spill on the carpet

Then I stand

In my chair I raise my face to the lines of a poem

Inspiration meant for a future day

I smile

Stepping outside I find a vibrant red tipped yellow leaf sailing

and allow the song of a familiar bird to wash over me

I walk on

After two pain pills and two hours with the TENS

my throat catches on my walk home so I step off the path

and crunch leaves

Walking in the Fog

Walking in the Fog

By Rebecca Klamert

moisture laden air drops

press against my eyes

closing me in

a fresh water tear

forms on my lashes

my vision blurs

As the Season Changes

As the Season Changes

Rebecca Klamert

Leaves in yellows, reds, oranges

await the arrival of the indigo buntings,

lacking only their brilliant blue feathers.

Ruby throated hummingbirds

no longer guest at our dinner table,

their favorite flowers wilted in the wind.

A hairy woodpecker,

a stripe of red on his head,

pecks at the peanut suet.

His intention to intimidate

various sparrows who ignore

and toss to the ground

half of the suet they peck.

I stand between the lines of laundry

swaying in the brisk breeze.

All have flown away

except the black capped chickadee

who shares my company.

Evening

Evening

By Rebecca Klamert

An electric burner

glows low in the sky, playing,

embers and flames dance

A glimmer and glare

stare at chanting birds and skirt

the shadows of weathered wood

Haiku poems

We were out on a boat yesterday evening and I took advantage of the beautiful weather and scenery to try writing a few Haiku poems something I hadn't really done before.  So here are four Haiku poems that I wrote.

The Willow Tree

Yellow-green glowing

flows to be one with the water.

A child hides beneath.

Honk Honk

In concert they soar

inches atop the surface.

Fish scurry below.

The Kayak

Orange flecks reflect sun,

parting the water, propelling

through the shade and breeze.

On the Dock

Bobbing and swaying,

rolling waves wash over the rocks.

The sun warms my face.

My Client, a Survivor

Below are some revisions of a poem I brought to my poetry class for critique.

The first version sticks with the original form of the poem with revisions suggested by my classmates and teacher.

The second version is my first attempt at writing a pantoum which was the suggest of my teacher, Margaret Rozga.  A pantoum repeats certain lines in the poem.  You can read more about it here.

My Client, a Survivor By Rebecca Klamert

Her voice suddenly quiet,
she hesitates.
It’s her second call today.
Each resembles the last.

They all start the same:
a timid voice speaks my name;
a force of energy upon knowing its me;
a need to explain, doubtful I’ll believe.

This time she hopes
for a different response.

They all end the same:
after an intense conversation,
a hesitation,
and the soft whisper of goodbye.
 
My Client, a Survivor By Rebecca Klamert

Her voice suddenly quiet,
she hesitates.
It’s her second call today.
Each resembles the last.

She hesitates.
They all start the same.
Each resembles the last.
A timid voice speaks my name.

They all start the same;
a need to explain, doubtful I’ll believe,
a timid voice speaks my name,
a force of energy upon knowing it’s me.

A need to explain, doubtful I’ll believe,
This time she hopes for a different response.
A force of energy upon knowing it’s me
before a soft whisper of goodbye,

this time she hoped for a different response.
It was her second call today
After a soft whisper of goodbye,
her voice suddenly grew quiet.

An Emily Dickinson Poem

Here is a beautiful poem written by Emily Dickenson:

 

Hope is the Thing with Feathers
”Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

A Poem from a Novel

I'm currently reading Distant Dreams by Judith Pella and Tracie Peterson which is really good.  It is  about a young woman in the 1830s who is at the age of her coming out but is much more interested in railroads and other topics considered only suitable for men.

Here is the poem at the beginning of Part IV:

We surely live in a very fast age;
We've traveled by ox-teams, and then by stage
But when such conveyance is all done away
We'll travel in steam cars upon the railway!

By James Crane

I like it's simplicity and how it reflects the time so well.  It also really fits with the book well.

Poetry class

I've started a poetry class which has been really great.  It is run like a workshop and so far I have gotten some great feedback on two of my poems.  Here is the first one that I shared with edits from my classmates' suggestions.

The Hangover

By Rebecca Klamert

the dog howls on

a slow whine morphs

into a cry of a fallen

coconut on an empty island

the dog howls on

the whack of a tennis ball

volleys back and forth

echoing

between my ears

the dog howls on

the screen flashes

in front of me

covered in swahili

as my eyes blink closed

the dog is quiet

A Good Story and a Poem

So yesterday morning, we were sitting at the dealership working out a deal on a car. I thought it a perfect experience to write a poem about and so I brought my notebook with and while we sat there waiting and negotiating, I wrote.

At one point the salesman asked, "What are you writing?"  I simply told him "a poem."  He let it be for the moment but later when my husband was reading it over he asked, "You aren't writing about me are you?"  When I said, "yes" he appeared quite shocked and said, "no seriously!"  I went on to explain that I was comparing negotiating a deal to a dance.  He still seemed taken a back even after my husband explained it could be about any salesperson.  I can only imagine what he must have been thinking.  Anyway, my husband and I had a good laugh about it later.

Here is the poem:

The Dance at the Dealer
By Rebecca Klamert

Adorned in suit and tie
he looks out of place.
He follows the arc of the arrow
seeing us from his perch.

Asked to dance we follow
his lead as he lures us in.
Relinquishing the power,
momentarily.  He listens.

He leans back scoffing
at what he finds ridiculous.
He is then quiet, reflective
and leans forward.

We lean back unimpressed,
holding our breath, as he steps
away to an enclosed glass room.
He returns a smile on his face

and slides across the table
numbers in dark blue ink,
piercing the paper.  Again
he disappears in the glass room,

returning he remarks confidently
“We’ve got a deal” grasping
our hands firmly;
as the music fades.

Polar Opposites

Here is a poem I wrote while at the Milwaukee Art Museum yesterday.  My inspiration came from the painting below the poem.  The artist is Jules Bastien-Lepage and the painting is titled “Le Père Jacques” (Woodgatherer).  I may still do some more editing but wanted to share what I have now.

Polar Opposites

By Rebecca Klamert

December 29, 2012

A man greying, wrinkled, and fatigued.

Hunched forward, on his back

a heavy load of branches he tossed.

Glazed eyes focused on the mountain ahead;

 a draining strength, a draining energy,

push him to persevere.

A youthful innocence long lost.

A blond child, hair running wild,

dressed in a gown the color of the skies.

Daises gripped in one hand with skin so mild

while the other scavenges, searches….

Cheeks with a hint of strawberry as she spies

her next treasure just beyond,

a dance in her step as she glides in pursuit.

Blue green grass grows at their feet,

flowers flourishing here and there,

leaves of fall scattered all about.

Trees baron of new growth seen everywhere;

their only leaves in the colors of the sun.

The forgotten fall surrounds them with

a mix of spring and summer.

Le Père Jacques (Woodgatherer)
by Jules Bastien-Lepage

Translated poems

I feel that there is always something lost in translation, especially when it comes to poetry.  I have even found that I can say things better in one language verses another language.  So today I would like to share with you a poem by Francisco Icaza along with the English translation in Spanish-American Poetry:  A Dual-Language Anthology edited and translated by Seymour Resnick.  In this poem there are phrases and words with a deeper meaning than the simple translation.  Additionally, word order often cannot be preserved in translation and word order can really add to the meaning.

So as I read poems like the one below which has been translated, I am torn regarding whether to include translations of my Spanish poems when I create my book (for myself and my family - most of which know no Spanish).

La canción del camino
por Francisco Icaza

Aunque voy por tierra extraña
solitario y peregrino,
no voy solo, me acompaña
mi canción en el camino.

Y si la noche está negra,
sus neguras ilumino;
canot, y mi canción alegra
la obscuridad del caminno.

La fatiga no me importa
porque el báculo divino
de la canción, hace corta
la distancia del camino.

¡Ay, triste y desventurado
quien va solo y peregrino,
y no marcha acompañado
por la canción del camino!


The Song of the Road
(translation of above poem by Francisco Icaza)

Although I go through foreign lands
solitary and wandering,
I do no go alone, my song
accompanies me on the road.

And if the night is black,
I illuminate its blackness;
I sing and my song lights up
the darkness of the road.

Fatigue does not matter to me
because the divine staff
of the song makes short
the length of the road.

Alas, sad and unfortunate
is the one who goes alone and wandering,
and does not walk accompanied
by the song of the road!

The Wild Honey Suckle

The Wild Honey Suckle
By Philip Freneau

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in the this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched they honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
     No roving foot shall crush thee here,
     No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
     Thus quietly thy summer goes,
     Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died--nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
     Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power
     Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
    The space between, is but an hour,
    The frail duration of a flower.


My favorite line of the whole poem is in the last stanza, "If nothing once, you nothing lose."  We all started as nothing and will end as nothing (at least on this earth) so why not make the most of the time we have here.

Leaves From My Love

My husband spent a lot of time out of town this fall for work.  I had a chance to spend a long weekend with him and when I arrived, he had a leaf that he had found waiting for me knowing how much I like nature and use rocks and nature to center myself.  He later found a second similar leaf for himself to match mine.  Here is a little poem to remember those leaves.

Leaves From My Love
By me

Two burgundy leaves thick as leather
Tiny veins from the stem reaching out
Minor imperfections that enhance their beauty
Hand picked in the heat of fall

Written December 6, 2012

Rubén Darío

Y ahora una poema en español.  Encontré esta poema en el libro Spanish-American Poetry A Dual-Language Anthology Poesía Hispano-americana.  Este libro solo tiene la primera estrofa pero intento buscar la poema entera cuando tengo tiempo.

Sonatina

La princesa está triste... ¿Qué tendrá la princesa?
Los suspiros se escapan de su boca de fresa,
que ha perdido la risa, que ha perdido el color,
La princesa está pálida en su silla de oro,
está mudo el teclado de su clave sonoro;
y un vaso olvidada se desmaya una flor.

Mis pensamientos (recuerda que no soy crítica de poesía):  Se puede ver la rima pero no es tan obvia que distrae del poema y el mensaje.  Hay una contradicción entre "su boca de fresa" y las próximas frases que habla de la risa que ya no está y "que ha perdido el color" y que "está pálida."  Me encanta la palabra suspiros porque en decir la palabra puede oír los suspiros.  Finalmente, la gramática en español se permite un cambio en la orden de las palabras para mantener otros aspectos literarios por ejemplo la rima en la última frase.

Dust of Snow

Here is one from one of my favorite poets.  The interpretations found online for this poem are really interesting.

Dust of Snow

by Robert Frost

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

Today as I was trying to read poetry on my e-reader, I was frustrated with the lack of easy of paging back and forth to different sections so I took a trip to my local library and was reminded of why I couldn't get enough of the library as a young adult.  I checked out Three Centuries of American Poetry edited by Allen Mandelbaum & Robert D. Richardson, Jr. among other poetry books and have two poems to share with you.

The first poem is by Walt Whitman and contains a really neat comparison really uses some great descriptive words along with repetition to help you the reader create a neat visual.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


The second poem I share with you today is by Joyce Kilmer.  This is a fairly simple poem that uses rhyme and rhythm (or is it meter).

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with the rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Poetry Writing Tips

I came across a great blog post entitled "36 Poetry Writing Tips."  It is a great read for anyone interested in poetry and confirms my belief that any writer needs to read other writer's work to improve their own work.

Back to poetry

I have been away from poetry for far too long.  Over the past 6 months, I've learned I need to hold on to those those things that have helped me center myself in the past and so I have started writing again.  I have a couple of projects pending including a book of my poetry with photos I have taken to accompany each poem and a display photo of mine with an accompanying poem.  I have found that some thoughts are better portrayed in Spanish than English and so am even working on some Spanish poems.

In addition to writing my own poetry, I am looking to published authors for inspiration and so plan to use this blog to post some of my favorite poems of others.  Today I plan to start with a poem by Emily Dickinson which comes from Series I of this book.

III.  Nature  XI.
Summer Shower
A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag.
And signed the fete away.


I really love the whimsical feeling to many of Emily Dickinson's poems and her use of both rhymes and off rhymes to keep you focused.  Like most poems, it is important to read her poems several times to dig for the deeper meanings.

Las Ciudades Gemelas

Por mí
escrito el 29 de marzo de 2009


Hace unos años participé
en una clase de la escritura creativa
Recuerdo con tanta claridad
una poema de una compañera mía
Ella escribió del esplendor
de las Ciudades Gemelas

La vista de los edificios altos
al entrar la ciudad
El río Mississippi que
viaja por la ciudad
La vida que corre
y corre por muchas cosas que hacer
Los museos, teatros, zoológicos,
restaurantes, y mucho más
El metro que va a los partidos
de béisbol

Cuando ella leyó su poema
no entendí
No entendí la mágica de
las Ciudades Gemelas
Pero ahora las echo de menos mucho

Es un lugar importante que
nos dice de quien soy yo

Yo soy una parte de la ciudad
Para siempre mi corazón vivirá allí
mientras yo viva aquí
más cerca de mi familia
más cerca de la familia de mi esposo
más cerca de mi niñez….

La vida ha cambiado mucho

-->

La vida ha cambiado mucho

por mí

escrito el 26 de enero de 2009

Las vacas se puede ver

por la ventana de mi cuarto.

Se huele el olor de las granjas

cuando hace calor.

Pero cierro mis ojos y puedo oír

el tráfico, los aviones por arriba

y la música de un vecino.

Cierro mis ojos y puedo ver otra vez

Abro mis ojos y me acuerdo de que

el ruido ya no existe

las tiendas se quedan lejos

y mis estudiantes viven muy cerca….

El viento

Caracol

Caracol
Por Rubén Darío, 1903

En la playa he encontrado un caracol de oro
macizo y recamado de las perlas más finas;
Europa le ha tocado con sus manos divinas
cuando cruzó las ondas sobre el celeste toro.

He llevado a mis labios el caracol sonoro
y he suscitado el eco de las dianas marinas,
le acerqué a mis oídos y las azules minas
me han contado en voz baja su secreto tesoro.

Así la sal me llega de los vientos amargos
que en sus hinchadas velas sintió la nave Argos
cuando amaron los astros el sueño de Jasón;

y oigo un rumor de olas y un incógnito acento
y un profundo oleaje y un misterioso viento...
(El caracol la forma tiene de un corazón.)

El viento

El viento

por mí
escrito el 17 de diciembre de 2008

El viento susurra,

empieza en una voz muy baja

al nivel en cual casi no puedes oírlo.

El viento susurra,

susurra….

El movimiento está creciendo

hasta el momento

Susurra, susurra el viento

en voz más alta ahora

¿Puedes oírlo?

Las hojas están cayendo

cayendo rápidamente ahora

El viento no susurra más

Ya no puedo pensar…oír mis pensamientos

solo los gritos

El caos se ve alrededor de mí

Ya no oigo el susurro del viento

Pero todo lo que estaba antes

ya no existe

exactamente el mismo.