As the year ends, many list are published of "the best" books in all categories. Though no list is definitive or fits all tastes, one list to look at for good titles published during the year is the National Book Awards.
At the wane of a long season of heat filled yellow sky, fire consumes mountain forests infested, decimated by bark beetles feasting in their own changing world. I swim deliciously in a warmer river without current, cringing at banks so barren I could walk across. The water is too hot for salmon to return upstream and spawn.
"Wallace Stevens�s �Sunday Morning� (1915) is a lofty poetic meditation�almost a philosophical discourse�rooted in a few basic questions: what happens to us when we die? Can we believe seriously in an afterlife? If we can�t, what comfort can we take in the only life we get? As World War I intensified and Stevens neared middle age, he broached these subjects with quiet urgency in a poem as beautiful as it is difficult.
Although �Sunday Morning� is considered Stevens�s breakthrough poem, it wasn�t published until he was 36. It debuted in Poetry magazine during a year that brought several other Modernist milestones, including T.S. Eliot�s �The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,� Marianne Moore�s first professionally published poems, and a major Imagist anthology coedited by the poets Richard Aldington and H.D. Compared with these experiments by younger writers�and with many of the poems later collected in Stevens�s first book, Harmonium (1923)��Sunday Morning� innovates in a mellower and statelier mode. "
He was not a handsome man not even in possession of a face that was easy to look into it was journey twisted and wrinkled like a baby at birth ........
For National Poetry Month last year, poets who serve on the Academy of American Poets Board of Chancellors participated in Poet-to-Poet, a multimedia educational project. Through videos, they invited young people in grades three to twelve to write poems in response to those shared by the poets. Here is one of those poems.
After reading the poem, Jane talks in the video about the poem and tells us it is an ode. �Ode� is from the Greek aeidein, meaning to sing or chant. It is an old form of lyric poetry which would have originally been accompanied by music and dance.
The Romantic poets used it as a way to formally address an event, a person, or a thing not present. There are three typical types of odes: the Pindaric, Horatian, and Irregular. You can check into the more formal aspects of each, but we're being more general in our approach this month.
The Horatian ode (named for the Roman poet Horace) is more contemplative, less formal, less ceremonious, and less theatrical. Look at the Allen Tate poem �Ode to the Confederate Dead.
The Irregular ode is just that. �Ode on a Grecian Urn� by John Keats was actually written based on his experiments with the sonnet.
For this month, we ask you to write an ode that focuses on the body. Jane Hirshfield's poem opens with her direct address to the skeleton.
My skeleton, you who once ached with your own growing larger
She follows chronologically, following the skeleton as it ages.
each year imperceptibly smaller, lighter, absorbed by your own concentration.
Generally, the aging of the body is not a kind thing.
Angular wristbone's arthritis, cracked harp of ribcage
And finally, she concludes with this beautiful image of its life work.
You who held me all my life inside your hands as a new mother holds her own unblanketed child, not thinking at all.
Our November prompt is an ode about a part of the body. I suppose the skeleton is a part of the body, although it is made up of many smaller parts. That is true of the ear, the hand and the brain, so you might want to choose a specific part. You might choose the nose, a breast, the mouth, lips, tongue or a thumb. So many options. You don't need to get down to an anatomical level (although that might be interesting) and you could easily be like those Romantic poets in your approach.
One ode I heard read aloud by the poet several times is "Homage to My Hips" by Lucille Clifton. It is a short poem that probably would not count as an ode by Horatio's standards, but I'm fine with it as an ode.
these hips are big hips. they need space to move around in. they don't fit into little petty places. these hips are free hips. they don't like to be held back. these hips have never been enslaved, they go where they want to go they do what they want to do. these hips are mighty hips. these hips are magic hips. i have known them to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top
(University of Pittsburgh Press)
(Penguin/Penguin Random House)
(Milkweed Editions)
(Alfred A. Knopf)
's poem opens with her direct address to the skeleton.
. It is a short poem that probably would not count as an ode by Horatio's standards, but I'm fine with it as an ode.
