Nope. No Poem Here. Absolutely Not. Why Would You Want to Read a Verse About Asparagus and Nose Hairs. Move On. Poem 29 of #VerseLove

I loved Glenda Funk's (best last name, too) prompt to explore what a poem is and what it isn't, and when I woke up at 3 a.m. to pee (after eating asparagus for dinner), I knew what thing poetry should never be about, so I earmarked it in my head. I've also been working this children's story in my head about the 'land of Nopes' so have a lot of nada no nope-naying kicking around. The one failure in this draft, though, was that I wanted the HAI in HAIR to be a haiku, but I'm over by a syllable.

I also love that Glenda responded that I could have gone after belly button funk, too. This is why I love VerseLove. I'm always surprised by the feedback that comes my way...the advice and appreciation. Never even thought of belly-button verse, but could have (who remembers my bleeding belly button from the early 2000s? I do)

Ah, but this is absolutely non-poetic today. That's intentional.

This Is Not a Poem

~b.r. crandall

nada no nope

(urine trouble, Crandall…

you piss-head dope)

This should never be 

a 3 a.m. stream of consciousness

poem puddled with asparagus perfume

to disrupt anyone’s flow…

…You’ve yet to write the colonoscopy sonnet.

nada no nope

(urine trouble, Crandall…

you piss-head dope)

No! This can never be a plucking

O de to nostril picking

S poken word-probing,

E pigram licking  - 
H arvested haiku of

A biotic cilia - nor an

I lllumination of a

R aucous villanelle.

…who needs the phlegm-flavored tanka, anyway?

nada no nope, Crandall

chicken-nugget turd dope.

This will never be a poem!

Poems have purpose…

possibility…

like the Robin’s nest

you found

built & extended 

with Diandre’s 

purple weave…

…like the might & magic

of the ant

you watched 

carrying Karal’s

IAMS from 

kitchen floor

to the

formicidae 

keg-fest

outside.

…like the white-breasted

nuthatch hitchhiking 

two miles on your shoulder

as if an emblem

there’s poetic meaning 

to any of this.

Nope nada no, Crandall

this poem’s a definite no-go.

Stick with those flowers & stars,

more apropos.

This is definitely not a poem.

Inspired by an Elementary School Student...her Mama Shared the Prompt. Love That Kids are Inventing New Poetic Styles, Too. Thank You, Jessica Wiley.

So, it goes like this: (1) 1st two lines should be 'When I'm by myself/and I close my eyes' (um, I adapted), followed by eight lines that begin with "I'm" and rhyme (I adapted), and the last five lines are "I'm whatever I want to be / An anything I care to be / And when I open my eyes / What I care to be / is me." 

Okay, I adapted, again, but I love the possibility of using this with K-12 student, especially those who are most reluctant to explore poetry. I entitled this "Declaration," but loved that Jennifer Guys Jewett said it reads like a Mantra. 

Okay, then. So, let it be. 

 Mi Mantra

  ~b.r.crandall

embraced with chaos & noise
the eyes stay open.

I’m internally 
joyously
brilliantly
honestly
foolishly
mindfully
victoriously
optimistically

reflecting, choosing, loving, speaking,
acting, thinking, trusting, & living
that’s how I choose to be…
…so, when I close my eyes,
I’ll always know, internally, 

I’ll always be me.

On This Day, Yesterday, a Poetic Merge of Memories and Storying. Almost There Poets...27 Poems and Counting...Re-Encountering.

The task was to revisit a moment, to render a memory for another angle, to re-encounter a world we once knew. At first, I was stuck on what to focus on, so I went back through 15 years of blogging and chose moments from April 27th over the years. I combined them into a single poem to see what would result. To be honest, if I could have a career of ordering books for kids, delivering them, and pulling together for discussion, I would. I don't believe there's more joy than that.  

Nor do I believe there's anything better than Dr. Tonya Perry, Birmingham, Alabama. She's always been a tremendous gift to my world.

On This Day, April 27

     ~b.r.crandall

there were storms

& i missed Kentucky’s

bluegrass.

That bunny

continued to

lead me down

those rabbit holes 

in search of time. 

But Ms. Leigh's 4th graders earned a pizza party

(best readers in the school) and I didn’t mind becoming an Amazon truck,

delivering wind-up toys & books to applaud them.

Kwame helped, after all.

Becoming Muhammad Ali with him and James.

Don’t count the days; make the days count.

So, more Woodson to IRIS.

more Black Boy Joy to Harding.

Tonya brought me to Birmingham twice

and brought history out of textbooks

into our collective memory,

learning lessons

of youth movements

& the struggle for  human rights.

I walked with Emmanuel Jal,

listened to him sing his child-soldier story,

& knew I had to find more

Hope for the Flowers.

the legacy of transatlantic slave trades,

the lynchings, codified segregation,

the incarcerations & racial terror.

The National Memorial for Peace & Justice.

When they write me to say they only need 30 copies of

When Stars Are Scattered (to learn more of this world)

I find a way.

The Power of Being Found: VerseLove 25, When the Titles Give Context for New Writing. That's Poetry.

 

The task was to read through something and pull material from what was read. So, I went through 25 titles from this past month and crafted from there. Happy Wednesday folks. Poetry is everywhere if you open your mind to it. 

Here's to finding the April rain showers and finding a reason to write. Five ways to view the April showers. That's what I've got for today's verse. 

5 Ways to View these April Showers 

~brcrandall

i.

When it’s always Monday (gripe)

wear rubber green boots

purchased from K-Mart

& splash in puddles

like a 3-year old

(next up, sixty)

hoping to find

frogs.

(Sarah Donovan,

thank you)

ii.

Cultivating genius also

requires ghold-en sunshine.

Find a tribe,

an Aquarian,

& let the dance 

begin as if you are 

a 19-years old

on Wigmore Place.

It’s 1992 & you know 

life socks, sometimes,

so head outdoors

barefoot, dancing 

to Blues Traveler,

in the rain.

iii.

Note to self,

from the way I see it, 

I am handing down a candle

into the abyss,

the academy of darkness,

burning it at both ends

so there

will be light for the dampness.

the seeds will hatch. 

you will grow.

the sunlight of summer

will be your reminder

May is on its way..

iv.

the recipe

for April, 

is clickbait,

to smell barbecue

& anticipate freshness

from garden leaves

& tomatoes .

(Um, seriously, Pillsbury! 

Make my life grand!)

Don’t be a dough-boy.

v.

walking with Ger

you remember

how to find the right words…

for the destination

not the journey.

Birds of a feather

learn to wait a minute,

22 year and counting.

There will always be confessions

(upon contact) - 

a way to find the boy without a balloon

and remind him of

RIP-pride, summer ’16,

Vance Joy,

the closest thing to Michelle Pfeiffer 

that we’ve ever seen,

& the importance 

of singing in the rain.

"Why Is It Always Monday?" He Asks on a Tuesday, Responding to #VerseLove Prompt Number 25. All Love to April.

The scientific message includes observation, asking a question, forming a hypothesis, making a prediction based on factors, testing the prediction, and iterating the process over again. Why not apply this to poetry prompted Linda Mitchell? And what a great idea. I never thought about the flexibility one might have with language when applying words to a Poetic Fair (to draw on Kevin Leanders's poem for the day).

Why Is It Always Monday?

   ~b.r.crandall

He’s on the porch again,
black coffee exhaling heat
into the early morning crisp.

Why does he never wear socks?
And what’s with these books at his side?
Handbook of Writing Research, 
Teaching for Racial Equity, A Good Fit 
For All Kids, Creating Confident Writers.

He’s educating Al Bundy, I bet,
sharing empathy with Cinderella. 
Emptying the ocean with a fork.

I imagine he’ll finger-tap 
the keyboard piano a few more hours,
before blue skies will summon him. 
The dog’s stare will chisel at his guilt
(four miles isn’t a distraction 
if he continues thinking about 
the work needing to be done). 

The socks are in the kitchen
next to the milk-bones & spotted bananas.
The sneakers at the door.

The leash in the garage.

And there’s that 1 pm ZOOM call.

He’ll be back by then
lying about what
he’s accomplished.

One Way to Cultivate a Genius, Day 24 #VerseLove, In Appreciation of @GholdyM Always...Work with Annotations and Find the Poetry in Thinking.

Day 23 of #VerseLove and a new challenge. Find a book you've annotated and write a poem based off the notes taken in your margins. Not a bad assignment for April, especially since I've taught Gholdy Muhammad's Cultivating Genius for the first time in a grad seminar, and her book always seems to be in reach. 

I remember the first time that Marcelle Haddix paired the the two of us for a conference presentation. It didn't occur to me then that we were sort of academic siblings. This revelation came years later and I couldn't be more proud. Not only does she cultivate geniuses, she is a genius, too. She's written the book we've always needed and I've never had more success working through chapters with graduate students. Everything comes together perfectly because of her guidance and brilliance.

And so, I took notes of my notes, had a flashback, and decided to write the 24th poem of the month. I will be sad when the daily challenges end - they make April so much better. 

One Way to Cultivate a Genius

   in appreciation of Gholdy, always

~b.r.crandall

We were Writing Our Lives,

scripting dialogue in another room,

when he put pen to notebook, 

wand to mind (this was Cedric’s magic)

and walked in his shoes

from Degahaley

to Kakuma

to Syracuse.

Alfred’s advice,

“Don’t go ahistorical”

(this, before I learned

the importance of  

a Gholdy-star).

For Europeans, writing remained reason, 

and they guarded Gates well -

these ethnic notions have always been global,

fired deep into the bricks 

of foundations, especially schools. 

Freedom is just

an empty name, 

a mockery,

if access 

& tools 

are locked

in the

shed.

Poetry is liberation, 

for pens to fight back —

to write a better humanity for us all.

Who we are

How others see us

Who we desire to be

it’s never been the kids…

it’s always been the schools

their deficit constructions

catalogued by zip-codes, politicians

& book-banning school boards.

Good teachers know

to reshape curriculum

to meet the needs of kid

rather that mutate kids 

to meet the needs of curriculum.

The pedagogies are urgent, indeed.

Yet we have failed a nation

that measures Whiteness 

in tanning booths

on NYS tests…

the organic nature of bias

is in the food we feed them,

layering deficits on regents

rather than passing on knowledge

with ubuntu and skills for life,

(muscle is built

with theory,

the critical race

of being human).

We are the conduit for emancipation,

the cobblers who quench thirst when enabling texts

to fit them in the right shoe.

When You're Handed Down a Candle, and You're in Need of a Prayer. Poem 23 for April. And It's Sunday. A Good Day for Prayers.

The Verselove prompt. day 23, was to roll the cyber-dice and get three words to kick off a poem. I received: I am, Handed-down, and candle. I sketched out a draft poem a few weeks ago and I pulled it out of my bag to play with today's prompt. Of course, I also am posting this while watching Thunder Over Louisville, streamlined on WLKY via YouTube. It's time to kick off the Derby season, all the pomp and circumstance. 

I learned from my poem, though, that what I did was called a 'Golden Shovel' - that is, taking the lines of a verse and using those words to kick off another poem. For me, this has been the year of the serenity prayer, so to keep myself calm in faculty meetings, I've been saying the prayer to myself and thinking about it to ground what I'm able to accomplish and what I must let go. 

There's nothing like letting random words kick you into gear. So, here's to day #23.

I Am Handed-Down a Candle

How To Stay Calm at a Friday Faculty Meeting

~b.r.crandall

God, you’re such a whimsical soul. Some days you

grant me the ability to give thanks. Not today….

me with ear-steam, heart-wrath, and mind-fury, cursing 

the @#%# for the inconsistency. All I want is

serenity, calm, and a reason to believe there’s good…

to see hope, and to have patience to

accept the whack-a-doodle-ness of

the way their bureaucracy goes…operates…is.

things like zip-code apartheid, privilege, and the lies

I get told in the name of their power and privilege 

cannot be forgiven (but somehow they are) —

change rarely discomforts their structures,

the castle and brick, the diamonds and banks, & the churches giving them

courage to be burdened as they are, this whiteness that likes

to stand atop mountains with weapons, moats, and laws. Never

changes, because why would they want this?

The narrative written to glorify their hunt…

things to ponder (eyes of the needle? but there’s that camel).

I see it clearly now, the disease it’s always been, and I

can attest to the privilege, because I’ve tasted it…

and have become part of it, this hypocrisy in higher education,

the exploitation (something wicked this way comes). 

Wisdom & integrity rarely walk 

to the same drumbeat of morals, ethics, & justice. They

know more than the rest of us, because, well, they do…

the ones atop mountains looking down on us. The

difference? The rest of us keep looking up, and we see.

#VerseLove, Prompt 21, Try to Write Cheesy, But If Not, Go with a Food Worthy of a Poem. Well, Okay, Then

I knew when I saw a prompt to tap good food, there's nowhere else I could go than Alice's Kentucky Cake (although someone said, you love your horseradish cheese, Crandall). On Day 21 of #VerseLove, I couldn't help but aim for the graduate school ritual of the chocolate chip ganache cake that has become an end-of-the-semester habit for workshop nights and writing.

I simply had to tap a rhythm for beating the cake and remember to get all the parts just right - enough so bakers could know enough about what they need to play with.

Ha! It's Saturday. I am looking forward to a couple of days of reading, editing, processing, and creating. The lawn is mowed, I'll clean the house, the laundry will get done, and I have the 21st poem of the month.

Here's to good eating, should it come your way. Bon Appetite! And if you can get some goodies into your stomach, that's a bonus, too.

Recipe

    ~b.r.crandall

Betty Crocker

mother clucker

yellow cake

cocoa kisser

oven heat

at 350

warm it up

bake the odyssey

get a bowl

stir-in pudding

vanilla joy

the appetizing

oil, milk

the butter, too.

grind the chocolate

impromptu

dusted chips

pour them in

mix and mix 

for the win

bundt pan bliss

ready to go

50-minute 

aficionado.

on the stove

a bag of chips

heavy cream

ganache whip

cake is done

let it cool

ah, the recipe

drool, drool, drool.

Walking with @GerDuany - A Recollection Poem on Day 20 of #VerseLove (READ WALK TOWARD THE RISING SUN)

Yesterday, my friend Leilya Pitre offered a prompt on #VerseLove to take a poem on a walk...take your readers with you. It's been a couple of years since Penguin Random House offered Abu Bility and me the privilege of creating an Educator's Guide for Ger Duany's Walk Toward the Rising Sun, and I was also fortunate to have the author/writer/actor/activist stop by Stratford while crossing the country. I cannot hear the word 'walking' without thinking of Ger Duany and the influence his book had on me as a thinker/human/ writer. When Leilya offered the prompt, I immediately went to my bookshelf and pulled down my copy. I wanted some of his words as I did my walk around the Long Island Sound in southern Connecticut. 

That was October, 2020, and I still had Covid-head (hence the mini-man bun). Anyway...here's a throwback to the visit, the book, and a poem that was born out of both.

Walking with Ger

     ~b.r.crandall

As Chris says,

Violence is a strange monster.

and today, the paper

reports that cameras 

caused the confession.

But it’s never enough,

so I imagine you and Emmanuel 

sipping bourbon

while singing

The scars are what get us this far.

I have only relocated by choice,

privileges,

and remain sheltered 

by books, emboldened

by libraries.

Still, I watch Ukraine 

as if it’s a Marvel movie,

waiting for 

the better ending.

Empathy should be a superpower.

(I have to believe that, 

even if I’ve never had to burn cow dung

to repel flies and mosquitos). 

So walking with you today,

separate memories, 

varying histories, 

storytelling

from rising suns…

and seeing them set —

I find myself in 

the adolescent loop

to find solace 

within the game.

It makes me wonder

what the Paugussett Nation

called the Long Island Sound.

These blue skies offer optimism.

The Breeze is more pessimistic. 

And you tell me

the Nuer sing when they’re happy,

mourn when they’re sad,

and fight when they’re angry.

They leave nothing inside.

But I’m outside now.

trying to remake myself 

a 1,000 times over,

and still carving 

the world

for

more meaning.

I see 

a sandpiper

running along

the shoreline.

Perhaps that’s 

what I really

need. 

And Then There's a Poem Written with Coincidences. 4/20. Who Knew? I Was Just Thinking About How Adulthood Works and When Things Should Burn

The 20th prompt of #VerseLove was about memories/thoughts/ideas, etc. needing to be burned as a result of Covid. There were multiple directions I thought about going, but then I was triggered by the concept of "up in smoke" (Isn't that a movie?) and thought about the changes occurring in society as a result of new laws.  I began contemplating the way(s) legalization is slowly creeping onto the radar and around the corner in adult life and how funny that seems to be. As I began writing, I looked for slang or modern nicknames, and lo and behold, there are websites and industries advertising many. My day turned mischievous, as it's sort of interesting to discover the big business of it all. 

I guess this is what comes from commercialism.

So, I wrote. Then a writer commented, "Great humor, Crandall. 4/20. This is hilarious. Nice job!" I had to look 4/20 up. The Great Whatever, man. It wasn't my intent. I was attempting to be Darlene on The Connors. Then my writer friend Ann Burg shared with me how she wore a hand-me-down sweatshirt for years that had 4/20 on it, and whenever she went to the mall, she bonded with all sorts of people. It's wasn't until her daughter educated her on 4/20 that she realized why everyone was so intrigued by her.

Burning It At Both Ends

She stepped out of the car

as a sunbeam crossed her face.

I knew she was on her way -

(how could I not know she was on her way?),

as she texted me for two hours.

I stopped in Vermont for you…She says, 

handing me a plastic tube.

Wait? You got me a tampon?

It seems everyone’s a teenager these days,

and we’re all just an episode of Roseanne.

In college, people thought I was Cheech

(or is that Chong)(I always get them wrong)

because I looked like Anthony Kiedis

and tap-danced with bees upon blind melons —

— even raised a squirrel on Rotary Ave.

That's where Matt taught me, 

the eucalyptus leaf is lobster for the ladybug.

Okay, Shaggy. Give Scooby another snack.

And it is true I've impounded for years 

(confiscated) (quality control) from the boys — 

because I have friends that come

over, sometimes, and…

well, mom has her gummies. 

So, I confess, at times I pretend 

to pack all my anxieties into a bowl 

and watch them go up in smoke.

Papaya Wow

Storm Dough

Gooberry Red

Twilight Curse

Rhino Gold

Banana Zero

Lavender Shit

it’s all legal now, huh? 

(I just looked these up…

who knew I’d discover the language of poets?).

But yes, I’ll can save the tampon for when you visit.

But I'll have to hide it first.

Finding the Right Words When The Right Words Never Exist... #VerseLove Challenge 19... How to Be...How To Be

18 years apart. Both killed by senseless guns. Wrong place, wrong time, chance. Sudanese refugees looking for a better life in the United States killed by the stupidity of Americans and their guns. I did not know Akol, but know his cousins and family. My heart also goes out to the Bility's and their proximity to the story. He was 11...12 years old when I left. 24 years young. 

I remember all the mentoring nights with James Kuch Mangui, too: the driving lessons, tutoring, learning poetry for the GED, and all the humor of guiding him during his arrival in Louisville. It's hard to believe that 18 years ago he was shot after a car accident. I never paid attention to how to arrange burials, but had to learn fast. He was young...so much promise....so much pain to see a death like this after the lives they had as children in Sudan. And I'm thinking of Miriam, too. Any young person who knew Akol and his family. 

The prompt for the day was to write "How to Be a...." but I was looking for "How to find the Right words." It's a lot, and I'm still processing. Last night, finishing of Muhammad's Cultivating Genius, I used the poem to discuss narrative, history, what gets taught in school, and why criticality remains important. Gholdy's text, once again, helped me to find meaning in the meaninglessness. 

How To Find the Right Words

     for Miriam Bility   

~b.r.crandall

There’s the blue sky, of course, 

the clouds, the sun, and

always the stories

of boys, girls, families 

on the run

hoping this elsewhere

might be a somewhere

that is safe.

Before Kuch was murdered

there was laughter,

his pontification of being named lost 

when he was right before us,

sitting on a front porch

with brothers, cousins —

Dinka and proud

nɛk puön dït 

We are not boys,

we are men.

There was that time

he wondered, Why are you so wet,

when his car broke down 

at Bowman Field

and he needed a ride home.

I went for a run, I told him,

Oh, was a lion chasing you?

(just genetics

    and an attempt 

       to find answers

         where they seldom exist).

All wounds bleed

and communities remain in need

for several days (forever)…

fender bender, anger, guns.

I had 

my wheels

and prayers,

mentorship 

for the madness.

What’s the tradition,

I asked at the kitchen table,

when life is lost?

This land.

Neverland.

No man’s land.

Land of the free.

We sacrifice a cow

and we pray.

So I drove them 

to a cornfield in Indiana 

and pointed to black & white

milk-makers gnawing on grass.

Let me know which one.

We ended up at McDonald’s.

(It is enough, they teased.

As long as you pay for all of us).

There are also the sunsets,

sunrises no matter where we live,

the way evening stars bathe their shine

in oceans and lakes during the day.

There’s Amazing Grace, too, 

sung in a Church,

where voices of 200 men 

from southern Sudan

lift a spirit to the sky.

There’s that.

But there are no other words.

Rest in Peace, Akol Lual,

Syracuse, New York,

1998-2022

(the absurdity continues…)

@CWPFairfield Folks Know My Greatest Gripes, But on Day 18, I Was Invited to Explore Them Punctually and Poetically

With reference to Lucille Clifton, #VerseLove writers were challenged to write succinctly (busy people don't have time) and to write with punch. What irks you? Hmmm. I have a lots of pet peeves, but there's one that continues to occur and reoccur over and over again. In the U.S. where we all can use a few more steps, why is it so hard to bring them to where they are supposed to go? Ugh. Drives me nuts, but I do love being told to 'make it brief, Crandall.' 

And so I tried.

Gripe

    ~b.r.crandall

It’s not because

Cheerios 

hit the blue 

bowl at 6 a.m.

and the last cow

somehow escaped

the fridge.

It’s not because

Nick the neighbor

was bellyaching  

about gas prices

while latching

4-wheelers 

& a jeep

to a trailer

pulled by his wife’s S.U.V. —

they’re mud-bogging 

this week

in Massachusetts

with family and friends.

It’s not because

texting turds

were terrorizing traffic,

tautly tantalized by

Floofnoodles 

on Tik Tok. 

It’s because

stray wheeled cages

meant for shopping

were abandoned 

by muttonheads,

only to play

bumper cars

in the Big Y

parking lot

assisted by 

the wind.