National Poetry Month 2015

National Poetry Month 2015 Poster, from Poets.org

National Poetry Month 2015

April is National Poetry Month and I will be participating/celebrating by reading and recording a poem a day all month long.

Recorded poems will be posted on Sondcloud.com here: https://soundcloud.com/robbiepruitt

I will also be posting the recordings with the text of the poem and photos each day on my poetry website here: http://www.robbiepruitt.com

Shorter poems with illustrative photos will be posted each week on Tumblr here: http://robbiepruitt.tumblr.com

There are many wonderful poetry resources out there for poetry lovers and educators alike.

Here are a few of my favorite poetry websites and resources:

National Poetry Month, Poets.org:

http://www.poets.org/national-poetry-month/home

Poets.org: http://www.poets.org

Poetry Foundation: http://www.poetryfoundation.org

Poetry Magazine: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/

The Poetry Archive: http://www.poetryarchive.org

Tweetspeak Poetry: http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com

Poetry Resources and Tools from Tweetspeak:

http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/2015/03/05/top-ten-national-poetry-month-books-tools/

Tweetspeak Poetry Teaching Tools:

http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/english-teaching-resources/

PoetryTeachers.com: http://www.poetryteachers.com

Poetry Out Loud: http://www.poetryoutloud.org

Poetry.net: http://www.poetry.net

Famous Poets and Poems: http://famouspoetsandpoems.com

Poetry Flash: http://poetryflash.org

Life, A Poem By My Father

 (Bill Pruitt) William Pruitt Jr.'s high school Sr. Picture

“Who knows nothing base, fears nothing known.” — Owen Meredith

My father died April 20, 1998. He suffered most of his life with health issues surrounding a heart condition, which fought him at every turn. My dad was one of the most loving and personable men I have ever known. He left a legacy of perseverance in suffering and selfless love for his family and friends. He was, as his grave marker reads, “A loving father of three grateful children.”

My dad loved life and he loved his family, and while I did not know him well, I treasure what I do know about him and what he has taught me. After his death, the following poem, “Life,” was found in his personal belongings. I was made aware of this poem well after my love of poetry had developed and well after I had started writing poetry myself. I cannot help but believe I have received this love of poetry, and the ability to craft poetry, from my father.

Another treasure that I found in my dad’s Sr. yearbook was a quote by Owen Meredith beside his picture. This quote simply states, “Who knows nothing base, fears nothing known.” My dad’s courage, zeal for life and rejection of fear in the face of his own illness and hardships inspire me in the face of my own fears, insecurities and uncertainties. I treasure these gifts that my father has given me, even after his death. Discovering these treasures has been a continuation of knowing my father and growing in my relationship with him until I see him again in paradise.

Life

He was hit!

He suffered

He wept inside

He died.

He never gave up.

Although he cried

He is man.


“Courage is afforded at a high cost but the reward is great.”


© William Pruitt

 William Pruitt Jr.'s (Bill's) college graduation photo

"Sir William Pruitt Jr.", photo by Uncle Charles H Burroughs Jr.

Dad on the front porch at 1216 Shirley Street in Columbia, SC

Me and Dad at my High School Graduation in 1995

William Pruitt Jr.'s Obituary from April 1998

Boston by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Boston, MA - April 15, 2013, 
photo from Getty Images and Examiner.com

BOSTON

by: Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

(Sicut Patribus, sit Deus Nobis)

HE rocky nook with hilltops three

Looked eastward from the farms,

And twice each day the flowing sea

Took Boston in its arms;

The men of yore were stout and poor,

And sailed for bread to every shore.

And where they went on trade intent

They did what freeman can,

Their dauntless ways did all men praise,

The merchant was a man.

The world was made for honest trade,--

To plant and eat be none afraid.

The waves that rocked them on the deep

To them their secret told;

Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,

"Like us be free and bold!"

The honest waves refuse to slaves

The empire of the ocean caves.

Old Europe groans with palaces,

Has lords enough and more;--

We plant and build by foaming seas

A city of the poor;--

For day by day could Boston Bay

Their honest labor overpay.

We grant no dukedoms to the few,

We hold like rights and shall;--

Equal on Sunday in the pew,

On Monday in the mall.

For what avail the plough or sail,

Or land or life, if freedom fail?

The noble craftsmen we promote,

Disown the knave and fool;

Each honest man shall have his vote,

Each child shall have his school.

A union then of honest men,

Or union nevermore again.

The wild rose and the barberry thorn

Hung out their summer pride

Where now on heated pavements worn

The feet of millions stride.

Fair rose the planted hills behind

The good town on the bay,

And where the western hills declined

The prairie stretched away.

What care though rival cities soar

Along the stormy coast:

Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,

If Boston knew the most!

They laughed to know the world so wide;

The mountains said: "Good-day!

We greet you well, you Saxon men,

Up with your towns and stay!"

The world was made for honest trade,--

To plant and eat be none afraid.

"For you," they said, "no barriers be,

For you no sluggard rest;

Each street leads downward to the sea,

Or landward to the West."

O happy town beside the sea,

Whose roads lead everywhere to all;

Than thine no deeper moat can be,

No stouter fence, no steeper wall!

Bad news from George on the English throne:

"You are thriving well," said he;

"Now by these presents be it known,

You shall pay us a tax on tea;

'Tis very small,--no load at all,--

Honor enough that we send the call."

"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,

We pay your governors here

Abundant for their bed and board,

Six thousand pounds a year.

(Your highness knows our homely word,)

Millions for self-government,

But for tribute never a cent."

The cargo came! and who could blame

If Indians seized the tea,

And, chest by chest, let down the same

Into the laughing sea?

For what avail the plough or sail

Or land or life, if freedom fail?

The townsmen braved the English king,

Found friendship in the French,

And Honor joined the patriot ring

Low on their wooden bench.

O bounteous seas that never fail!

O day remembered yet!

O happy port that spied the sail

Which wafted Lafayette!

Pole-star of light in Europe's night,

That never faltered from the right.

Kings shook with fear, old empires crave

The secret force to find

Which fired the little State to save

The rights of all mankind.

But right is might through all the world;

Province to province faithful clung,

Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,

Till Freedom cheered and the joy-bells rung.

The sea returning day by day

Restores the world-wide mart;

So let each dweller on the Bay

Fold Boston in his heart,

Till these echoes be choked with snows,

Or over the town blue ocean flows.

Musings on the Origins of Poetry

"Poet and Pholosopher" (1958) - Nikos Engonopoulos, Photo by Tilemahos_E's, From Creative Commons, © February 21, 2009

Musings on the Origins of Poetry

“Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-haired child.”  ― Carl Sandburg

April is National Poetry Month and I am excited to participate all month long by posting a different poem each day on Facebook and Twitter, and by posting a new poem weekly on my poetry blog, Poetry by Robbie Pruitt, at www.robbiepruitt.com.

National Poetry Month has me thinking about how I write poetry and how I see poetry.  Where does a poem come from?  How are poems inspired?  As I have been thinking about this, it is interesting what answers begin to emerge. In this post, I will explore the variety of motivations and inspirations that yield the poetry that I write. 

One of my favorite poets is Carl Sandburg. I was inspired to write poetry very early on through reading Carl Sandburg’s poems. I also identify with much of what Sandburg said about writing poetry and can identify with a lot of what he said about poetry and his inspiration to write poems. I will begin each musing on the origins of a poem with a quote or idea from Carl Sandburg or another poet or artist and will then share my own thoughts, reflections, delights, adventures, struggles, or meditations about poetry.

An Idea of a Poem

“Nothing happens unless first a dream.”   ― Carl Sandburg, The Complete Poems

Before I set out to write a poem, there is usually an inspired emotion or thought. Sometimes I look at landscapes in nature, a photo, a person, a scripture, a song, an idea, or a thought and a poem begins to come to mind. Other times it is a conversation or a mood or emotion that sparks inspiration for a poem. 

A Structure of a Poem

 “I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going but I'm on the way.”  ― Carl Sandburg

This idea that “I don't know where I'm going but I'm on the way” begins to sum up the feelings and the thoughts that I have as I begin to write a poem. As I begin to write the poem, I am not too sure where I am going with it. Rarely do I have the whole poem in mind when I begin to write. 

The Title of a Poem

“Now I am here - now read me - give me a name.” ― Carl Sandburg

Sometimes I begin writing a poem with a line or a title and just begin. Sometimes I write the end first and then the beginning and then the title. Other times, I write the poem from beginning to end and then add the title at last. It is as if I am following the poem’s lead.

The Content of a Poem

“Sometime they’ll give a war and nobody will come.”  ― Carl Sandburg

Poems often do not have the effect that I wish they had on me, or on others. They are written, they “give war,” but no one comes to meet their challenge, sometimes not even me. 

The Poems That I Do Not Understand

“I've written some poetry I don't understand myself” ― Carl Sandburg

Like Sandburg, I have often had this experience. I have written poetry that I do not understand.  It came from somewhere, but where, I do not know. Sometimes I understand the poem completely and other times I have no idea what I have written, what it means, or why I wrote it.

The Poetry of the Everyday

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” –Robert Frost

Life happens and so do the poems that follow. Like Robert Frost asserted, a poem can have its origins in everyday emotions feelings, injustices, and loneliness, as well as the poetic muse of love. This is often the case with poems I write. Life happens and then poetry. To say it another way, life is poetic and I write it down.

The Poetry of Discovery

“Writing a poem is discovering.” –Robert Frost

Certainly there is discovery in poetry. The composer of the poem is lead into discovery as well as the reader. I discover a lot about myself and about my subjects when I write poetry.

Here are some other poetic musings that I’m contemplating this month:

Poetry on Accident

“A lot happens by accident in poetry.” –Howard Nemerov

Poetry is Essence

“Write what should not be forgotten.” –Isabel Allende

The Poetry of Naming

A poets work is to name the unnamable.” –Salman Rushdie

Poetry: The Dancing Echo

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” –Carl Sandburg

The Adventure of Poetry

“Writing is an adventure.” –Winston Churchill

The Poetry in Listening

“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.”  –Jean Cocteau