Past Poetry Posts
Winter 08 Poetry Posts
The First Sky Is Inside You
(from a poem by Li-Young Lee)
The first sky is inside you,
A shadow on a butterfly's cheek,
A story made of grapes,
A kiss flecked with chocolate,
Laughing the song of a thousand moons,
Dancing the love of a thousand suns,
Outside is the inside,
Inside is out,
Color and light blend
To create miraculous illusions
Where people have skin of blue quartz,
Topaz eyes,
And the ocean is fire.
The first sky is inside you,
Bigger than life,
Smaller than the cost of forgiveness.
The first sky is love,
Kept in a walnut
Or enclosing the universe,
Equal only to the smile
A mother gives
As she watches her child at play.
The first sky
And the last sky blend
Into one.
--Kayla Cassidy, age 12
Lane County, Oregon
Partner Poem
One Heart
Look at the birds. Even flying
is born
out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open
at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.
--Li-Young Lee
Chicago, Illinois
Ask the Poems
1. Poem, what do you invite me to wonder about?
2. How are your words like music?
3. How do you give me the feeling of something magical?
4. What else is inside you?
5. What can you let out?
Fall 07 Poetry Posts
Dear Young Owl
Dear young owl, heed my word,
If you're to live, this must be heard.
Fly high, fly low, like black shadow,
The mice will never know.
Mouse, vole, mole in hole,
Shrew and lizard bold,
Beware the owl, we don't howl,
Your head in our beak's hold.
If in barn your family lives,
Beware black rafter swiftly gives.
And if in tree your family dwells,
Watch for raccoon--danger swells.
Swoop down from the moonlit sky,
The mice will never know how they die.
Crush the head, break the neck,
To me that mouse is just a speck.
Someday soon you'll leave the nest,
And put your skills to the test.
So spread your wings and find a home,
'Cause soon, young owl, you're on your own.
--Rachael Edwards, age 11
PARTNER POEM
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings--
five feet apart--and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow--
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows--
so I thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us--
as soft as feathers--
that we are instantly weary
of looking and looking and shut our eyes,
not without amazement
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow--
that is nothing but light--scalding, aortal light--
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
--Mary Oliver
ASK the POEMS
1. Poem, how do you create a sense of mystery?
2. What do you want me to feel?
3. How do you use details to make the owl come alive?
4. Owls, are you masks Death wears? Poem, what is it about you that causes me to think that?
5. What is it like to strike and fly away?
Spring 07 Poetry Posts
Romance Boulevard
Green is the rippling river,
Green and gray. Green winds.
The bark is silent and somber.
Yellow birds fly to my forever.
This is my street of centuries,
I stand to greet that barrage,
green animals, blue flowers
make my beautiful pallet.
Green is the rippling rover,
Like a banjo, the moon sings,
A song of paradise and eternity
I sway gently to the pulse.
Green is the rippling river.
Big eyes search wild skies
upon a day of soul release
questioning the universe no more.
The hues of frost like ghosts
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