Heads Up Publications and By Definition: Poems of Feelings

Why are you doing that?

No one else does it that way.

What’s the matter with you?

Creative people don’t like to be told what to do. We can be annoying. Distracted. Non-compliant. Misfits, who at our worst clog systems and at our best make up new and better systems.

So what is the choice? Creatives can either rebel and go places where no one else has been or fall in line and be unhappy.  Not that going your own way is a guarantee of happiness. Hardly.  It pretty much assures that you will be justifying your actions for the rest of your days, but the alternative is emotional and intellectual suicide.

Creatives don’t fit well in schools. At all. Schools put students in boxes based on how well kids can fill in boxes.  Creatives don’t like boxes unless they welded them together themselves, designed them in Photoshop, or turned a refrigerator box into a pyramid with a razor blade and duct tape and renamed it “box with a point.”

The successful creative kid learns to multitask early on. Hold her breath and make a quick pass at what is required before letting the mind go out to play. The less successful creative kid gets parked with the Welcome Back Kotteresque meatheads, a room that is harder to escape than a prison lockdown. Sitting for 12 years among The-Most-Likely-to-be-Incarcerated can be hard on a person’s sense of productive worth.

Go Back While There’s Still Time:

When I quit my job as a vice president of an ad agency to be a poet, turned in the paperwork for the company car, trashed my rolodex, and went out into the cold (it was actually a sunny, Indian summer September day), I remember the panic on the face of a co-worker, “You did what? Go back, there’s still time. Tell [the boss] you changed your mind. He’ll take you back. He’ll take you back.”

Part of me knew he was right. I was a single mom with a mortgage, two kids poised on the edge of the diving board ready to take the plunge into college and two dogs in need of kibble. But I just couldn’t hold my breath any longer. It was 1990, the last decade of the 20^th century. I was running out of time, and I needed to breathe.

I started out self-published because education isn’t the only place that wants to put people into boxes. Publishers were looking for the next Shel Silverstein in the early nineties when I came along with my “I Hate My Body” poems for middle readers and there was no category for adolescent poetry in those days. Zero.

With the support of classroom teachers, I sold 43,000 books, and then at least one publisher was willing to talk. Boyds Mills Press. Grateful, I knew I should be compliant.  Only that’s not my nature and I had sacrificed a whole lot of security to be able to breathe. I quickly developed a reputation for being difficult to edit (I wore out three editors on the first book).  BMP and I have had a 25 year relationship and I continue to be forever grateful that they were willing to take a chance on me.

By Definition: Poems of Feelings (BMP) came out in 2004. In my mind, the art and the poetry in this book were a mismatch from the start.  I was writing for middle readers, the artist was drawing for primary kids.  Bad fit.  Last year, the book went of out print and the rights returned to me. 

I decided to repurpose the poems into a power point presentation for classroom use. 

Why are you doing that?

No one else does it that way.

What’s the matter with you?

Research based response:

Michael Salinger (my partner-in-rhyme) and I have been so jazzed about projecting poetry in classrooms, with everyone’s head up and ready for discussion.  No one is hunched over text, pretending to be reading, doodling, drooling or any of the things I used to do when asked to read in class. Projected text, particularly when it is combined with a fetching image, gets kids’ attention just long enough to engage. 

If you are looking for research to support this, this is the research:  We tried it about 600 times.  Projected poetry engages better than printed text. Try it, you’ll see.

So is born our idea of Heads UP publications.  These are not books that are conceived to be cradled in the arms and consumed alone. These are books designed to be projected and shared in a classroom situation, with a teacher leading the discussion.  We may even include a discussion starter question or two.

The next question we had to confront was, how do we best market a Heads UP publication?

Trade or Professional?

Teacher professional books are research based with the text divided between a few new ideas and citation after citation after citation of old ideas hand selected old ideas to support the new ideas. It’s a tedious process to write these books (been there) and (I fear) the audience for them has been dwindling, distracted by the PD offerings from YouTube, TedTalks and Twitter. Our product is what is called "classroom ready," or not research based. Teacher professional publishers are not equipped to market a product like ours (so we hear). Besides, poetry is a tough sell.

Trade books are books kids check out of the library. Trade publishers are still coming to grips with ebooks and have no conveyance method to sell books designed for projection.  They are busy trying to reformat texts so that that they are as close as possible to books with covers that can be held in the hands. Trade publishers are not equipped to market a product like ours (so we hear). They are too busy conceiving of increasingly obscurely themed poetry books (40 poems on tiddly winks? Anyone? Anyone?). Besides, poetry is a tough sell.

Every Poem is a Mini lesson:

Still, teachers are always looking for poetry and new ideas.  Every poem is a mini lesson.  Want a quick lesson on point of view, descriptive or figurative language? Poems are at your service.

“When heading off to a conference, I always dare to dream that I will be heading home somehow made new,” began a teacher in a recent email. And then she kindly added that our presentation of using words and images in the classroom had done just that for her.  Michael and I consider ourselves to be teaching artists, we spend a great number of days in the classroom each year, but don’t have to do the grades or the staff meetings.  It’s a good gig, we realize that. And we want to efficiently and economically give back to the people we most love to support. . . entrepreneurial and mostly financially strapped teachers. 

This had led us to the site: Teacher Pay Teachers to host our products.  We are in the process of converting some of our projectable lessons and Head UP publications to this site.  You can find us here: link.

Here are our first three offerings: All $6 or under (cheap).

Sweet (Ah-choo) Mysteries of Life

Ah-choo!  Sweet mystery of sneeze, at last I’ve found thee

Ah-choo!  I know at last the secret of it all

All the sniffing, coughing, dripping, swelling, burning

The sneezing chokes and tissues that are fall.

For these burning lids, the swollen eyes are seeking

Less pollen in the air, less sinus drain,

For as bright asters in the fields are blooming

the burning hope for victims is some rain.

Asters. Not the Astors of New York, but the asters of the meadow. Golden rod, it looks too cheery and it makes so many of us weepy.  One of life's great mysteries.  And once I thought of this song yesterday and started to noodle about parody lyrics, I couldn't get it out of my head.  Maybe if I pass it along, I can banish it from my brain.

Outreach?

Day seven of my personal poetry challenge.  Just to see, you know.  If I could.  And as of 6PM tonight, things weren't looking good.  Here's the deal about creative work, there are ALWAYS other things to do. More pressing things, gardens and laundry and dinner and clean up and forever and just sitting around making stuff up?  Well, that seems a little self-indulgent when the broccoli is going to flower and leftover dinner is hardening in the pan.

Then I followed my own advice (oh so much easier to give to anyone else but myself) and just sat in my desk chair and looked around.  My eyes fell on the phone.

Tomorrow is my birthday and frankly, I'm not all that excited about it.  In fact, it's kind of ticking me off (eyes still on the phone), but no one wants to hear from a downer, I mean, we all need to surround ourselves with positive energy and all, good grief, the news is bad enough. In fact the news is really bad.  (no one wants to talk about that) and besides, I'm supposed to be writing a poem, not chatting on the phone.  I learn things about myself when I write. Writing is healthy to the troubled spirit, but I didn't sit down to write about my most recent case of the whinies, I'm supposed to be looking outside of myself for ideas. 

Oh, yeah. The phone.

Outreach?

All alone?

Or telephone?

In-reach?

Outreach?

Which?

And if I choose

how long before

I change my mind

and switch?

My brain’s too full.

I can’t converse,

but isolation’s so

much worse.

Opt in?

Opt out?

What could be next?

Guess

I could (maybe) text.

The Walk

Sometimes it takes binoculars to look at the up-close and find something new.  Suzi and I make this walk everyday.  But here I am on day six of my 7 day challenge and in looking for something outside of myself to write about, I decided to change my point to view to someone else's.  

Hers.

See that narrow-eyed stare she's giving me?  That her "You never listen" look.

Today I listened; this is what I heard.


The Walk

My walks come in blocks,
one half mile around,
I drag along a human

who's a little tightly wound.
She scuffs.
I bound!

So much grass to water,

trees to sniff,

and fire plugs to explore.

Here a couple toadstools

not here the day before.

She doesn't even smell them,
her plastic bag in hand.
(Did I mention she's deranged?)
She's making a collection
of my deposits on the land.
(I told you, she is strange).

Any dogs out today?

WOOF! WOOF!

I call them out to play.
BE QUIET,
barks my anti social human,

SHUSH.

I pause, to shake it off

and then salute another bush,

pulling forward

nose to the ground,
one half mile around.

Thinking Small

"The more specific your story, the more universal the message."  I'm not sure who said that first, but it is one of those truisms that keeps me revising and revising -- always for more detail.

In lots of areas we are told to THINK BIG and THE SKY'S THE LIMIT, but in poetry we think small. So, I don't know if this poem makes me the most poetical person on the planet, or just plain small.  Just one more little thing to keep me...scratching.

Thinking Small

The careless shoulder shrug.

Throat tickles in the night.

The eyes that drift astray.

A shadow standing in my light.

Friends playing games instead of talking.

Forks scraped between closed teeth.

Fake smiles,

clothes in piles.

Unmatched socks,

ticking clocks.

Searching for lost keys.

Little things that make my teeth itch.

Metaphoric fleas.

Doppler Effects

And this was not the worst of it.  This was just what was still in the skies at 4AM this morning.  It is almost cheating to fall back on writing about the weather, but jeez louise, what a night!

Doppler Effects

Whirlwinds swirled,

sirens wailed,

arrows rained,

vibrations rocked the clouds.

In flashy strobes

trees partied hard,

ducked and waved,

danced in place,

and reveled through the night

as sleep,

like crispy leaves
took flight.

Today's prediction? I believe the trees and I will be having a wee nap this afternoon.

The Ride

The Ride

After you’ve climbed the hill

to see the view,

then slid down the other side,

after you’ve skinned both knees,

broken bones,

and cracked your helmet twice,

after you’ve tasted the rush

of passing through

in front, behind, beside,

what choice is there

but to climb back up,

pump the pedals, and ride?

It was three years ago this month that I had "the accident," but that was really just one in a series of head bangers that life has thrown at me.

As a pre-birthday present to myself, I am up and pedaling, with slightly wider tires, which sounds like a metaphor for maturity, but it is really just the facts. Thank you Michael for the new tires, thank you Becky for the bike on extended loan, and thanks to a lovely fall day.

Tripping

Day 2 of my week long personal poetry challenge.

Let me just point out that this is not poetry month.  It is not write a novel in a month month, and it is not even the week taxes are due, which historically has been a great inspiration for me to write poetry instead of getting down to business.  I would never be compliant enough to do such an organized writing assignment. I am a poetry procrastinator. A putter offer. Keeper of a wayward, meandering mind. Truth.

But my cousin Lisa Lofthouse does a 30 day Yoga challenge and my friend Amy VanDerwater did a 360 day poetry challenge, so I started this week thinking surely I could so a weeklong challenge before ADHD lead me astray.

Today I had put on my calendar to do a little cleaning in the attic because committing to entirely cleaning the attic would be roughly akin to me dedicating myself to swim to Canada.  How far is that anyway?  Between Cleveland and the nearest port in Canada? What is the temperature of the water, do you think? Who could follow me in a kayak to post on social media and what if I got encrusted in zebra mussels and ended up failing and looking all embarrassing in the process?

Before I stop everything and go look all that up (which would postpone the attic task for at least another hour), here is a poem I wrote while thinking about cleaning the attic. 

Tripping

Suitcases in the attic,

clouds above my head,

tempting me to daydream

trips

to magic spots

instead of writing in my journal

or picking up my clothes,

lifting me from daily doings

to visit

well . . .

who knows?

Writing from the Outside In

There are no less than six books titled Writing from the Inside Out, probably more.  The phrase is so universally accepted, it’s almost embarrassing to raise my hand and say, Yeah, but . . .

Yeah, but that’s not the way I write.  My writing process goes like this, I see something, an image or an interaction, and then it triggers a response in me (Are you kidding, me? Gross! Wonderful! or Horrifying) and then I write about it.  Writing from the outside in.

So, today I decided to revamp my blog (hope people like it) and challenge myself to write on it once a day for a week.  A new poem every day.  I know that other poets do this for a month or more, but the pressure! The pressure!  I thought, maybe I could handle a week.  What to write about? 

Well, I looked around and got as far as the perennial garden septembering in the front yard. 

Oh, yeah. It’s September! Time for kids to start school, pack up the shorts and sleeveless shirts, harvest tomatoes, and trim the barberry.  The barberry bush in the front perennial garden it all uneven and grows at astonishingly different rates.  Some branches bolt while others are content to pop out a few new leaves and call it a season.

Aesthetically I like a loosely rounded mound of bush, so I trim back the wild hairs.

Which is why a barberry bush is NOT like a classroom. 

Sheering

No matter how tempting to

round out the children

into a balanced arrangement,

to tidy the garden

with standardized hedges,

outlining a pre-ordered path,

a child’s bloom sequence

can’t be projected,

and set out in symmetrical rows.

Formalized flowerbeds

draw nodding praise from those

who have mostly forgotten,

the uneven feel of the earth

on bare feet and

that gardens grow

best and brightest

when we nurture and feed the roots

instead of confining ourselves

to relentlessly shearing the shoots.

Michael spent the morning weeding the garden and I spent the afternoon writing a poem about the garden.  We'll have to sort that out later.

Crime and Punishment in Bay Village, OH

http://fox8.com/2014/09/03/mom-ice-bucket-challenge-turned-into-sick-joke-against-son-with-autism/

Following the Michael Brown tragedy, people have been talking a lot about privilege.

Well, folks, this video is what the voice of privilege looks/sounds like when the speaker thinks only the like-minded are in the room.  The voices who see themselves as physically, financially, racially, mentally superior. Those who believe they are only speaking to the "haves and the have mores" to quote George W.  So sure of their own positions and their right to exclude others, they want to make sure everyone else knows their standing, and that that standing has put them in position to pour crap over others.

Look at me! I am above. Let me prove it to the world!

This is what racism sounds like at an all white cocktail party in places like Bay Village, it is what ageism sounds like at the gym, it is what lunch sounds like with a bunch of wealthy lawyers talking about the poor. How do I know? I've been there, and while I work very hard at not being hurtful in my words or actions, too often I have born silent witness to the hurtful actions/words of others.

What happened to this innocent is what metaphorically and actually happens when a collective prejudice trumps people relating to one another as individual human beings. Not on the other side of the planet, but in our own backyard. And when an outsider (maybe a bartender) turns on his cellphone to record what actually goes down behind closed doors, or a cable news network catches a white cop pointing his gun and threatening to shoot black citizens in our streets, everyone is publicly horrified.  But privately? Well, we've got shit to do. Can't be bogged down. Besides maybe someone else in the room might have a job connection in the future. Speaking up would just make the remainder of the time uncomfortable, and you can't change the mind of a jerk like that anyway. Can you?

I better let it go or someone will pour crap on me, and boy howdy, I don't want that.

The perpetrators of this crime were just young, that's all.  They were unsophisticated enough not to be able to foresee that this just might not play well to a general audience. After all, their peeps thought it was hilarious.

When a hate crime happens so close to home, we must all bear some of the shame, because these criminals are young, not fully formed. They are acting out what they have learned from role models, real or virtual. Somewhere they got the idea that this was "just a joke." Anything goes as long it's just a joke, right? Well, no, of course not. But how did they never get that message? Where on earth did they get the warped impression that this was okay?

When something like this happens, we need to look at ourselves as a community and ask, what part did I play in creating an environment in which this happened? When was the last time I stayed silent when I should have spoken? Did I do something purposefully hurtful and laugh about it? And finally, what will I do the next time I hear/see crap being poured on a fellow human being?

I confess, I have not watched this video.  I did read the print description. I hope the perpetrators of this hate crime are apprehended and punished. I hope people talk about this with their kids, the crime and the punishment. I hope we can work together to build better role models.