Alcatraz Versus The Knights of Crystallia

This is the third book in the Alcatraz series and it has been sitting at my house for about four months waiting for me to get to it (don't worry, there are about 15 more also waiting their turn - it didn't feel too left out). This continues the series with Alcatraz still trying to figure out the master plan of the Evil Librarians and solving some new mysteries on the way as well.

Alcatraz is going with his grandfather because the Librarians say they want to sign a treaty but something sounds a little strange. He is concerned because of the events that have lead to Bastille just not being herself, and he is starting to discover that maybe his talent goes beyond just breaking things. There is a librarian who says she doesn't want to be anymore but can she be trusted? And Alcatraz is now trying to convince his reader that he is a superhero, exuding kindness - not the evil, manipulative young man he spent the last two books trying to convince you he was.

These are the kinds of books that you need to pick up when you want to read, but don't really have the mental energy to devote. They are completely appropriate for any reader who understands sarcasm, fun, lighthearted and full of several laugh out loud moments. This was the perfect read when I wanted to escape my thesis, but couldn't really - at least not all the way yet. Read the first two before this one, because Alcatraz will mock you if you didn't. Just a head's up. :)

Affirmation

One of mine...

Affirmation

-Tasha Seegmiller

It looked like heaven, the snow

cleansing tumultuous world.

Scarlet sins,

erased, just as Isaiah said.

Sun slithers across the sky

such spotlessness is short;

society spoils celestial aspirations

following misguided light.

I rose from the water

the first time I found heaven.

Born, again, but this time

without the tears or the trauma,

protected by the strength and love of my

father’s hands.

Such perfection would guarantee

my entrance through St. Peter’s gates.

But I am human

imperfect, stained.

One among millions

who ruin innocence.

I found heaven once more,

Kneeling across an altar from

my best friend, he and I in perfect white

having heard from many

it’s never too late.

He tells me I’m an angel

One who guides his way -

but he is mine,

and I am his and we are unified.

Heaven isn’t solitary confinement,

unity is the governing principle

as Lucifer knows, or knew,

this world could have been. His

pride the ruler,

humility the slave

But that isn’t the way in heaven.

Once again, snowflakes merge

reminders of hope amid winter’s grasp.

Miniscule angels joined together

to gently make the earth,

if but for a moment,

pure.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

This is one of those poems that when I first read it, I wondered what on earth e e cummings was thinking/smoking/doing. It made no sense. But I had an amazing teacher who walked me through. If you take the time to read this, pretend anyone is the name of a man in the town and noone is the name of a woman - it should help a little. :)

anyone lived in a pretty how town

by E. E. Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

If you are interested, you can read a pretty good analysis of this poem here.

Ballad of Birmingham

The four children who were the inspiration for this poem.

"Mother dear, may I go downtown

Instead of out to play,

And march the streets of Birmingham

In a Freedom March today?"

"No, baby, no, you may not go,

For the dogs are fierce and wild,

And clubs and hoses, guns and jails

Aren't good for a little child."

"But, mother, I won't be alone.

Other children will go with me,

And march the streets of Birmingham

To make our country free."

"No baby, no, you may not go

For I fear those guns will fire.

But you may go to church instead

And sing in the children's choir."

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,

And bathed rose petal sweet,

And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,

And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know that her child

Was in the sacred place,

But that smile was the last smile

To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion,

Her eyes grew wet and wild.

She raced through the streets of Birmingham

Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,

Then lifted out a shoe.

"O, here's the shoe my baby wore,

But, baby, where are you?"

Daffodils

Usually, around this time of year, I find myself really missing Washington. I haven't gone to check, but this similar sentiment has probably been uttered about April since I had this blog. It usually is due to several factors - one, is spring still isn't really here and I'm tired of winter. Two, Washington state has some of the most beautiful springs I've ever seen. Three, the annual Skagit Valley tulip festival is in full bloom, and I miss seeing those beautiful acres of blooming tulip colors and fields and fields of brilliant yellow daffodils. So I usually end up thinking of Wordsworth.

The Daffodils

- William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee:

A Poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Power

This is one of the first poems I give my students each year when we study poetry. It is simple to understand, but has an incredibly powerful message.

Power

No one we knew had ever stopped a train

Hardly daring to breathe, I waited

Belly-down with my brother

In a dry ditch

Watching through the green thickness

Of grass and willows.

Stuffed with crumpled newspapers,

The shirt and pants looked real enough

Stretched out across the rails. I felt my heart

Beating against the cool ground

And the terrible long screech of the train’s

Braking began. We had done it.

Then it was in front of us –

A hundred iron wheels tearing like time

Into red flannel and denim, shredding the child

We had made – until it finally stopped.

My brother jabbed at me,

Pointed down the tracks. A man

Had climbed out of the engine, was running,

In our direction, waving his arms,

Screaming that he would kill us –

Whoever we were.

Then, very close to the spot

Where we hid, he stomped and cursed

At the rags and papers scattered

Over the gravel from our joke.

I tried to remember which of us

That red shirt had belonged to,

But morning seemed too long ago, and the man

Was falling, sobbing, to his knees.

I couldn’t stop watching.

My brother lay next to me,

His hands covering his ears,

His face pressed tight to the ground.

-Corrine Hales

When they finish reading it, I always ask - how many children died or lost their childhood?

More than Roger Rabbit knew

How many of you remember Who Framed Roger Rabbit? You may have to go digging back in the memory a little bit, but I'm pretty sure most of you do.

If you will remember, in there, he is having problems in his marriage to his ridiculous wife who made (makes) women all over the world have a complex because we can NEVER look that way. I mean, really, she keeps that hair perfectly in place all the time. The products that are available to animated women is just simply unfair.

What? Isn't that what you were thinking too? I thought so.

Anyway, Roger gets the idea to write his wife, Jessica, a poem to tell her how much he loves her. Anyone remember how it starts?

"How do I love thee, let me count the ways....one...two...three...four....."

Remember?

That was my first exposure to this poem. It actually took me a long time to want to read this poem because I thought it was just a cheesy love poem that some love sick, pathetic, hopeless romantic wrote about some boy she was crushing on and then killed herself when he married someone else. But that couldn't be further from the truth. The poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, knew a great deal about love, sacrificed her relationship with her father in order to marry the man she corresponded with over almost two years. And this girl knew how to use words.

So that brings us to her words. I love this poem. I'm in awe at the concept in the second and third lines. This kind of love goes beyond the marriage vows that are common among other faiths. But the best part is her recognition that her ability to love now is minimal compared to how she will be able to love after death. Enjoy!

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

National Poetry Month

I spend a great deal of time on this blog talking about books. At this point, it should be no secret that I love books. I know, I know. I'll give you a moment to overcome your shock. Have you regained your composure? Done telling all your friends that bit of breaking news? Okay. :)

What some people may or may not know is I really love poetry as well. Really, really love it. I adore the feeling of taking a piece of poetry and work through it and really understand it. I love going back to it again and again, looking at the imagery, appreciating the line breaks, the amazing choice of words - you get the picture.

That brings us to April. You may or may not know that this is National Poetry Month. I usually acknowledge that it is a cool thing and then move on my merry little way. But I really want to get back to poetry, experiencing that thrill of reading an amazing poem. Maybe, if I'm feeling extraordinarily brave, I'll share some I've written. And, sometime this month, I'll be writing a lovely piece of exceptionally cheesy poetry for my sister through marriage (I hate that in law part) because of her accomplishments in the MMM.

What does this have to do with you? Well, the poems that I have really grown to love over the years will be featured here. I figure you are more likely to read a poem if it is posted on a blog than if I were to just tell you to go here (but if you are interested, they are emailing a poem a day during April). And, if you are like me, sometimes it is nice to have direction if you are experiencing something new instead of being overwhelmed by the thousands of something someone loves.

How often will this happen? Who knows. Chances are pretty decent that during the week of April 19, pretty often because I have to administer end of level tests, stay in the room for 87 minutes at a time but do pretty much nothing. And that is the week I'm set to defend my thesis so I'll need some escapism (Why am I nervous? No clue. I did a good job. It'll be fine...it'll be fine...it'll be fine...)

Tied in with this, I have been wanting for the last few years to go back and really spend some time with Mr. Eliot (T. S. that is - notice the initials?) So I'm going to work through The Wasteland off and on through this month. It's a doozy, and I studied it once before, but that was before I had kids and forgot where part of my brain went. (Tiana, if you are reading this I may be coming to you to see if you have more of your brain left that I do...:)

If you have a favorite poem, please let me know in the comments and I'll add it to the mix. Or feature it on your blog. Either way, it should be some nerdy poetic fun.