Ballads, Grasses and Bliss

When I was a child, I loved slipping a stalk of Timothy from its grassy home, pinching it between my fingers and putting the sweet end into my mouth. How delightful, then, to have my nine-year-old celebrate this simple grass with a spring poem.

"At Last"

Timothy, I hear Timothy,
surrounding me
everywhere a breeze
blowing its furry fluff
of warmth to last it
through the frozen days.

At last the coming of
spring's luscious sound,
hors d'oeuvres
before the dinner of
warmth and blossoming
flowers,

ready to move life to the
sunset road of eternity,
and eternities of happiness.

— by Sonia

On a different note, I began reading a book on poem-making to my girls. While I was reading the section on narrative poems, my Eldest tried her hand at one form: the ballad. Hers is not quite a ballad, but it's a good beginning. And she seemed to understand enough about the concept to go searching for Tolkien and share with me her favorite ballads tucked between battles and journeys. Here is her own try...

"The Ballad of Narrative Poems"

Mommy read a chapter
of narrative poems,
I went up to look
for a book,

that book had a good
poem, more than one,
of narratives there
were tons.

A ballad, said Mommy,
is something true,
can't be about me,
could be about you.

I've read a few ballads,
all in books,
but the books, well,
they were all fiction.

— by Sara


And here's a poem I just found in my study. I love that any occasion is becoming an occasion for poetry!

"The Worst Thing [or, Grandpa used to get comp copies
and when he cleaned out his study he passed them along to us]"

Well I was reading a book,
but it was the second.
What came before?

I know he did
one thing,
I know he did another,
but what was the whole story?

I wanted to know,
but I never will.
The book was from
a series that grandpa had.

They were given to him,
but then, not all!
Every single series
has at least one missing book.

But this was the best book,
so this is the worst.
It's the same person,
and it happened right after!

So this is the worst thing,
it really is true,
when you haven't read 1
but you have, number 2!

— by Sara

Over at Seedlings this week, I wrote about following one's bliss. It's becoming clear to me that poetry is one of those bliss-places I want to further-cultivate in my life and in the lives of others. Indeed, I have been doing it almost without thought... the way those lovely succulents at the top of this post were growing so beautifully by a fountain, way off in Texas (another source, I am finding, of bliss).

You could say that poetry is my Timothy, waving in the breeze, my little ballad of bliss.

Succulents photo by L.L. Barkat.

Postscript: My favorite "overheard" statement this week from another 11-year-old to mine... You mean your Mom's MAKING YOU learn Old English? [mine replied: NO! I'm teaching it to myself!]