 |
| "Personas" by Nicolas Nova |
At the beginning of this month, Laura Shovan challenged us to write a persona poem— a poem written in first person, taking on the voice of the poem's subject. She also described the process of writing a persona poem and how she used the process for her verse novel THE LAST FIFTH GRADE OF EMERSON ELEMENTARY.
I've so enjoyed reading the poems that came in this month, hearing these characters' stories, and discovering the worlds they live in. Many thanks and a hearty "Well done!" to all who participated in this challenge, plus special thanks to Laura for encouraging us to find these hidden stories and let them be heard.
All poems are copyright 2016 (unless otherwise noted) and published with permission of the authors, who control all rights.
It's storytime–
hugs and books
with Daddy and James.
 |
| From an advertisement illustrated by J.W. Welch (1946) |
close together.
Millie comes along.
We love to listen to
Daddy's deep voice
as he reads
our favorite book.
When I grow up
I will read
Scratchfoot again
and again to Millie.
I'm going to be
a great reader
like Daddy.
He told me so.
– Carol Varsalona
 |
| "The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit" by John Singer Sargent (1882) |
MARY LOUISA BOIT, AGE 8
by Suzy Levinson
Florence and Jane have been
whispering, whispering
older-girl secrets that aren't meant for me.
I'm stuck with Julia—
babyish, babyish,
handing me Dolly as if I'm still three.
My mind's like a mare, always
galloping, galloping
far from this parlor, unbridled and free.
The beat
starts in my toes,
startles my legs,
up-down
up-down!
My fingers feel the groove
until the tingling,
spine-riveting jolt,
budda-bump-bum
budda-bump-bump-bum,
is more than I can stand.
I must
I must
beat the drum!
– Margaret Simon
Watch the video that inspired this poem HERE.
 |
| – Carol Varsalona |
Read more persona poems by Carol Varsalona HERE.
DAUGHTER TO MOTHER
by Linda Baie
You agree, don’t you
that I’m young and demanding?
My eyes stare:
taunting,
then chastened.
I cringe in the mirror,
stick out my tongue
(when no one can see.)
I am a firefly making a lazy journey,
because I know
I will turn in the evening
to who and what you are.
Click HERE to view the photograph
that inspired this poem.
An excerpt from THE CHILDREN OF PRIVILEGE
by Brenda Davis Harsham
 |
| "Essie, Ruby and Ferdinand, Children of Asher Wertheimer" by John Singer Sargent (1902) |
I will never live this down,
painted with my kid
brother and sister
when I should be dancing
at balls
or singing
in an opera
or traveling
the continent.
Instead, I will forever
be stuck here,
turpentine
stinging my nose,
with no way
into the world.
 |
| Photo by Linda Mitchell |
THE PORTRAIT ARTIST
by Linda Mitchell
Lightning strokes
within my familiar grid.
Erase
again,
erase and sketch
moving pencil
against my light.
Capture her values
within the portrait painter's
code—
Asian vase
Dutch tulips
Satin and English lace
to please a patron father
and husband by
whose name she’s
known
forever.
A dress, lace
tulips, vase
these are props
of Plymouth, Massachusetts
rich and famous
1765.
But what of
Mrs. George Watson’s face?
Her gaze is not
an apathetic
patrician stare.
Mrs. Watson
dares me to find her
a new American woman--
direct
purposeful
unafraid
of the revolution
that births
our nation.
Satin and English lace
to please a patron father
and husband by
whose name she’s
known
forever.
A dress, lace
tulips, vase
these are props
of Plymouth, Massachusetts
rich and famous
1765.
But what of
Mrs. George Watson’s face?
Her gaze is not
an apathetic
patrician stare.
Mrs. Watson
dares me to find her
a new American woman--
direct
purposeful
unafraid
of the revolution
that births
our nation.
Mrs. Watson and her
portrait artist
share lessons with my
fingers and my soul
no history textbook
could impart.
portrait artist
share lessons with my
fingers and my soul
no history textbook
could impart.
 |
| “Morning Glories” Winslow Homer, 1873 |
the wide world beckons
me.
I toss my crewel work aside,
its neat silk stitches
no match for the ropes of green
twining up outside the sill,
toward the sky,
where a menagerie of clouds
is parading by.
I watch them skitter and shift,
morphing into fantastic creatures.
I wish I could transform
into a hummingbird.
I’d dart and hover
among the morning glories
and geraniums,
sipping their summer sweetness.
But like this philodendron, I’m
trapped inside, bound to this place,
never allowed to roam free,
never allowed to touch the sky.
– Catherine Flynn
 |
| – Mindy Gars Dolandis |
 |
| Madame de Pompadour, by François Boucher (1703-1770) |
by Michelle Kogan
Come closer dear and sit beside
my lyrical harpsichord.
An interruption never you,
with music we both adore.
The keys will dance around the room,
enrapturing our senses–
music only nightingales sing,
without any pretenses.
You’re whispering my confidant...
My play, yes I’m preparing;
there’s nymphs, gods, and enrapturement,
tis light and not despairing.
Oh yes, dear king, I’m engraving,
a secret gemstone for you.
A precious stone fit for my love,
and our private rendezvous.
 |
| "Bride with Fan" (1911) by Marc Chagall, US public domain |
by Michelle Heidenrich Barnes
At the moment we met
I don’t recall breathing–
your eyes were so blue
and vast as the sky.
Mine lowered in silence,
I heard our hearts beating
and knew my forever arrived.
You gave me your vow,
your soul and your secrets,
a fan made with feathers,
so gentle and white.
And now, like a cloud
passing over your canvas,
with every breath, I sigh.
 |
| "The Sleeping Gypsy" (1897), Henri Rousseau |
At last the river
The sojourner rests
Robed in stripes
Lute and flask at her side
She sleeps
Staff clasped in hand
Shoeless
Smiling
Basking under the round moon
Words and dreams weave and flow
A powerful seraph
Eyes fierce as fire
Watches over
Protects any
Pilgrim through this barren land
Guide me, O thou great
Even though I walk through the valley….
You are with me
I am weak, but Thou art mighty
Your rod and your staff
Comfort me…
Surely goodness and mercy
Shine on me this night
Praise
Peace
River
– Karen Eastlund
COSSACK SONG
by Doraine Bennett
Old Hesselberg, half dead,
mans the helm.
Scurvy is our master.
Waxell gives no orders.
Bering lies helpless on his bunk.
None listen to Herr Stellar.
The ship drifts, deadwood in a tossing sea.
Never will I carry
Anya to the Cossack crug,
nor have their blessing
to call her wife,
will not raise sons
faithful to serve my tsar,
teach them the ways of war,
share their prayers at evensong.
A Cossack should die in battle,
not drowned in the sea.
What else to do but sing?
“Stormy clouds delirious straying,
Showers of whirling snowflakes white,
And the pallid moonbeams waning—
Sad the heavens, sad the night.”
THE MERMAID
by Angelique Pacheco
My tail glistens in the sun
I long to be free to run
My transformation has begun
And my parents begin to shun
They don’t accept the human son
My Love and I long to have fun
The life I knew becomes undone
 |
| – Diane Mayr |
AFTER THE WATER
by Ellen Leventhal
My fur feels sticky
like when Jack dropped me
in his bath.
Everyone laughed then.
The bubbles tickled and warmed me.
But now I shiver and shake.
No Jack, no laughter.
Nana lifts me high, high, onto a shelf.
The noises over, under, and around me
are loud and scary.
Except for Nana’s sigh.
It’s soft and sad.
I look around from my high perch.
and wrinkle my nose.
No sweet soapy smell.
Something different.
The room fills with water
brown and cold.
Big hands covered in plastic
scoop me up.
Nana looks at the man
and shakes her head.
Sorrow spills from her eyes,
dotting the white mask covering her face.
With a whoosh, I am thrown outside.
I fly through the air,
touch down on a pile of memories,
and become one myself.
by Janie Lazo
My life is cumbered by this vine.
I pray you'll take me- make me thine.
To end my days of lonesome lust-
My life - to you I do entrust.
I pray you'll give my form a face
And take me to my resting place.
That special day is oh so near
When ghost and goblins do appear.
My light will guide them on their way
My life work done, alas they'll say..
"Trick or treat!"
 |
| Clocktower, University of Sydney |
LAMENT OF THE KANGAROO GARGOYLE ON THE FRONT OF THE CLOCKTOWER – SYDNEY UNIVERSITY
by Kate O'Neil
Grouchy?
Too right I am!
It’s a real bummer
being stuck up here
like a dag on a rock.
And why me?
I’m no culture vulture.
Why not
stone the crows
instead?
This is no place for me
to hang out—
heights make me crook.
Can’t cope.
I want to make tracks.
Half a chance and
I’d shoot through,
go bush
and join the mob.
Too right I am!
It’s a real bummer
being stuck up here
like a dag on a rock.
And why me?
I’m no culture vulture.
Why not
stone the crows
instead?
This is no place for me
to hang out—
heights make me crook.
Can’t cope.
I want to make tracks.
Half a chance and
I’d shoot through,
go bush
and join the mob.
COLONIZE
by Brenda Davis Harsham
 |
| Photo by Brenda Davis Harsham |
we've no room,
move over,
skedaddle,
shove over,
split,
quit!
That spot
there is bare,
lay your root
in that stony crack,
it’ll be fun
it’ll have what we lack.
And don’t come back.
quit!
That spot
there is bare,
lay your root
in that stony crack,
it’ll be fun
it’ll have what we lack.
And don’t come back.
DISSSGUSSSTING
by Bridget Magee
I lie here
among the
dead grassesss,
crunchy leavesss,
withered ssscrub.
I am minding
my own
busssinesss
sssoaking up
the sssun,
basssking in
the heat.
Then I feel
them...
thud, thud, thud
 |
| Texas Rat Snake, photo by Justin Jensen |
coming clossser...
THUD, THUD, THUD!
I ssslip,
I ssslither,
I ssslink
away.
But ssstill
they
ssscream,
"Snake!"
Disssgusssting.
 |
| Western Conifer Seed Bug, photo by Kathleen Mazurowski |
WON'T YOU LET ME INSIDE?
by Kathleen Mazurowski
I will not harm you.
I do not bite or sting.
I have been called a nuisance, but
Being an insect in Chicago
Is a precarious existence in November.
Is that soup you are making?
Won’t you let me inside?
 |
| Bobolink, photo by Jan Godown Annino |
THINK
by Jan Godown Annino
Dear bird watcher,
Ah!
You saw a flash, pale yellow
I heard you – "What a pretty fellow"
Do not think me here for show
I face treacherous miles to go
While you watch me on this thistle
Think – he had to stop and wet his whistle
Think – what other creatures has he seen
Think – what is his perch when humans dream
Flash!
I lift my wings – I’ve seen seeds
After drink and rest it’s food I need
While wings beat steady steady again
Go write a poem, be my friend
I must fly,
Bob, traveling bobolink
I DON'T
understand
WHY
you have such
a hard
time
writing
a first draft
when ALL you have to do
is march your fingers
across my keys.
– Kristi Dee Veitenheimer
understand
WHY
you have such
a hard
time
writing
a first draft
when ALL you have to do
is march your fingers
across my keys.
– Kristi Dee Veitenheimer
 |
| Work Train, photo by Jessica Bigi |
by Jessica Bigi
I with my gearing teeth
Gobble up stones
I whistle with a growling
Chug a chews
Stones sliding down
My saffron scales
I gobble up stones with iron teeth
Then spit them out
I am a Saffron dragon
On metal wheels
I steam engine roar
WARBLER'S CONFESSION
(After witnessing a strange sight in the French Alps, March 24, 2015)
 |
| Warbler (public domain) |
passed with the grandest roar
I watched with admiration
how this mighty bird could soar.
But then it did the oddest thing
a most peculiar sight
changed attitude from up to down
descended like a kite.
I chirped and called and warbled
to warn it of disaster
but that great monstrous creature
only descended faster.
It plowed into a mountain
crashed into the cliffs
split into a million tiny
shards and broken bits.
I admit my jealousy
of giant’s perfect beak
its angle eyes, symmetric wings
its feathers smooth and sleek
it’s eagle speed, its beeline flight
its course above the cloud
its noble bold intelligence
its call, steady and loud.
But that’s all in the past now
I’ll never more complain
that I’m a simple warbler
and not a fancy plane.
– Violet Nesdoly (2015)
 |
| – Diane Mayr |
 |
| Mask and poem by Jacob, 2nd grade |
 |
| Mask and poem by Madison |
Call me watercat.
I am guard.
I am smart
and curious.
I run very quickly
through prickly vines.
I am big.
I am blue.
I am sneaky.
I am fluffy.
I am strong.
I am a watercat.
– Madison, 2nd grade
 |
| Mask and poem by Emily |
DIS-GRACE
by Emily, 5th grade
I am a disgrace.
I am a mess of an animal.
I am rainbow.
I have three sets of ears.
My mouth stays open.
My nose is green.
People come around me and say “whoo.”
They must hate me.
Then I hear people say, “That’s cool.”
Maybe I’m not a Dis-Grace after all.
I am a mess of an animal.
I am rainbow.
I have three sets of ears.
My mouth stays open.
My nose is green.
People come around me and say “whoo.”
They must hate me.
Then I hear people say, “That’s cool.”
Maybe I’m not a Dis-Grace after all.
 |
| Mask and poem by Jaci |
I was born in a magic cloud.
Then I flew all day.
I made a lot of friends
and we played in the Milky Way.
Then we found a top hat,
black and a very light gray.
I put it on and then I had the power
to always save the day.
– Jaci, 5th grade
 |
| – Leane Gill (and Sadie's paw prints) |
Inspired to write one of your own?
You have until Tuesday, May 31st, to send your persona poem to TodaysLittleDitty (at) gmail (dot) com, or use the contact form in the sidebar to the right.
Participants in this month's challenge will automatically be entered to win a personalized copy of THE LAST FIFTH GRADE OF EMERSON ELEMENTARY, by Laura Shovan (Wendy Lamb Books/Random House, 2016). One entry per participant, not per poem.
Alternatively, you may enter the giveaway by commenting below. Comments must also be received no later than Tuesday, May 31st. If you contribute a poem and comment below, you will receive two entries in total.
The winner will be determined by Random.org and announced next Friday, June 3rd.
Julie Larios is hosting this week's Poetry Friday roundup at The Drift Record.