Dead Poets Alive

Growing up in remote Kapoho, I, too, found solace in poets long gone.

            Dead Poets Alive

The dead kept me alive

Confined to a village so isolated,

So unpaved, so un-vehicled,

So battery-run. Our three-party line

A public service gossip center.

The speechless dead took me beyond

Montgomery Ward catalogs, dream-makers

Until one day I discover an oracle

Within the pages, poets long gone.

Promises of wondrous worlds

For the me not yet formed.

Oh, how I mourn that “breath of ecstasy”

To travel that road where dreams can go

Though not so much “in depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach.”

And like a little “nobody” to “lie down

To pleasant dreams.”

It was the dead who gave me such dreams

And showed the woman I’d become

To wander where they could not go

And wonder at what got them there.

My morning still lay ahead, I still “had miles to go.”

And oh, how “I wandered lonely as a cloud.”

   from Dangerous Woman: Poetry for the Ageless

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Last Day of Poetry Month

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A teen/poet for Poetry Month

I wrote the following to honor a teenager who stopped by my book signing in Honolulu.

A Stranger Among Us

Three young lads walk the mall

Passing my book signing at Barnes & Noble.

One lad breaks away

After turning his head

Toward the book display

On a tripod near me.

“What kind of book is this?

Did you write this?”

“Yes,” I say to the lad

Wearing a tiny hoop in one lobe,

A silver stud in his nose.

“This is a book of poems on caregiving.”

“I write poems, too. I set them to music.

Do you want to hear one of my poems?”

He rapped his poem in perfect rhythm,

Musical rhymes, poignantly searching

For the meaning of life.

I open my book to offer him

My simple poem, “A Poet’s Declaration.”

He reads it, looks at me and quietly says,

“You’re the first person who understands me.”

We talk of how it is

To be a poet…

The aloneness, the pain, the joy.

“No one knows me as you do.”

He hands me Mosaic Moon,

I sign it To Jason.

“Dammit,” I think, after he leaves

To join his two companions

With my book in his hand…

“How did one poem from a stranger

Help him feel there is someone after all,

Who knows and understands him?

How did he recently leave

Thirteen years of school behind him,

A lonely stranger?

frances kakugawa

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A poet/dad and his poet/son

We turned into poets in all of my classes, grades K-6 during my teaching career. Robert Webster was a sixth grader at Nimitz Elem in Hawaii. One day, I watched him write the last line to a poem. Beads of perspiration rolled down his nose. He dropped his pen and I heard him whisper, “ I’m all poemed out.”

Here’s an excerpt from one of his poems.

“Writing is wonderful.

It is a thing that can make the dumb speak,

The deaf to hear, and the blind to see.

Writing can bring out true emotions

That we usually don’t see,

And it brings out our true selves…”

The rest of this poem appears in my book, Teacher, You Look Like a Horse. Robert helped to write the last chapter with a few other students. They were all adults then, but still listened to their teacher when I asked them for help.  Robert never left. After sixth grade, he stayed in touch through high school and college and now as a father to three sons with wife Erica.

I have lunched with Robert and his family in New York City twice and the poetry man is still there. How wonderful to have a poetry man for a dad.

Here are three poems from the next generation of Websters, written by son Samuel when he was eight years old.

 

Me and My Cat

Tommy loves it

When I scratch him under

His chin.

You can sleep in my bed,

Tommy.

Do you want to read with me,

Tommy?

Now this is relaxing!

 

 

Sunny Day

Today I woke up

On a sunny day.

I went to my friend’s house

On that sunny day.

I played throw and catch

At my friend’s house

Until it was dark

On that sunny day.

 

 

Monkey

Crazy, cute

Running, climbing, swinging

Eating, jumping, sleeping

Bananas, trees, vines

Hairy, agile

 

©Samuel Charles Webster

8 years old

Guilderland, New York

 

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Two poet/brothers for Poetry Month

Wordsworth continues to smile

I walked into the office of my new dentist last year in Sacramento and imagine my surprise to see Shelly at the front desk. We last saw each other when she was about five. Her mother , my cousin’s wife, brought her to my first book  signing in Hilo, HI. I remember Shelly because somewhere, there’s a photo of her, a young child,  holding a copy of my book of poems, Sand Grains. Well, guess what. Here are two poems written by her two sons. Shelly’s mom and I are claiming, “It’s the Kakugawa blood” but that’s up for debate.

 

I Am Poem

 

I am shy and quiet

I wonder what my future would be like

I hear water hitting the ground

I see giant buildings in the sky

I am shy and quiet

I pretend to fly through the sky

I feel soft clouds

I touch ripped up leaves

I worry when my brother is alone

I cry when me and my brother fight

I am shy and quiet

I understand to not use violence

I say I could pass all my obstacles

I dream when I sleep at night

I try to accomplish my goals

I hope I have a good future

I am shy and quiet.

©Lars Cabuco

15 years old

Roseville, CA

 

I Am Poem

 

I am happy and nice

I wonder what my brother is doing

I hear a monster growling

I see a flying ghost

I want a charm

I am happy and nice

I pretend to never mess up

I feel very shy

I touch a sandstone

I worry about falling behind,

I cry when I fall behind

I am happy and nice

I understand my mom is very tired

I say I can fall behind

I dream of the world’s gravity

I try to work hard

I hope I never fall behind

I am happy and nice.

 

©Bourne Rizal Cabuco

9 years old

Roseville, CA

 

 

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Young Poets for April

“Do young children write poetry at all in this age of electronics?” This was one of the questions asked on Hawaii Public Radio when I was interviewed for my 3^rd children’s book on Wordsworth the mouse poet who is empowered by writing poetry.

I didn’t need to think. “Yes!” I said.

I wish the poet/ children I’m featuring this month were there.

Their poetry would have supported my answer quite eloquently and convincingly. Today, meet Tara. We have met only through Wordsworth and her poetry.

Tara is seven years old. Her mother wrote: Tara and I picked up Wordsworth again last night–and Tara was inspired to write some more poems that she wanted to share with you.  She is seven now.

The wind and sky, the ground and earth 

will spin

at a tornado’s birth.

With angels in puffy clouds

dancing on their tippy tippy toes,

with one little step

they will go.

Away and away they go.

 

 

A sea will crash on a silver beach

leaving the seashells behind.

The fish will splash and listen 

to the breeze the ocean left behind.

The fish will follow the breeze.

And away and away they go.

 

 

One little seed

One little plant

One little flower

That will grow content.

The leaves will spread

and body grow.

That will go down its stem

and grow grow grow.

                     ©Tara H

                      Age 7

                     Chicago

I wrote to Tara:

I read your poems aloud over and over and felt myself flying above the clouds.
The clouds are white today in California so it’s a perfect day for soaring and your
poems became my wings. I’m dancing, Tara, I’m flying.

When Tara was six years old, her mother sent me the following:

 

Dear Frances,

Your gifts to me and my family keep giving, and Wordsworth keeps inspiring!  I wanted to share with you….

I don’t know how I had missed it, but I had….The other night, Tara and I opened Wordsworth for our nightly snuggle and there was your beautiful Haiku to Tara and Zoe.  I was so touched by it, and I believe Tara was ever more inspired.

Tara wanted to share a few of the poems with you:

 

Flower on the sidewalk

you will grow

with grace and beauty

 

Leaf you can grow

as big as a tree

 

Flower you can grow 

as fast as 

a waiting poem

              ©Tara H

              Age 6

I wrote to Tara’s mother:

In Hawaii we say we get “chicken skin ” when we meet up with something that leave us speechless.
I got chicken skin, just sitting here reading Tara’s poems over and over. That last verse is simply beautiful…
“as fast as a waiting poem.”

Our planet got a bit stronger…
and Wordsworth is here, grinning away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Final Poem for Poetry Month

        A Stranger Among Us

Three young lads walk the mall
Passing my book signing at Barnes & Noble.
One lad breaks away
After turning his head
Toward the book display
On a tripod near me.

 

“What kind of book is this?
Did you write this?”

 

“Yes,” I say to the lad
Wearing a tiny hoop in one lobe,
A silver stud in his nose.
“This is a book of poems on caregiving.”

 

“I write poems, too. I set them to music.
Do you want to hear one of my poems?”

 

He rapped his poem in perfect rhythm,
Musical rhymes, poignantly searching
For the meaning of life.

 

I open my book to offer him
My simple poem, “A Poets’ Declaration.”

 

He reads it, looks at me and quietly says,
“You’re the first person who understands me.”

 

We talk of how it is
To be a poet…
The aloneness, the pain, the joy.

 

“No one knows me as you do.”
He hands me Mosaic Moon,
I sign it To Jason.

 

“Dammit,” I think, after he leaves
To join his two companions
With my book in his hand…
“How did one poem from a stranger
Help him feel there is someone after all,
Who knows and understands him?
How did he recently leave
Thirteen years of school behind him,
A lonely stranger?

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Poetry Month: #6 Haiku

 

Don’t fret, Nature said

Those snails won’t touch your roses.

I threw in some thorns.

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Poetry Month: #5. Snails,Buddha and Me

Two snails escape my hunt
Seeking shelter in Buddha’s arms.
A dilemma of my own reality
Of snail ravished lettuce leaves
Plays on Buddha’s Serenity.
Peace. Compassion. Love.

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Poetry Month #4

Two of my favorite “quotes”

There is no poetry for the practical man. There is poetry only for the mankind of the man who spends a certain amount of his life turning the mechanical wheel. But let him spend too much of his life at the mechanics of practicality and either he must become something less than a man, or his very mechanical efficiency will become impaired by the frustrations stored up in his irrational human personality.
An ulcer, gentlemen, is an unkissed imagination taking its revenge for having been jilted. It is an unwritten poem, a neglected music, an unpainted water color, an undanced dance. It is a declaration from the mankind of the man that a clear spring of joy has not been tapped, and that it must break through, muddily, on its own.
– John Ciardi

Poems are not written to sing of the moon and flowers; they must speak of our hearts in response to the moon and flowers. We must never forget that in our hearts are the seeds of our poems. If we merely speak of the moon and flowers, poems become simply poetical forms, whatever the human heart may be. If these things become a part of ourselves, then we may admire them in verse.
– Okuman Kotomichi
   19th century

 

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