Obscure Holidays: Great Poetry Reading Day

Finally an obscure holiday that actually fits into our poetry theme! Today, April 28th, is “Great Poetry Reading Day.” As you might imagine, this day celebrates all the incredible poetry out there! “Great” is a relative term of course, so you can take it to mean whatever you like (as long as it involves poetry, that is).

For today’s featured poem, I actually had a tough time figuring out what to pick. After all, there are so many to choose from…Shakespeare, Keats, Tennyson, Frost….but since I have a feeling this may be the last “obscure holidays” post for a long while, I think I’ll go with one befitting of its final installment:

***

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas

***

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Hope you guys enjoyed all the obscure holiday posts! And enjoy some great poetry today! Find some at Poets.org or the Poetry Foundation’s site.

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Featured Poem From Our Newest Issue: “At the Degas Exhibit” by Gregory Fraser

As you all know, our double issue of Five Points Vol. 15, No. 1 & 2 is on sale now, and we’d like to give you a little preview of one of the poems you’ll find inside:

At the Degas Exhibit

by Gregory Fraser

***

The docent wends us to The Dance Class

and it all flits back: the studio downtown,

few bucks an hour, ragging off the finger

***

grease of toe-shoed cygnets, tutu-ed swans,

scudding hardwood and ignoring both

of me—spray of acne, high-top Keds.

***

I would clatter on the local after school

(weekends once the Christmas pageant neared),

my face at every stop floating outside

***

the window beside my seat—a mask

tried on by stars in movie ads, commuters

cooling heels for later cars. Then Windex,

***

buff, till six, waving hello, farewell,

from glass to glass, plié to pointe—my hand

emitting squeaks, eliding dainty prints and streaks.

***

In my knapsack: comics, Catcher, lunch

untouched. And never once did I happen on

the courage even to speak to one of those

***

sugar plums of Rittenhouse, Society Hill.

Degas’s girls, our guide informs, practice

attitudes, inspected by their master

***

(one Jules Perrot) propped on his staff.

Note the Parisian mothers daubed

on the wall in back. Yet I see only tights

***

that bear the stamp McDevitt Dance,

hear gripes about third position, giddy talk

of boys. And search the sides and corners

***

for my Old World counterpart—some

sponge-and-bucket kid from a ragged edge—

undersized, near-sighted, invisible to art.

 

Here’s a little more info on Gregory Fraser:

Fraser is the author of two poetry collections, Strange Pietà (Texas Tech, 2003) and Answering the Ruins (Northwestern, 2009). He is also the co-author, with Chad Davidson, of the workshop textbook Writing Poetry: Creative and Critical Approaches (Palgrave-Macmillan, 2008) and the composition textbook Analyze Anything: A Guide to Critical Reading and Writing (Continuum, 2012). His poetry has appeared in journals including the Paris Review, the Southern Review, the Gettysburg Review, and Ploughshares. The recipient of a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, Fraser serves as associate professor of English and creative writing at the University of West Georgia.

Purchase copies of Five Points here!

Poem in Your Pocket Day!

It’s time again for Poets.org’s national Poem in Your Pocket Day! According to their site, the purpose of this day is to “select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends.” What better way to express your love of poetry? For mine, I’m picking one of my all-time favorite poems by Emily Bronte:

To Imagination

When weary with the long day’s care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While then canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that all around
Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom’s bound
We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain
For Nature’s sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart how vain
Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But thou art ever there, to bring
The hovering vision back, and breathe
New glories o’er the blighted spring,
And call a lovelier Life from Death.
And whisper, with a voice divine,
Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
Yet, still, in evening’s quiet hour,
With never-failing thankfulness,
I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
Sure solacer of human cares,
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

Find plenty of poems and info on the holiday at Poets.org!

 

Featured Prose: Elizabeth’s Spencer’s “On the Hill”

Elizabeth Spencer. Photo by John Rosenthal.

As you all might know, Five Points Vol. 15 No. 1&2 has just been released, and one of the stories you can expect to find inside is Elizabeth Spencer’s “On the Hill.”

Here’s a little bit of info about Ms. Spencer:

Elizabeth Spencer was born and raised in Mississippi. She has lived for long periods in Italy and Canada and now lives in North Carolina. She has published nine novels including The Voice at the Back Door, The Salt Line, and The Night Travelers, plus a memoir titled Landscapes of the Heart. The latest collection of her stories, The Southern Woman (Modern Library), includes The Light in the Piazza, which was recently made into a Broadway musical.

Enjoy the story!

“On the Hill” by Elizabeth Spencer

Regarding Barry and Jan Daugherty you first had to know that they lived out about two miles from town. Lots of people do live out in wooded areas here; the whole town is filled with trees so that the extent of it is not easily determined. Even so the Daughertys were to be thought of as distant. The little maps which accompanied their frequent invitations were faithfully followed, for they gave wonderful parties.

They had not been very long in Eltonville, only since last winter, it would seem. Exact dates of their arrival and acquisition of the property were not easily determined. The fact was nobody could pin down any exact information about the Daughertys. Jan, in fact, sometimes went by another name—Fisher. But it was easy to think she was in the modern habit of retaining her maiden name, or was it the name of a former husband? The Daughertys, if asked, gave rather round-about answers. Jan said, in regard to the name, “Oh, I keep it for Riley.” Riley was her son. Then was there a Mr. Fisher, somewhere off in her past? It was hard not to sound too inquisitive. Riley was a blonde little boy of about ten. When guests arrived, he ran about taking everybody’s coats and then vanished with them, upstairs. He reappeared at departure time, looking sleepy but holding wraps by the armload.

As for the girl, younger, probably six, she clearly was Barry’s daughter. But was she Jan’s? Were there two divorces in the background? Not unusual: who cared? It wasn’t really that anyone would care, one way or the other; it was just that nobody knew.

Going to the Daugherty house was like a progress to an estate. The road off the state highway wound through trees, but broke into the open on a final climb. The house itself sat free of all but a couple of flanking oaks. Its galleries suggested an outlook over vistas.

It was a joy to come there. How had they managed so soon to find such nice people? For a dinner invitation, you arrived just before dark and parked in an ample space. Barry himself would be just inside the door. He had a broad smile, skin that always looked lightly tanned. Sometimes a tie, sometimes not. He had picked up easily on local habits. His hair was dark brown, sprinkled with gray. He never slicked it down. And Jan? Well, she knew how to dress and how to greet. The feeling imparted was that every- thing was under control, and that the arriving guests were the choice people of the earth.

***

It would soon be dark. Looking out toward the terrace from where she sat at the end of her table, pouring coffee while Barry refilled wine glasses, Jan would say, “Last winter during the snow, what a lot of creatures wandered in.” “It happens in town, too,” one guest would offer. “I admired them, as much as you can admire a ’possum—is that it? Those things with the long snouts and skinny tails. I’d hate to dream of one. I wonder if they bite.”

“We’ll ask Riley to find out at school,” Barry said.

“They certainly bite,” one of the men volunteered, speaking from country knowledge. “But just if you corner them. They’re sort of timid.”

Where on earth were they from, not to know about ’possums?

“Then there was the raccoon,” Jan continued. “What a precious little guy. All black circles under his eyes.”

“You must have put food out.”

“Oh, just a few scraps.”

“They’ll love you to death. They’ll certainly bite you.”

Somebody had a story about a raccoon his aunt had let in the house, because he looked so cute. He had rifled the cupboards and climbed on the shelves. He had tried to get in the refrigerator. How to get rid of him?

“They carry rabies,” the same informing man said.

“Don’t disillusion me,” pled Jan.

Evenings there sped by, but when the guests spoke of them later, there was not much more to remember later than talk of ’possums and raccoons.

Five Points Volume 15 1&2 Available Now!

Five Points is proud to announce the release of our newest issue, Volume 15 1&2! This is a double issue packed with a wide array of poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, art, and more! Here are some of the contributors you can expect to see in the new issue:

• Kim Addonizio
• Ward Briggs
• Billy Collins
• Christopher Dickey
• Lauren Groff
• Jennifer Haigh
• Barbara Hamby
• Edward Hirsch
• Jane Hirshfield
• Alice Hoffman
• Edward Hower
• David Kirby
• Laurence Lieberman
• Deborah Luster
• James May
• Sharon Olds
• Chelsea Rathburn
• Anya Silver
• Elizabeth Spencer
• Elizabeth Spires
• Ernest Saurez
• Melane Rae Thon
• Daren Wang
• Lauren Watel
• ……and many more!

Visit our website to find out more, or purchase copies of Five Points here!

Obscure Holidays: Scrabble Day

On this installment of Obscure holidays, we have Scrabble Day, April 13th. You might think it difficult to find a suitable poem for this holiday, but wait until you see this–a Scrabble-tile poem that uses all 100 tiles to form an original poem in iambic pentameter:

Pretty impressive, right? But if reading scrabble-tile lines of poetry makes your eyes bleed, here’s the actual text:

A Scrabble-Tile Poem by Mike Keith

Through sentient, gauzy flame I view life’s dread,
quixotic, partial joke. We’re vapour-born,
by logic and emotion seen as dead.

Plain cording weds great luxury ornate,
while moon-beams rise to die in Jove’s quick day;
I navigate the puzzle-board of fate.

Wait! Squeeze one hundred labels into jibes,
grip clay and ink to form your topic – rage;
await the vexing mandate of our lives.

I rush on, firm, to raid my aged tools,
but yet I touch an eerie, vain, blank piece,
as oxide grown among life’s quartz-paved jewels.

Once zealous Bartlebooth, a timid knave,
portrayed grief’s calm upon a jigsaw round;
yet now he lies, fixed quiet in his grave.

Just so we daily beam our pain-vexed soul
with fiery craze to aim large, broken core
and quest in vain to find the gaping hole.

And if you’re confused about just who “Bartlebooth” is, Mike Keith’s post has got you covered:

Who is “Bartlebooth”, you might ask? Ah, this strikes at the very core of the poem. Bartlebooth is the jigsaw-puzzling main character of Georges Perec’s massive constrained novel “La Vie mode d’emploi” (“Life A User’s Manual”). Perec’s novel consists of 100 chapters with one blank (missing), modeled after a Paris apartment building with 100 rooms. The theme of missing things constantly reappears (e.g., Bartlebooth dies as the puzzle he is working on has a single piece-shaped hole.)

It takes some real Scrabble devotion to create a poem like this, so kudos to Mike Keith (you can visit his original post here). And happy Scrabbling!

Obscure Holidays: International Pillow Fight Day

Mark your calendars everyone, because this Saturday, April 6th is apparently “International Pillow Fight Day.” This holiday is celebrated around the world with–you guessed it–massive pillow fights! Seriously, there’s an official website for it and everything. A ton of cities will be hosting events (including Atlanta), so chances are, you’ll be able to participate if you’re interested. In honor of the holiday, here’s a poem titled “Pillow”:

“Pillow” by Li-Young Lee

There's nothing I can't find under there.
Voices in the trees, the missing pages
of the sea.

Everything but sleep.

And night is a river bridging
the speaking and the listening banks,

a fortress, undefended and inviolate.

There's nothing that won't fit under it:
fountains clogged with mud and leaves,
the houses of my childhood.

And night begins when my mother's fingers
let go of the thread
they've been tying and untying
to touch toward our fraying story's hem.

Night is the shadow of my father's hands
setting the clock for resurrection.

Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown?

There's nothing that hasn't found home there:
discarded wings, lost shoes, a broken alphabet.

Everything but sleep. And night begins

with the first beheading
of the jasmine, its captive fragrance
rid at last of burial clothes.

Hope everyone has some fun today!

Celebrating 15 Volumes of Five Points!

Hey everyone, this month marks the release of the 15th volume of Five Points! If you’re in the area, why not come and celebrate with us?

A Celebration and Launch of the 15^th Volume Edition of Five Points: A Journal of Literature & Art will take place on Thursday, April 11th at 7:30pm at the Rialto Center for the Arts, Georgia State University. Authors featured in the double issue will read from their works of poetry and fiction including: Barbara Hamby, David Kirby, Thomas Lux, and Lauren Watel.

Five Points: A Journal of Literature & Art has been published since 1996 by the Department of English at Georgia State University and has made important contributions to the field of contemporary literature. Known for their commitment to originality and excellence, co-editors, David Bottoms and Megan Sexton have promoted the journal’s mission by discovering and publishing the finest literary writing and visual art and presenting it to a wide readership. Five Points features work by established and emerging writers, including Lauren Groff, Jennifer Haigh, Natasha Trethewey, Philip Levine, and Billy Collins. Works featured in Five Points are often featured in the nation’s premiere literary anthologies such as Best American Poetry, Best American Short Stories, New Stories from the South among others. The writer and previous Five Points contributor Ann Hood has captured the journal’s contribution to the literary landscape with this quote: “Five Points is stimulating, intelligent, always interesting, and necessary—we need magazines like it.”

This event is free and open to the public. The Rialto Center for the Arts is located at 80 Forsyth St, NW. For more information, contact Megan Sexton at: msexton@gsu.edu.

We hope to see you there!

Obscure Holidays: International Waffle Day!

Yep, how could I live with myself if I failed to acknowledge Waffle Day in one of my obscure holiday posts? After all, I think we can all agree that few things in life are so worthy of praise as waffles. In fact, waffles are so deserving that they actually have two holidays all to themselves–International Waffle Day and National Waffle Day, August 24th. Today’s version of the holiday originated in Sweden and is called “Våffeldagen.” According to the website I found it on, this day “was also considered the start of spring in Sweden and Europe.  It became a custom for Swedish families to celebrate the two events by making waffles on this day.” So there you have it–waffles bring families closer together.

In case you’re wondering about the other waffle day in August, it was founded in order to celebrate the patenting of the waffle iron by Cornelius Swarthout of Troy, New York on August 24, 1869. Can you believe waffle irons have been around for that long? Apparently, waffles themselves have been around for even longer, dating back to the 1300s in Greece (although they were topped with cheese and herbs then, because sadly, pancake syrup wasn’t around). Also, did I say there were only two waffle holidays? Sorry, I meant three, because there’s also a separate day simply called “Waffle Iron Day” on June 29th. In any case, it’s clear waffles get a lot of love.

But does that love equate to poetry? Typing “waffle” into the Poetry Foundation’s search bar didn’t net me much, so I decided to take a different approach this week. Rather than trying to find classic or well-written poems on the subject, I just went for some fun ones. How about beginning with a poem written by the Waffle House itself (posted on its Facebook page):

“Waffle House” by Waffle House

Waffle House Waffle House
We are home grown

Where the Customer is king
And every booth is a throne

Waffle House Waffle House
Home away from home

Scattered Smothered Covered Diced
The All-Star zone

Waffle House Waffle House
New home of the Toddle House

Come one come all
Bring the whole family out

Waffle House Waffle House
We’re here 24/7

Bert’s Chili, Alice’s Tea
Welcome to heaven

It’s a good thing heaven’s open 24/7 (and during most major natural disasters). But if the waffle house poem doesn’t satisfy your craving for waffle tributes, how about this hilarious entry (it’s long, but trust me, it won’t take long to read):

I Want My Waffles

by QueenDragonLady

I have an Urge for Waffles

Wake up in the morning

Something smells good

It’s just pancakes and eggs

And I’m not in the mood

I want something FUNKY

And weird looking too

I WANT

WAFFLES!

Can’t get enough

WAFFLES!

They taste so yummy

WAFFLES!

They fill my tummy

WAFFLES!

Chocolate chips melting

Smells inviting

Its for breakfast

But WHAT THE HEY!

IT’S DINNER TOO!

And I say…

I have an urge for…

WAFFLES!

Oh so funny

WAFFLES!

They make me happy

WAFFLES!

My one desire

WAFFLES!

I’ll roast over an open fire

I WANT WAFFLES!

Don’t give me a pancake

I’ll just break the plate!

Don’t give me an egg

I’ll just beg!

Don’t give me cereal

Yea I’m for real!

JUST GIVE ME…

WAFFLES!

OH THEY TASTE SO GOOD!

I JUST WANNA BITE!

C’MON JUST ONE LITTLE BITE!

DON’T LEAVE ME HANGING!

GIVE ME MY…

WAFFLES!

I WANT MY WAFFLES

NO! NOW! I WANT THEM NOW!

GIVE ME MY…

WAFFLES!

~YEA~

ur still reading this? Go make my waffles!

No! Make them now!

Yes now! Did I stutter?

I WANT WAFFLES!

Well, I think that pretty much sums up most people’s opinions on waffles. So what are you waiting for! Go get some! And perhaps use them as inspiration for your own creative waffle poetry.

If I ever visit Brussels, I’m going to this place.

Obscure Holidays: Near Miss Day, March 23

In this installment of Obscure Holidays, I present to you “Near Miss Day,” today on March 23rd. Apparently, this day was established to celebrate March 23rd, 1989, when an asteroid the size of a mountain just barely slipped past earth, passing within 500,000 miles of the planet. This holiday seems especially relevant, as some of you might remember the asteroid in mid-February that passed within 17,200 miles of earth. So in actuality, it seems this recent asteroid probably deserves its own holiday more than the old one, but ah well–for now, we’ll go with March 23rd.

It wasn’t an easy task to find a fitting poem for this particular day, but I think I found one that’s appropriate enough. It’s called “The Age of Dinosaurs” by James Scruton, and it’s a fairly recent poem (2001) I discovered on the Poetry Foundation’s website. It might not be about asteroids per se, but it’s close enough, and I quite like the poem anyway:

***

The Age of Dinosaurs

by James Scruton

***

There are, of course, theories

about the wide-eyed, drop-jawed

fascination children have for them,

about how, before he’s learned

his own phone number or address,

a five-year-old can carry

like a few small stones

the Latin tonnage of those names,

the prefixes and preferences

for leaf or meat.

***

My son recites the syllables

I stumble over now,

sets up figures as I did

years ago in his prehistory.

Here is the green ski slope

of a brontosaur’s back,

there a triceratops in full

gladiator gear. From the arm

of a chair a pterodactyl

surveys the dark primeval carpet.

***

Each has disappeared from time

to time, excavated finally

from beneath a cabinet

or the sofa cushions, only

to be buried again among its kind

in the deep toy chest,

the closed lid snug as earth.

The next time they’re brought out

to roam the living room

another bone’s been found

***

somewhere, a tooth or fragment

of an eggshell dusted off,

brushing away some long-held notion

about their life-span

or intelligence, warm blood

or cold. On the floor

they face off as if debating

the latest find, what part

of which one of them

has been discovered this time.

***

Or else they stand abreast

in one long row, side

by scaly side, waiting to fall

like dominoes, my son’s

tossed tennis ball a neon yellow

asteroid, his shadow a dark cloud

when he stands, his fervor for them

cooling so slowly he can’t feel it—

the speed of glaciers, maybe,

how one age slides into the next.

With all this talk of asteroids, I’d suggest getting in some poetry reading while you still can. After all, you never know when a giant flaming rock might cut your reading days short. Although recently, I’ve heard talk of scientists trying to find new ways to deflect asteroids, like with laser beams and whatnot…I wonder if any of that stuff would actually work out? Anyway, if you wanna hear a funny song about dinosaurs/asteroids, check this one out on youtube.

I had to put this here.