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Posts Tagged ‘Louisiana’

Serenity

  Join the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge.

Join the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge.

NCTE Presentation Flier

Anticipation is building for the 2014 NCTE Convention. I’ve gotten the catalog and my badge. My bag is waiting to be packed. And I have laryngitis. Yes, you heard me. I am nursing it with hot tea and rest. I hope I will have a voice by Thursday when I accept the Donald Graves Award and on Friday when I present with my friends from the National Writing Project Professional Writing Retreat. If you are there, I’d love to meet you. The Two Writing Teachers Blog writers are having a Slicers dinner on Saturday night. I look forward to meeting many fellow bloggers there.

Sunset at Lake Martin, Breaux Bridge, LA.

Sunset at Lake Martin, Breaux Bridge, LA.

This weekend a group from our church went on a canoe trip on Lake Martin. Lake Martin is a beautiful wildlife preserve where cypress woods grow and birds nest. We even saw two bald eagles high in matching trees. It was an overcast cool day around 54 degrees, but welcomed with no mosquitoes or humidity.

We paddled around the lake to the edge of the bird sanctuary where white ibis were nesting. Thousands dotted the trees with snow white wings. When we got close enough to see them, they took off. I made a quick video of this (It’s a bit shaky; I was in a canoe.) In the background you can hear my husband explaining the Cajun French word for Ibis, “bec croche,” means crooked beak.

On the road to Lake Martin, we passed a burning cane field. The field of sugarcane is traditionally burned before harvesting to make it easier to transport. There is controversy over whether this is harmful to the environment. To me, it is the scent of fall, smokey and sweet. Take a moment to listen to the burning of the cane field.

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Slice of Life Day 25.  Join the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge.

Slice of Life Day 25. Join the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge.

yellow top, butterweed

Driving down the road,
I stop to praise the wildflowers
guarding the gully
like yellow-billed soldiers.

I praise your sensible size,
clustered in God’s bouquet,
open to the arrival of bees,
spreading the wings of spring.

Your beauty is the first swamp color,
popping up in winter’s wake.
A glorious butterweed ribbon
unbounded, blowing in the fresh breeze.

Even with your death, you feed us,
such is the circle of life,
from compost to crawfish,
trapped, boiled, and Cayenne-peppered,
just in time for Good Friday Feasts.

–Margaret Simon

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Poetry Friday is here today!  Post links in the comments!

Poetry Friday is here today! Post links in the comments!

This summer I have been participating in Tabatha Yeats’ Poem Swap. In writing a poem a week, I have been discovering threads in my writing. I love nature, not to be confused with a love of gardening. But I often look to nature for my poetry wisdom. I recently sent a group of poems to a contest. I titled the group “Among the Oaks.” When I walk in my neighborhood, I look to nature for inspiration, everything from the water of the bayou to the birds in the trees, and, of course, the trees themselves. When Tabatha sent me my 4th name, I was thinking, “OK, this time I will write something for that person.” But the poem turned out to be another nature poem. I give up. This is where my pen wants to move, so I will follow it.

A poet friend once told me, “Write a poem every week and by the end of the year, you have 52 poems. A whole manuscript!” I have not put together a whole manuscript of poems. I’m frankly scared to think about it. Perhaps I can follow this nature thread to a whole book? Then I fear the inspiration will end. Hah, you thought you knew what you were doing. Nope, not yet.

I have gotten so much inspiration and encouragement from this Poetry Friday community. We seem to have unwritten rules of respect and appreciation. Since many of you will stop in today to link up, I just wanted to thank you. Thanks for reading, commenting, encouraging, and being a lover of poetry.

Neighborhood Oaks photo collage by Margaret Simon

Neighborhood Oaks photo collage by Margaret Simon

I took these pictures in my neighborhood. It had rained the night before, so the resurrection fern was full and green. The moss was particularly shiny and wiggling in the wind. The title came first, which is seldom the case. It came from a statement my father made about a heron on his dock, “She is queen of all she surveys.” I loved the line and thought how it would apply to the live oak. The poem did not come as easily, and I am still not completely satisfied. It started off much more prose-like. I cut words, moved stanzas around. All this work ended up taking me to the same place a few other poems have this summer, to the idea of the mother, the mother in nature that loves us unconditionally and protects us always.

(I want to thank Tabatha for her suggestion for this poem’s ending. I have made these changes. See what I mean about a supportive and helpful community?)

What threads do you see in your poetry? How do you follow or resist these threads?

She is Queen of all She Surveys

Mother oak stands
for generations,
her long arms
clothed in fern,
open and green.

Here the mockingbird
defends her nest, squawking
at the passing squirrel.
Hanging moss wiggles grey fingers,
tickling the wind.

I want to live here
in her branches
among the birds
nestled in fern,
swaying, free,
still holding on to my mother
with tight fists.

–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

Father Goose is here with light verse poems from the new online Light Quarterly today from his perch in the treehouse at the FATHER GOOSE Blog

Matt has a poem about George.

Myra at Gathering Books continues with her Loss, Heartbreak, and Coming of Age bimonthly theme with Frida Kahlo’s letter to Marty McConnell.

Mary Lee Hahn has a poem about habits at A Year of Reading.

At Random Noodling, Diane Mayr has an illustrated poem that she wrote to send to a Summer Poem Swap partner. Kurious Kitty is looking at snakes today with a poem by Margaret Atwood. KK’s Kwotes has a quote by Frances Clarke Sayers.

Laura Shovan has a tree poem today, too. Hers is told from the point of view of a fifth grader with learning differences. Author Amok

Tara was inspired by an exhibition of Georgia O’Keefe’s leaves at A Teaching Life.

Tabatha Yeats at The Opposite of Indifference is writing about sirens and their irresistible songs.

Liz Steinglass is writing about nature, too, observing herself observing the natural world.

Carol at Carol’s Corner is sharing Bob Raczka’s seasons series and even giving away a book!

Robin Hood Black has an August poem by Albert Garcia.

Today at The Poem Farm, Amy has a small how-to poem and a visit from Margy Grosswendt. She tells about her recent travels to Bosnia where she volunteered in an orphanage and shared creative movement exercises with the children there.

Mandy joins in at Enjoy and Embrace Learning with a Hello original poem.

Steven Withrow has an original poem at Crackles of Speech, Chain Rhyme for Goldilocks.

Violet Nesdoly has a review of a friend’s chapbook, Humble Fare.

Anastasia posted a small poem about a large number of steps.

MM Socks has royalty on the mind with an original poem “Playing King.”

A short poem by Richard Brautigan entitled April 7, 1969 is on the menu at the Florian Cafe.

Semicolon Sherry has some thoughts on the Korean poems called Sijo, and on Linda Sue Park’s book called Tap Dancing on the Roof.

Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe has a reentry poem about the joy of 5-year-olds and a little dip-your-toes-in original.

Keri at Keri Recommends is sharing a poem gift from noodle-icious Diane Mayr for the Summer Poem Swap.

Joy Acey is waving to us from the top of a wavy poem at Poetry for Kids Joy.

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Slice of Life Challenge Day 25

Slice of Life Challenge Day 25

20130323-183650.jpg

This is a clogyrnach, a Welsh poetry form inspired by Paul at birds and trees of the mind. This wisteria blooms each spring outside my bedroom window. I think I write a poem about it every year.

Lavender locks lighten the sky.
In bloom, wisteria curls cry
sweet nectar of tears,
purple popcorn tears.
Bumblebees lick them dry.

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Slice of Life Challenge Day 21

Slice of Life Challenge Day 21

Driving home from school today with spring in the air, I took notice of my little town. Recently, New Iberia was recognized as one of CNN’s American Best Small Town Comebacks.
(If you scroll to the picture of New Iberia Main Street, you can see what very well may be my red Camry turning at the light.)

First Stop: Evangeline Theater, now known as The Sliman with The Bayou Teche Museum on its right. These restored buildings offer places to mingle with friends at a fundraising event or performance and a great field trip destination for students and adults to learn about the history of the area.

Main Street, New Iberia

Main Street, New Iberia

Next Stop: Church Alley, not a pleasing site, yet. A group of young activists have plans to spruce up the place and create a mini-park. This alley historically connected the convent across the bridge to St. Peters Catholic Church. In South Louisiana, towns built up around the church.

Church alley

Church alley

Third Stop: The Essanee Theater, now home to IPAL (Iberia Performing Arts League). On Sunday, I attended the current performance, Man of La Mancha. It was better than Broadway. The final performances are this weekend. You really shouldn’t miss it. New Iberia is home to many talented folks.

Essanee Theater, home to IPAL

Essanee Theater, home to IPAL

Last Stop: A&E Gallery. My friend and colleague, Paul Schexnayder opened this gallery a few years ago. Many artisans have joined to show and sell their work. Paul opens his doors for poetry readings, too. The next poetry night will be Saturday, April 20th at 6:30 featuring Louisiana’s former poet laureate Darrell Bourque whose new book of poetry chronicles the original Cajun people who settled the Acadiana area.

A and E Gallery

A and E Gallery

Each of these places occupies a historical space. You can feel the ancestors speaking to you. You can hear their words, “Welcome Home.”

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Slice of Life Challenge Day 18

Slice of Life Challenge Day 18


One year old alligators wait to be tossed into the wild swamp.

One year old alligators wait to be tossed into the wild swamp.

When you live in South Louisiana, you have to get used to eating crawfish (love them!) and boudin (haven’t developed a taste for this one.) We live near bayous, not rivers. We dance to Cajun and Zydeco music. And we wrestle with alligators! Not really. In fact, I’ve lived on the Bayou Teche for more than 8 years, and I have not seen one anywhere close to our yard. Nevertheless, the alligator is an important and sometimes frightful reptile around here.

When I was scrolling through Facebook yesterday, I enjoyed the pictures and video of one of my daughter’s friends, Lizzy. She and her mom had gone out that morning to a rice farm near Abbeville to help release baby alligators back into the wild. The farmers harvest the eggs and incubate them. In the spring, they hatch them. I recall years ago when these same farmers showed up in the parking lot of our school hauling crates of dead grass. When the crates were opened, we could see soft white eggs popping up from the grass bed. When the farmer handed an egg to a student, he instructed them to rub the eggs and the tiny alligator began to emerge. The stimulation helped them hatch out of the egg. Of course, in the wild, the momma gator rubs her eggs when the time comes. The kids were so thrilled to be hatching the little gators. I even did it, as scared as I am of reptiles.

The first gator to be tossed.  Behind notice all the bags.  Each holds 1-2 baby alligators.

The first gator to be tossed. Behind notice all the bags. Each holds 1-2 baby alligators.

Lizzy and her mom, Lisa were invited to help release some of the baby alligators that were hatched last year. They were tossing them into the swamp. According to Lizzy, the eggs had been harvested, incubated, and hatched a year ago. Because of the policies of Wildlife and Fisheries, a percentage of the hatch has to be returned to the wild. This is the way they do it. A grand celebration of lively gator tossing.

From Lizzy: ” It was fun to handle baby alligators (in a safe environment with skilled professionals). It was a bit scary when the animals wiggled around (I am a person who does not like the company of snakes because of their serpentine movements) since the motion is a bit creepy to me. I often forgot that their mouths were banded (before we tossed them), so when I would grab them from the sack/ground, my natural reaction was always to flinch each time the alligator lifted its head in defense. Overall, it was a lively and entertaining experience.”

This video shows Lizzy’s mom, Lisa, tossing a gator.

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Read other Slice of Life writers at The Two Writing Teachers

With all the stuff going on right now, there is no way I can make this Slice of Life post about one subject. Today, my head is spinning like the Tropical Storm/ Hurricane Isaac out in the Gulf ready to strike our state. Once again, we are in the path. We prepare by unplugging technology and putting trash bags over our classroom computers. We buy food and gas. We check with our relatives. As of this moment, my daughter in New Orleans has decided to stay. Hopefully, by the time you read this, she will be on her way home. For those of you outside of LA, we live in the arch of the boot two or so hours west of New Orleans. We will get wind and rain, lose some tree limbs, and the bayou will rise in the backyard. But our house is a fortress with a trusted generator named Sparky. We will be fine!

An afternoon chat with Coach Rhoades.


The other spin in my head is the sudden death of a friend, fellow teacher, Coach Brian Rhoades. Brian and his wife Eileen attended my book signing on Saturday night. They were all about supporting me in my new project. They talked to me about me, and now, Brian is gone. Shocked and sad, my heart goes out to Eileen, their children and grandchildren, and all of ESA’s faculty and students. He will be remembered for his kindness, humor, and love. What a terrible loss!

I was literally spinning Sunday night as Jeff and I attended the Lache Pas, a fundraiser for CODOFIL (Council for the Development oF French in Louisiana). What a huge success! The state funding for CODOFIL was cut by our governor by $100,000. So what does an Acadian community do? Have a party! We listened to Cajun jokes, danced the two-step and jitterbug to amazing bands, and ate fresh summer salad from Saint Street Inn. One thing that we love about our culture is the diversity. You have all kinds of people dancing with all kinds of people. I took a video that shows two little boys twirling around to the music.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PePv-bKFI2o&feature=youtu.be

So spinning I go into a hurricane remembering the kind smile of Coach Rhoades and the fine fun people of Acadiana who support our unique culture. No hurricane, especially Isaac, can destroy the strength of the people in Louisiana.

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My dream of publishing for young readers is getting closer to reality.  The book cover is ready.  The manuscript is at the printers.  I am anxiously awaiting the proof.  What a great new adventure!  In anticipation of the book release, I decided to introduce you to Blessen.  Here is Chapter One: Blue.

Blue is cackling something awful this morning. That’s how she tells me she laid an egg. I flip-flop down the concrete steps from the trailer backdoor jingling the matching gold bracelets, full set of three that I got yesterday at the Family Dollar.

I’m sure Blue can hear me coming, and I call out to her, “Blue! Bluey!” My voice rises up to a high pitch. She knows it’s me.

“Bock, bbb bock!” She starts her cackling again.

Momma says she cackles when she’s cursing. She says if laying eggs is anything like giving birth, then Blue is cursing out loud. I say she is rejoicing.

I walk toward the coop. I’m still small enough to be able to walk in and stand. I push the straw under my big feathery hen, and sure enough, I find a small tan egg under her thick breast. I hold the egg up to her close, so she can see the fruit of her labor. She smiles at me her chicken smile, cocks her head, and gurgles proud.

Blue has been my chicken ever since the New Iberia Sugarcane Festival last fall. She was my first place prize for 4th and 5th grade division 4-H. I grew the sweetest sugarcane right in my own backyard. The judges told me my new hen was called Blue Cochin, but I just call her Blue for short. It was love at first sight, I must say. She knows my heart. She knows when I’m happy and when I’m sad. I know she’s wise ‘cause she’s what they call a thoroughbred hen.

“Momma’s in a foul mood today,” I tell Blue in confidence. “She told me I had no business wearing this tiny t. She says I out-grew it last summer. Why was I keepin’ it around? I told her it was my favorite, and it is, even though it shows my belly button. I kinda like bein’ able to see my belly button. It’s a fine belly, don’t you think?” Blue just nods her head at me, agreeing.

“Blessen? You come back in and finish this mess of a breakfast you made. What you thinkin’ puttin’ sugar all over your buttered toast? You made a mess in here. Your teeth are gonna rot out for sure.” Momma calls out from the back window.

I pull Blue out of her roosting spot, cuddle her close like I’m holding a precious baby, and smile into her beady black eyes.

“How do my teeth look to you?” I show all my pure white teeth in a wide grin. “I don’t think Momma knows what she’s yappin’ about.”

Blessen is the name Momma gave me when I was born. It’s not a nickname like some people think. It’s from the Bible, Genesis:

 And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing.

Momma changed the spelling because I am special. Blessen LaFleur, that’s me.

I don’t know who my father is. Momma says he was the fertilizer. I imagine a knight in shining armor on a white horse lowering his golden sword over my momma’s belly and poof! I was created. Some people say he must’ve been an African American man ‘cause my skin’s so dark compared to my momma who is pure white like the Gardenia she is named for. My hair is thick and curly-brown while hers is fine and blond. The last time I asked Momma why my skin was so dark, she said, “That’s how God made you, Blessen.” I don’t ask her anymore.

I have a dream that a man comes to the door, standing tall, but silhouetted. All I see is a wide bright smile. Momma turns and runs into his arms.

Momma says we are enough, the three of us, but I can’t help but wonder who my daddy is and why he left me.

We live on True Friend Road in St. Martinville, Louisiana. My Pawpee’s old house faces the street. He built that house with his own two hands. Momma says it’s falling to ruin. The last hurricane sent a water oak through the roof. With the FEMA money, Momma got a trailer. That’s where we all live now—me, Momma, and Pawpee.

From where I stand next to the chicken coop, I can see Pawpee’s old house and the two rows of crape myrtles in full bloom lining the gravel driveway. Pawpee still trims those trees every fall with a cherry picker from his wheelchair. He says he’s topping the trees to make the blossoms fan out like a fiery bouquet. Pawpee’s quite proud of his trimming skills.

I chase Blue a little around the chicken yard, give her a little hug, and then flip-flop back to the trailer to meet the disapproval of my momma.

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Here down South in Bayou country, we like our Zydeco.  Today at Vermilionville, we danced the two-step and jitterbug to a new band Curley Taylor and Zydeco Trouble.  What a treat to see a young boy playing the washboard (or rub-board) like the music was in his soul and had to come out.  I stopped his young mother to ask her if I could video him.  Looking proud, she told me Cam’ron is six-years-old, her first cousin is Curley, and Cam’ron has already been on the front page of The Times.  (I think she meant The Times of Acadiana.)  Cam’ron is heading for fame!

Zydeco literally means in Cajun French, leh-zy-dee-co sohn pah salay, “the beans have no salt.”  Made popular by the legendary “King of Zydeco” Clifton Chenier, the combination of Cajun, Creole, R&B, jazz, and blues sound includes an upbeat rhythm played traditionally on an accordion and a washboard.

When I asked Cam’ron’s mother if he was learning to play the accordion, she said, “He’s been pullin’ some.”

Today, we decided that a little trouble can be a good thing.

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Slice of Life Day 7
I have been writing with a small group of students after school once a week. Today I told them about the Slice of Life Challenge and said that one of them would be the guest blogger for today. But they all did a nice job with the exercise, so they will all be featured. We looked at Chinese poets for inspiration. Chinese poets observed nature and contemplated deeper meanings. Each student chose a poet to emulate. This is like an artist copying a master. What occurs is magic. Following the path of a master, the student writes about his own true place and a beautiful poem appears.

Darby’s Fisherman after Oh Yang Hsio
Sitting on the still bayou, watching
the water, observing. Waiting for the right spot
to cast your long silk thread. It appears
and you cast. You wait patiently and silently.
A gentle wind moves your thread
like a silver snake waiting for the right time
to attack. Until an unlucky fish falls
into your trap and is whisked out of the water.
Your prey has been captured.

Isabell’s A Cajun Shack after Tu Fu

A Cajun shack
along the dirty bayou water
near a rusted gate that opens
to a road full of tall grass.

Moss grows over the swamp while
he drags into his gator hunting clothes,
cypress trees sway.

The man comes up while
a gator goes back into the water.

Grace’s Gator Huntin‘ after OU Yang Hsiu

The gator shakes the line
trying to unhook itself.
In the marsh grass
where he lives. He is
invisible as he swim around
in the murky water.
He is shaking so hard he doesn’t see
Troy and Liz come upon him
with a gun ready
to turn him into a pair
of boots.

Patrick’s Nightfall after Tu Fu

Nightfall. I return from a journey
along the Pelican’s Trail. The marshes
are black. Everyone is at home
asleep. The Great Coon descends
to the swamp. Overhead the stars
are huge in the sky. When
I light the lamps, a frightened bird
cries out in the moss. I hear the
white-haired watchman on his round,
calling out the hour. Gun in hand, he
keeps guard and all is safe.

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