In honor of Jack Prelutsky’s 72nd birthday tomorrow, I’m serving up a few sample poems from his latest collection, I’ve Lost My Hippopotamus (Greenwillow, 2012), which is brimming with 100+ chewy, crunchy, wacky, hilarious mostly animalish examples of vintage Prelutsky word-play, portmanteaux, and cheeky invites to experience a world where imagination reigns supreme.
Though I was quite taken with, “My Weasels Have the Measles,” could easily identify with the narrator of, “I Cannot Sleep a Wink Tonight,” wouldn’t mind meeting the “Wiguanas,” and am totally convinced Prelutsky used me as the model for “Especially Serious Sam,” guess which poems I like the best?
I think, to a poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and love of the other birds. (Sharon Olds)
dum dee dum
Good Morning, Good Morning!
Breakfast is Served.
Welcome to Poetry Friday at Alphabet Soup!
Please help yourself to some freshly brewed Kona coffee and a warm blueberry scone. Since you’ll be dashing from blog to blog today to savor all the poetic goodness being served up in the blogosphere, you’ll need a magic footed coffee cup.
Honestly, what would writers do without their favorite high octane java and choice of sweet? It’s no small coincidence that so many bestsellers are written in coffee shops. Sip, chew, type. Ponder, swallow, savor. A bite of inspiration for the taking.
To the Coffee Shop by Andrea Potos
Praise to the early risers who unlock the doors at 4 a.m., create lemon blueberry crumble, orange raisin scones dunked headfirst in sugar, oatmeal cookies stuffed with cranberries and pecans. Praise to the splash and sizzle on the grill, smells rising from childhood’s deep cache, when you entered the kitchen rubbing your eyes and your father kissed you over the top of his Times, and your big sister looked ridiculous with her milk mustache. Your mother turned to greet you as if you alone were the sun while eggs burbled in her pan — praise to the succulent yellow yolks that were not yet broken.
Andrea: I am a devotee of coffee shops, and that’s often where I go to write every morning. (I love sweets, and I love all things baked!) As a child, my favorite breakfast was eggs sunny-side up and toast; there was always something cozy and consoling about such a meal, no matter what else was swirling around me.
***
As you can see, Andrea is my kind of poet! I thank her for allowing me to share her delicious poem with you today. Love “childhood’s deep cache.” *swoon*
Mr. Linky is hot!
Now, please leave your links with Mr. Linky, who’s already had three scones and five cups of coffee (please resist any temptation to actually eat Mr. Linky for breakfast as we need him to help with the Roundup). Don’t forget to enter your name with the title of the poem you’re sharing or book you’re reviewing in parentheses.
So glad you’re joining us — help yourself to another scone before you take off. Don’t worry, your magic coffee cup will follow you wherever you go and refill itself.
“Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June.” ~ Al Bernstein
Hello there, Cutie Pies.
Happy June! We’re kicking off the summer with some sweet strawberry love.
There’s nothing more beautiful or tempting than a bowl of juicy, fragrant berries. You do like them, don’t you? Strawberry lovers are considered, “health conscious, fun-loving, intelligent and happy.” Non-lovers = “weird, boring, stuffy — picky eaters who avoid healthy foods.” No, that couldn’t be you.
Love the deep red color and all those tiny seeds — did you know each is actually an ovary and considered a separate fruit?
Last weekend, the mustached one and I braved the heat and humidity to check out the Strawberry Festival in Delaplane, Virginia. What’s a little weird is that Delaplane isn’t in a big strawberry-producing area — they have to import strawberries from California to feed the estimated 10,000 people who attend. I guess if you’re busy going on hayrides, playing field games, listening to music, watching puppet shows, browsing craft tables, checking out the peanut roasting machine and petting farm animals, you can work up a big appetite.
#18 in the Poetry Potluck Series, celebrating National Poetry Month 2012.
Other
We notice each other right away.
We are the only two Asians in the room.
It does not matter that her hair is long.
It does not matter that I am fat.
I look at her like I look in a mirror,
recognizing my self in one quick glance.
In a recent interview at the Teaching Authors blog, April Halprin Wayland referred to Janet Wong as, “a force of nature in the world of children’s poetry.” Forever brimming with ideas, quick to encourage others, and tirelessly evangelizing the reading, writing and sharing of poetry in different forms and formats, Janet is truly beloved by her readers and an ongoing inspiration to her peers.
Often, when reading Janet’s poems, I have to stop for a fist pump, my inner child shouting, “YES!” It’s so good to feel understood, validated and simply human. I love when her humor surprises me, when she takes something small and ordinary and turns it on its side so I can see it from a fresh perspective, and I always appreciate the genuine, authentic voice that proves she really gets it, gets you.
I’ve lived the truth of “Other” countless times. Is it better to feel invisible, or to stick out like a sore thumb, when all you want is to belong and be proud of who you are? I’m glad this poem is there for anyone who’s ever felt like the odd man out.
I’m happy that Janet chose to share another poem from A Suitcase of Seaweed today, since it’s my personal favorite of her poetry collections. With razor sharp perception, she examines some of the differences between Korean and Chinese customs and holds them up to the American way of life. I laughed at “Rice Cooker” because I did the very same thing, and I could just smell those sheets of seaweed and taste that “Beef Bone Soup.” See why I like this book so much?
For now, though, let’s imagine we all have a Chinese grandmother to bake us these cookies. I loved them as a child, but ours came from a Chinese bakery. Lucky Janet!
In 
I’ve lived the truth of “Other” countless times. Is it better to feel invisible, or to stick out like a sore thumb, when all you want is to belong and be proud of who you are? I’m glad this poem is there for anyone who’s ever felt like the odd man out.
Jama's Alphabet Soup 