surrounds my skin indian summer warm nights still

indian summer ready already fall fallen and air warm warmer so still

--to wait and yet hold every whisper when darkness falls leaves warm to cool fall short shortness of breath to breathe too hot to think of it all now in the midst first last in medias res touch of indian summer endures as darkness comes to air too warm to notice notice notice holds us here and will endure whisper every hold yet and wait to--

stop stopped

breathless knocked-- [closed door] no answer.

[six words]

more of this poem here on:

chandeliers 

on the 

floor 

six+ words: chantal

photo credit: chantal 

pictured house painting: third-grade student

pictured polished fingernail: abby :)

chance for the unlucky

i'll take my chance

and stirring in strong coffee eyes--

is chance, you

're my chance.

and as you know but never 'know'
in french chance means luck.




[so at least we've got that]

the many instructions on how to be josie

my students are starting their own blogs!!!! i'm not only excited but laughing and smiling out loud as i read them. here i introduce you to the many instructions on how to be josie by one of my 11 year old students who has more projects going on at once than i do! and this is one of them. an in-depth character study, josie leos, is she real or fictional? or both? or does it matter... with almost daily updates (whenever the computer is working..) posts on what it's like to be the new girl at a charter school, and josie's unique view of the world. complete with a daily haiku update, funny real-life quotes captured along the way, and beautiful poetry and short stories that this young but extremely wise wordsmith produces with ease and grace. check it out once in a while now that it's up and running, sure wish i'd done something like this when i was 11. josie could give us all some instructions....

HERE'S A PREVIEW:

ABOUT ME.

I am josie and if you already have not noticed my favorite color is orange. i am eleven and i go to my famous middle school that i am and will write about. this blog was started because of my splendid, stupendous, remarkeble, dazzling,and wonderes writing teacher LARISSA TALE who says that i need to tell someone besides her about EVRYTHING so read my blog you must read my blog(transiylvanian accent)

THIS GIRL KNOWS HOW TO TITLE HER STORIES!! 

with post titles like:

ballet, beatrix potter, and bad squash

and:

BALLET (again), BOARDS YOU JUMP OFF, BEING PRINCESS PEACH, (plus writing a speech but that does not start with B)

!!!

a daily haiku:

DIVING BOARD

see the water below

like a bird in the sky

splash in the water 




GO CHECK OUT THE MANY INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO BE JOSIE!!!

artwork: angee
writing: josie leos
tying it all together: chantal (aka larissa tale? that, you'll have to figure out for yourself!)

el view

"Nonsense wakes up the brain cells. 

And it helps develop a sense of humor, 

which is awfully important in this day and age. 

Humor has a tremendous place in this sordid world. 

It's more than just a matter of laughing. 

If you can see things out of whack, 

then you can see how things can be 
in whack."

[Dr. Seuss]

photo credit : chantal

all--

so write on the world's stage 

[six words]

photo credit : chantal

second

         


           still 

   remember last 


         august 
             turned 
   september 

          [six words]

photo credit : chantal

how did it-- where did the-- ?

"to live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else"
e m i l y  
d i c k i n s o n

photo credit: chantal

but in a break

breaks underfoot
moment comes over
birds fly
together
loneliness escapes
at a stoplight gaze
across from--
peace of--
piece of--
mind--
art--
forms
glides
disperses
turns around
all in the dance
back
forward
together
soar again
unison
find
that place
in place
never looks
like what you-- thought
it-- would
when-- you-- first started--
to break

please use a coaster

used to be the roller coaster now we simply coast, coasters holding tight letting go hands up it's not in them anyway never was after all down hill up hill screaming round holding breath side-to-side, only 'bout a minute and a half can feel like years can feel like it was meant to be, then walk away... side-by-side 

and the noise and quiet lights still shine on waves that crash in the ocean under the boardwalk rides on rough tides on silent shores and sure unsure and still always return and crash sinking feeling of certainty inexplicable depth perpetual rhythms after a while you don't hear them anymore even in the shell you held with faith or didn't, they simply become you, become a part of you and your footsteps and any given day and rock you to the core, ya they do that too--

and rhythms strong and gentle hold on tight in any event that comes with the next crashing wave that pulls away and coasts this minute and a half, on the coast

words and photos c by c

over the edge. water under the--

"the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop"
jack kerouac

over the edge.
water under the--

[sixwords]

and photo 

c by chantal

scene

it is. he was right, 

" all the world's a stage... "

caught in the act 
but by a few, 

most walk on and along 

consuming without question
thought-- 

second thought-- what's made us watch us 
perform so-- 

from behind big sunglasses no reflection glitter on bright 
screens starred envisioned watching the time forgot to look 

and to think-- 

but what's the purpose-- 
question-- so on 
and on... 
so and so and 

speaking, flashing, posing, speaking
lines when prompted 
and on 

and on and -- line -- 

and on 
and on 

and off consumed 

oft it is... 

he was right

ps....

yes that's right i just remembered... i have a blog!!! ha! wow, funny how that slipped my mind. in fact, i have two blogs, well, more than two.. i better catch up. 

'all the world's a stage' is the theme of the summer writing workshops that i'm doing with the kids, but it has also been the way the world has been playing before me in recent months, the way in which things have appeared to me... from behind my sunglasses (and i do believe i'm borrowing the phrase 'from behind my sunglasses' from one of my student writers! isn't that an awesome sentence?!!) authenticity is nearly impossible to grasp-- there's so very little of it... at best i put on my sunglasses and search for what little of it remains within myself... and on and on-- through-- beyond-- and behind-- all the staged and the stages...

x c

words and photos c by chantal

every day, fathers

"fathers are always asking kids 

what do they want to be when they grow up 

because they are still looking for ideas."

--jack benny

any day captures every day fathers [six words]

x c

photo and six words: chantal

crossing the path.. on the path

One of my 4^th grade students wrote this poem. I’m sure it doesn’t take much to figure out who inspired the title character. The kids seem to think I wear a lot of black... and the funny thing is, I’ve added a lot of color into my wardrobe lately. Well anyway, this girl is precious, and quite the humorist, with this eye on the world and a writing style that conveys -- the sort of 'have to read it to know it stuff' that will continue to charm us all, I’m certain, for years to come.

Chantal the Black Cat

Chantal the black cat

is waiting slow, steady,

strong, just waiting

until pounce spring

in the air, very clever

very fast very curious

until, smack-on the ground

she missed the big

feast....

walking past on sidewalks this iris

longestlook 

what'sstaringbackat 

youinyoufluttersdespite 

yearsorcommoncircumstanceflips--

words on an evening warm that--

to read such words this golden evening in the hopes that you will appear




[six words] +

six words with a sharpie

stain the poetry of this day
[six words]

above chaotic

   

chaotic below-- from the,

B E A T S in my head.

writing                above--

                      [within]

               on-- 

                the rooftops 

writing

                         --from the, 

and the-- 

B E A T S in my head.

ps i'm just just just [with emphasis on just] starting another blog, without any thought of abandoning this one, it was simply a whim as i was caught up all night with a migraine, and as i'm discovering in further [and very interesting] migraine research [check out the writer/migraineur siri hustvedt this is just one link to many of her fascinating blogs, books, interviews etc..], anyway, apparently and as i'd always seemed to find along the way.. the migraine brain can actually lead you on wonderful [albeit painful] discoveries so in the middle of the night i felt like discovering in myself, a new blog..... and, well, nevertheless, it's here: a red ballon caught in branches and together we'll see what becomes of it.

x c

april is the cruellest month-

The Waste Land  

1922

'Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi

in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα

τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω.'

For Ezra Pound

il miglior fabbro.

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar kine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;


I will show you fear in a handful of dust. ...

T.S. Eliot 

photos : by c : chantal

syllables lend wings swings to hours

birds [morningnight] fly


darkness bring sun hide in light


you--  [mid]  i--  found  [flight]  ----


[haiku]


  

   

[haiku]
and [photos] 

: c by : 

chantal

x c

flickr

haiku and poetry blog

from the cover of the big BURSTING issue....

just another comic from the 12-page newspaper the kids and i published yesterday... wow this one took a long time to put together by hand, i was up for days, but totally worth it. more on this later... as we're now in the midst of a special edition for this thursday..... let's just say it's a hilarious work of pure newspaper fiction, and we wrote the entire thing in three hours yesterday, i've never seen anything like it, it was the most hard-working, entertaining and dedicated group of 9, 10, 11 year old newspaperists (and abby of course) that i could have ever asked for. now it's up to me to get the madness in order for thursday. 

comical stuff to come. x c

[photo by me, of course, of the front cover]

six inescapable magnetic words resonate- imaging-

        MRI 
                
                           TECHNO 


    B E A T S
          

                            in
  
     my 


             h e a d 

six inescapable magnetic words resonate- imaging-

tightrope [don't forget]

  tightrope
        

        strings around
                       my finger


walking conviction
                          
                                 to not forget

      treading softly

               meet you in the middle

               on the other side
                    would you--
                        
      
         holding on
                                        still
                                              
                                      
                  tightrope

SONNET XVII [NERUDA]

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.


I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving


but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

[Pablo Neruda]

by any other name---

these past two weeks i've been helping one of my students write an essay on helen keller. i've been really inspired as well. both of us have been inspired. writing on and off the essay topic, inspired by the persistence, the strength and the courage of helen keller and the details that surround us, those that we walk past and never notice, and the ones we stop and think about with respect to helen.

we were taking notice of the small details around us -- sight -- sound -- words spoken -- songs -- laughter -- rain -- conversation -- shadows -- with new eyes we saw the sounds and heard the words. the other day at the cafe where we meet i told her just to take a few minutes, look around, and see what was there. next thing i knew, i tried to talk to her and she held up her hand, mumbling something to indicate that i shouldn't bother her. she was very busy scribbling something down. "oooh you're gonna loooove this" she squealed with delight as she was writing. in about three minutes, the 11-year-old girl who came to work with me in september and told me proudly "i hate writing" had written this poem:

What Helen Should Have

the sun on a rainy day,

people in the café,

a look in a good book,

the way the cloud sway,

that’s what i see today. 

then we were on the phone this afternoon finishing up her essay that's due tomorrow and we --sidetracked momentarily-- were discussing the performance of the school play willy wonka and the chocolate factory that she was in last night. she started counting for me, the number of roses she received after the performance,"i got a lot of red ones... and some pink... and-- "

i heard her telling me the colors of the roses, yet underneath, my mind wondered as it was already composing this next bit that i've now finished writing below......




the roses as helen knew, as i hold them in mind.

they were never yellow, never red, nor pink, purple, white or speckled. they were r-o-s-e-s spelled in hand. they were never admired from afar, or on the kitchen table, never seen from the window. they were touched, learned from fingertips and palms, yet as far as i can see...

the smell was as sweet, perhaps sweeter, but more dangerous to the touch-- causing pain without warning, a disguise, enticed, by the pleasing scent above the stem... nature's silent way, to illustrate for helen, to warn, that nothing sweet can be held, can touch without moments of unexpected pain t-h-o-r-n soft petals at fingertips release with the breath of dusk into helen's trusting palm p-e-t-a-l. under her bare feet on the grass, the rose petals tickle helen with secrets as they fall one-by-one but she doesn't notice as the petals fall from her rose, from her fingers to the ground and touch her feet and the toes that hide in between blades of grass, never knowing a color of greenest green, or yellow petals at her feet.

the fragrant petals just fallen in the air faint perfume lingers in her nose, in her fingers that believe they will once again reach out and grasp-- and bring light to her face. she reaches once more, not knowing that what was once there will never be, has fallen at her feet, and thus believing and trusting--  the prick on her finger from the thorn of what remains from the beauty of what was once, of what was just-- of what was lost-- aches, unexpected blood unseen, and sudden movement away from uncertainty, the blood-stained finger and her hand brushes past the bush where red roses grow and the scent turns her head familiar, new, and knowing now, and trying once more. reaching higher this time with experience, for if one reaches higher, with more caution, perhaps the soft scented object of desire will come into hand, gently reaching with certainty-- seen or unseen-- pain will be avoided, not forever, but in this moment.

and not knowing the richness of the iridescent crimson glimpse of that red r-o-s-e she gently caresses in her palm, she knows. bringing her nose, her eyes, her lips, to the open petals that welcome her; and no one hears her laughter, but her laughter, and roses, fragrant vibrations fill the air, and roses are experienced, not seen, their colors are touched, embraced, fallen and held, never peach or violet, crimson or yellow. delicate p-e-t-a-l-s blush with fragrance. laughter paints the roses colors vivid as your presence, feel them bloom in season-- in turn-- in pain-- in palm-- in faith-- unseen lessons love tangible in essence unexpected detail the r-o-s-e as sweet, by any other name---




chantal--raquel--helen

silence

  

                on          the                                   line
 [drying  in  the   sun]   [swaying    in   the breeze]
    
           ROCK                  in
sheet          music          tune
                               words                  RUFFLED.
                                                  silence



      silence

entr'acte

yes the curtain's been

closed between the acts i'll play

in tune for you words

photo : carla coulson