Welcome to the New Year by Eleanor Farjeon

Welcome to the New Year
by Eleanor Farjeon

Hey, my lad, ho, my lad!
    Here's a New Broom.
Heaven's your housetop
    And Earth is your room.
 Tuck up your shirtsleeves,
    There's plenty to do-
Look at the muddle
    That's waiting for you! Dust in the corners
    And dirt on the floor,
Cobwebs still clinging
    To window and door. Hey, my lad! ho, my lad!
    Nimble and keen-
Here's your New Broom, my lad!
    See you sweep clean.

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Sylvia Vardell has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Poetry for Children.

 

NOTE: Be sure to check out Sylvia's 2019 Sneak Peek Poetry List! 

 

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HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!



Two Christmas Poems

 

IN THE WEEK WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES

By Eleanor Farjeon

 

This is the week when Christmas comes,
     Let every pudding burst with plums,
And every tree bear dolls and drums,
     In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every hall have boughs of green,
With berries glowing in between,
     In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every doorstep have a song
Sounding the dark street along,
     In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every steeple ring a bell
With a joyful tale to tell,
     In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every night put forth a star
To show us where the heavens are,
     In the week when Christmas comes.

Let every pen enfold a lamb
Sleeping warm beside its dam,
     In the week when Christmas comes.

This is the week when Christmas comes.

 

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[little tree]                                            

By E. E. Cummings

 

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly
 

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid
 

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel"

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Buffy Silverman has the Poetry Friday Roundup this week.

        

 

When the Year Grows Old by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I've selected a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay titled When the Years Grows Old to post today.

When the Year Grows Old

Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950

I cannot but remember
  When the year grows old—
October—November—
  How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
  Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
  With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
  Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
  Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
  That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
  Sitting in a net!

Click here to read the rest of the poem.

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Sorry that I haven't been posting more frequently. I've been reading and evaluating lots of books as I am one of three judges for the 2019 Margaret Wise Brown Prize in Children's Literature--along with E.B. Lewis and Laura McGee Kvasnosky--and a first round judge for the Cybils Poetry Award.

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You'll find the Poetry Friday Roundup at Carol's Corner today.

WHEN I GET ANGRY: An Original Poem

 

Some time ago, I got an idea for a collection of poems titled The Animal in Me. In the poems, children would imagine themselves to be like certain animals at times depending on how they felt. For example, an angry child might feel like he/she was a grizzly bear--or a child being sent to his/her room as punishment might feel like a big cat trapped in a cage. The collection never went too far. Here is one of the poems from it.

 

WHEN I GET ANGRY

 

When I get angry, I’m a bear…

A grizzly bear

With coarse brown hair

And teeth that tear.

You best beware!

 

When I get angry,

I clench my paws

And snap my jaws.

I prowl and growl

Around my room

And fuss and fume

And stomp the floor

And slam my door…

 

Till

I’m not angry anymore.

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Laura Purdie Salas has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Writing the World for Kids.

http://laurasalas.com/poems-for-teachers/sacred-land-poetry-friday-roundup/

 

SAVING SUMMER: A Memoir Poem

Anna (Chalupka) Koziski

Today, I'm sharing a memoir poem about my maternal grandmother. She and my grandfather were Polish immigrants who came to America in the early part of the 20th century. Like many immigrants who were peasants, they had a garden and fruit trees and grew much of their own food. Years ago, a childhood image of my Babci preserving tomatoes inspired the following poem:

SAVING SUMMER

In the cellar

Babci sits on an old kitchen chair

made new with glossy gray paint.

Wearing an apron blooming with faded flowers,

she leans over the tub of steaming water,

plucks out plump tomatoes,

and peels off the wet, papery skins.

She fills shiny jars with soft red pulp,

stretches on rubber sealers,

presses down moon-round lids,

clicks closed the metal clamps.

She places the jars in a wire basket

and lowers them into a pot of bubbling water to cook.

On wooden shelves in a corner

she stores stewed tomatoes beside rows of pickled beets,

golden peach slices, green piccalilli,

and carrots the color of October pumpkins.

Standing there in late afternoon,

sunlight shining through a small side window,

I see her harvest preserved:

a rainbow glistening in glass.

Babci is keeping summer alive in jars.



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Carol has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Beyond Literacy Link.