Six weeks ago, I posted an interview with L.L. Barkat about her most recent book, Rumors of Water. We had a couple of email and comment exchanges in the weeks between my asking her for the interview and my posting it here.

Nice and all, but nothing to prepare me for this: the day after the interview went live, L.L. sent me an email, asking if I’d like to do a little writing for her poetry blog.

I nearly fell off my chair in surprise and glee. Would I like to write for her blog?

Hm. Would I like to win a million dollars? Would I like to have my YA novel published? Would I like to have agents beating down my door begging to represent me?

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I would.

So I am. Every other Thursday, I host the Top Ten Poetic Picks at Tweetspeak Poetry (the other weeks, the deeply thoughtful and often amusing Matthew Kreider hosts). Theoretically, it’s a gleaning of the previous week’s poetry-related news, but we use the term “poetry” quite broadly: I’ve posted about 90-year-old video game inventors, Parisian chefs, Apple’s e-bookstore, and jazz musicians.

My official title is Columnist, but in western parlance that translates to Poetry Roundup Gal: I wrassle the poetry links into a pen and make ‘em look pretty or interesting or what-have-you. Then L.L. opens the gates and sends ‘em out onto the range of the Tweetspeak blog.

Yesterday, it was my turn to host the roundup. Yeehaw! Here are the teasers for a few of the articles that I linked to.

Reviews

For all you poet-mamas and papas out there, this spring brings five new collections of children’s poetry, which look so good I want them all. My library only has two of them (still on order, though I’m first in line to get them when they come in—woot!), so I had to buy the other three books. It’s a rough life, but someone has to support all those poor poets out there.

Creativity

I am not a fan of blank canvases. You know, the ones that hang in museums and claim to be art. I just don’t get them. Then I read this fascinating article about the creativity inherent in Nothingness—a story of dark matter, a blank canvas, art, and poetry. I’m afraid I’m going to have to approach my next blank museum canvas with less hostility and more humility.

Education

This poem claims books make the best education. I agree. I’ve long believed that reading good books makes you smarter and more empathetic. Of course, I was just conjecturing about that whole smarter/kinder thing, but since it’s always helpful to invoke intelligence and empathy to justify the things we enjoy, I embraced the conjecture as absolute truth. New brain research, though, shows that I was right:

[There is] substantial overlap in the brain networks used to understand stories and the networks used to navigate interactions with other individuals — in particular, interactions in which we’re trying to figure out the thoughts and feelings of others. Scientists call this capacity of the brain to construct a map of other people’s intentions “theory of mind.” Narratives offer a unique opportunity to engage this capacity, as we identify with characters’ longings and frustrations, guess at their hidden motives and track their encounters with friends and enemies, neighbors and lovers.

Told you so.

If you’d like to read more of the fabulous stuff I wrangled (an attempt to ban that horrific racist Dante and his magnum opus of virulent hate speech, The Divine Comedy; a make-you-smile book of found smiley faces; and an interview with the chef of the smallest restaurant in Paris, to name just a few), head on over to Tweetspeak and take a look.

And take a look, too, at this beautiful mug I got last week in the mail, with a note that said, “Thanks for joining the Tweetspeak team.”

The painting, by Emily Wierenga, is called “MotherChild.”

I love my new job.

Reading with Rugrats

A few weeks ago, my friend Cathee and her daughter, who is a month older than the twins, came over for dinner. As I chopped onions and sliced mushrooms, I asked her what books Sarah enjoys reading.

She rattled off a handful of books and then said, “Why do you ask?”

Here’s the thing: I read copiously to Jack and Jane when they were the boys’ age.

This photo of a younger Jack cuddled up against a younger me with serious bed head? This was a pretty typical morning several years ago. We called it “books in bed.” We’d often read ten or 20 in a morning, but except for the few dog-eared books we still own, I cannot for the life of me remember the books they loved, let alone all the books we read.

Most of them were either destroyed by that bane of book existence—little children (much to my horror, my kids enjoyed biting or ripping or scribbling in the pages of books)—or else they were speedily despatched by said toddlers’ mother; I swear if I had to read Dig even one more time I would have cast myself into the darkness where there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.

These days, of course, I’m feeling nostalgic and wish I’d kept Dig. I actually miss this rhythmic and quasi-rhyming book about a backhoe, even though I read it so many times that I could say it in my sleep (and on numerous occasions, I did).

As it is, I keep reading the same dozen books to the boys over and over again, and I’m starting to feel about these excellent books the way I felt about Dig.

I need new books.

Enter my conversation with Cathee. The next day, she was kind enough to email me her list of books for the kneehigh set.

Today, I’m stealing from her list, including my own dozenish books (books I really do love if I could just get a day’s break from reading them), and hereby presenting Twenty Top Shelf Books for Toddlers (in no particular order):

A Sick Day for Amos McGee by Philip Stead, illustrated by Erin Stead. One of my favorite recent picture books. Ms. Stead’s illustrations deservedly won last year’s Caldecott. (And she has a new book out this spring!)

The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. Luke loves poking his fingers in the holes in the pages of Callapitter (as Jane still calls it), especially on the page with the sausage, the lollipop, the ice cream cone, the pickle, the slice of swiss cheese…

The Very Busy Spider by Eric Carle. Ben often brings this book to me, just so he can show off his knowledge of the animals. “Ssss,” he says on the cat page; “woof,” on the dog page. He’s clearly a genius.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? by Bill Martin, Jr., illustrated by Eric Carle. This was the first book the boys would sit through, so it has a very special place in my heart.

I Like Colors and I Like Black and White by Barbara Jean Hicks, illustrated by Lila Prap. With bold and delightful illustrations and just two or three words for each double-page spread, these simple rhyming books are perfect for my boys, who find them enthralling reads. Who knew black and white could be so exciting?

Jesse Bear, What Will You Wear? by Nancy White Carlstrom, illustrated by Bruce Degen. I had the privilege of sitting next to Nancy Carlstrom almost eight years ago at a dinner party for our church’s Godly Play volunteers. When I found out she was the Nancy Carlstrom who wrote Jesse Bear, I nearly fell out of my chair, out of my chair in the evening.

Jamberry by Bruce Degen. Get ready for a rollicking good time with berries of all kinds. “Trainberry, trackberry, clickety clackberry…” We love this book.

Clip-Clop by Nicola Smee. A romp of a ride on the back of Mr. Horse inevitably leads to cries of “Faster!” But will faster end in disaster?

Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business by Esphyr Slobodkina. I don’t know what it is about that tall stack of hats that cracks toddlers up, but I think the laugh-factor in this book is inevitable.


Here are Cathee’s picks, along with her comments (except for the notes in parentheses; those are mine):

Go, Dog, Go by P.D. Eastman. (“Do you like my hat?”)

Little Bird’s ABC by Piet Grobler. This is a hoot. Sarah likes it because even though she’s not talking much she can imitate many of the sounds.

Vegetables by Sara Anderson. This is a board book that Sarah has loved for most of her reading life. There’s hardly anything to it—just illustrations of one vegetable per page, and the names of the vegetables make a little rhyme. Sarah loves the bright pictures. There’s also a Fruit book by the same author that I’ve been thinking of getting.

Curious George by Margaret and H.A. Ray. We have a collection of stories, and for the past week I’ve had to read through the whole book multiple times per day. (I suspect Cathee has an abridged version, like this one, of the books, as the collection I found was 300 pages long!)

I Want My Hat Back by Jon Klassen. (I love Jon Klassen’s art, but I wouldn’t have thought to read this to my boys. Cathee said her daughter loved it, so I put it on hold at the library [again; I read it to Jack and Jane when it first came out last fall]. I’m eager to see how the boys respond.)

 

And I would be remiss if I didn’t include our three favorite bedtime books:

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown, illustrated by Clement Hurd (of course)

Time for Bed by Mem Fox, illustrated by Jane Dyer

Ten, Nine, Eight by Molly Bang

Also, I have to put in a good word for my favorite magazine for wee ones: Babybug. I’ve had a subscription since Jack was a baby,so nine times a year I get new reading material: poems, stories, nursery rhymes, all brightly illustrated in a sturdy little square package of a “magazine.”
 

If you have favorite books for your toddlers, please leave a comment and let me know. I could still use more variety in my bored—I mean, board—book diet.

Green Pastures

It’s been a day. Sometimes, it seems like it’s been a whole long string of days, and I am tired.

Jack wants me to come outside and see the hole he’s dug in the back yard and the coal he thinks he’s found. Jane wants me to read her a story. And the twins are fussy and cling to me. If I set either of them down, that one wails.

My ears need a break from the noise, the constant words and cries that drum at me from four directions.

My body needs a break from being a jungle gym and a security blanket.

I inhale and exhale the Jesus Prayer—Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me—and ask Jane to bring me a book, one the babies will enjoy. She brings Psalm 23, gorgeously illustrated by Barry Moser.

Luke squawks while I read. Ben tries to grab the book and eat it. Both grab at the pages. I keep breathing in and out, the Jesus Prayer rolling over and over in my mind—have mercy on me, have mercy on me.

A half hour later, Luke and Ben are in their high chairs, happily (and quietly!) eating Cheerios. Jack and Jane are playing outside.

I squat in front of my laptop, which is on the floor, for a reason I can no longer remember, if in fact I ever knew. While I wait for it to boot, I rest my head on my knees, close my eyes. They ache. Until this moment, when I closed them, let them rest, I did not know that they ached.

I take a long, deep breath. The Lenten questions prick at the edge of my mind: What do I hunger for? What do I thirst for?

I hunger for silence, stillness, rest. Time to simply be.

I thirst for space to reflect and ponder and hagah the word of God.

The Bible memory work I do each day is good. Praying as I go about my daily work is good. Creating a cone of silence around myself so I can think is good.

But sometimes I need to sit and soak in Scripture, not just say it in snatches. Sometimes I need to pray in silence and stillness and not in the midst of some other thing. Sometimes I need real silence, not the zoned-out cone I am able to create in the midst of chaos.

As I sit on the floor, my head on my knees, I think of Moser’s Caribbean rendering of Psalm 23. In the painting that accompanies the words “he restores my soul,” a sheep lies in green grass, the blazing sun shimmering hot on the field. Beside her, a young shepherd holds a large leaf in his outstretched hand, holds the leaf over her, creates shade for her to lie in, so that the sun shall not strike her by day.

I want to be that sheep. I want the Good Shepherd to make me lie down in green pastures, to lead me beside quiet waters, to restore my soul. I want to rest like that sheep in the shelter of the divine wings, to lean on the everlasting arms.

That is what I hunger for, what I thirst for.

And I realize, I who sit in this oasis of silence, these few precious moments of stillness—I realize I have been given that gift. Right here, right now, God is restoring my soul.

I exhale a short prayer of gratitude, simply the words thank you, even as I long for this moment to last and last and last.

It doesn’t.

Luke shrieks. Ben has stolen his Cheerio bowl. I inhale another Jesus Prayer, knowing (for a moment anyway) that my cry for mercy has already been answered, is being answered, will continue to be answered.

I get to my feet and go to my boys.

This post is part of the series of Lenten reflections hosted by Christine Sine over at Godspace.

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