Riffing on American Children's Poets of 1920s

Happy Poetry Friday, friends.

This week's round-up is hosted by Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference . I hope you get a chance to spend time at her blog. She brings a fresh look to poetry every single week. 

Last week, Renee La Tulippe and Lee Bennett Hopkins teamed up to present the first episode in their series: History of American Children's Poets. I loved the interview and chat between these two. The poems from the 1920s were new to me. I chose two as mentor texts to write to.

The first is,

Something Told the Wild Geese
by Rachel Field (1924)

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered "snow."

read the rest here

My attempt at a similar poem was OK. It was an attempt with few surprises--a greeting card.

Something in the Dreaming Teen

Something in the dreaming teen
no one knows quite how
Amid playthings and games of youth
Something whispered now.

High school’s final year
projects finished,  prom attended,
between homeroom and final bell
a fish hook descended

into the small pond of big fish
set to swim out to the sea
into new unchartered waters
vast with danger and discovery.

Something in the dreaming teen
said it was time to grow.

Caps and gowns wave goodbye
tomorrow's sunrise beams hello.

(c) Linda Mitchell

Then, I took a look at Hills by Hilda Conkling. 

Hills

The Hills are going somewhere;
They have been on the way a long time.
They are like camels in a line.
But they move more slowly.

read the rest here

This poem reminded me of Amy Ludwig Van Derwater's challenge last week to write a persona poem as a place. 

                  If you do not know what to write about today, 

                 try making a list of places.  

                  Then  choose one. Become it.  Write.  

Read Amy's Poem, A Note From the Trail  included in the beautiful anthology The Poetry of US, (Harper Collins 2018) edited by J. Patrick Lewis.

I imagined being the hills seeing the girl that wrote Conkling's poem. This writing was more fun and playful.

Girl
a response of the hills 

The girl is going somewhere;
she has been for some time.
She scatters autumn bits –
red and plum, gold and frost
about the trees, brush and wild grape.
The color burns off a heavy dew.
She pays less mind to our sunny tops
than the opal harvest moon.

Sometimes she lifts her hands
beyond our grey shadows 
to the sky – an overflowing basket
of fresh washed clouds.

(c) Linda Mitchell