On page 2 of our most recent Poetry issue of READ, we mentioned that we would post Robert Frost's poem, Birches, here on our blog on April 17, 2009. Holy cow would you look at that! We made it! Cheers.

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 
     - Robert Frost

Today, Kim Paras, Weekly Reader's Manager of Copy Editing, muses on why she loves libraries.

My public library recently put a stack of forms on the counter that read "I love my library because ..." Beneath that opener was a bunch of blank lines.

Cool! The nerd in me was eager to tell my librarian why I loved coming to the library, why I visited so often, and why I would sometimes spend hours upstairs-"Where did that tall girl with the glasses go?"–only to reemerge with no books in hand.

Why do I love the library? For starters, I love to read! And to be surrounded by shelves and shelves of books? Oh gosh, just give me access to food and lock me in--seriously, I won’t mind. Sometimes I go to the library knowing exactly what I want. "It's Halloween and I'm in the mood for Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None." At other times I enter thinking I know what I want--"It's time to tackle Chekhov"--but then I leave the library with something entirely different under my arm, say, The Reader. "I must read the book before seeing the movie!"

When I was little and my mom would take me to the library, I would feel as if I'd entered a different world. I would begin wandering down the aisles, carefully slipping books from their shelves and reading the back covers, and everything outside--school, homework, even other people--would be forgotten. The library has the same effect on me today. The first thing that strikes me when I walk through the doors of the library is the quiet. Perhaps it is stating the obvious for me to point out that the library is quiet, but when you're there, no one has to shuss you. You just know, you know? You walk inside and you have taken a trip to, well, wherever you wish. You can lose yourself in novels, mysteries, biographies, history, poetry, plays, or nothing but dictionaries. And that doesn't begin to cover everything. No wonder some people actually get lost in the library.

The library also has that "library smell." Not a bad smell, mind you. Just a certain smell, the way school has a certain smell and the way a new car has a certain smell. And the library has its own sounds. Quiet, careful footsteps in the next aisle over. Creaking floors heard from rooms overhead.

For me, the library is an escape. When I'm in the library, 50 other people may be there too, but I feel like I'm alone, wandering the aisles, carefully slipping books from their shelves.

What do you love about the library?

Check this out! 

Leeawesome and her roommate were inspired to create this music video by the School Library Journal's Battle of the Kids' Books competition and High School Musical 3. 

Great job girls!

It's cold in New York this week. April promises a sea change and warm weather, but April fools. It's cold outside. Keeps raining. It's cold in the office and cold at night under the covers. I want to write about the spring, but it isn't spring really. I don't know what to write about. I don't even know what to blog about. National Poetry Month? If you have to ask about that, you'll never know. I might have a poem in my pocket, but I don't have inspiration.

Maybe I need to stretch and flex my literary muscles. A little exercise. Literary calisthenics. Back in school, my professors offered exercises to get out of a funk, a block, whatever. But now I have no professors, and I'm left to my own devices-- literary or otherwise. So, I've scoured the internet for a few good exercises to try. Hopefully, one will inspire me. And hopefully, one will inspire you too. If so, please send the fruits of your labor to word@weeklyreader.com. Title it "Student Writing Exercise." If you have an exercise of your own that you would like to share, attach it to the comments section. Enough winter laziness. Let's get writing.

From Poefrika:

Ten-Minute Creative Writing Exercise
If you think you don't have time to write, think again. See what you can produce with a simple set of writing prompts and ten minutes of your time with this creative writing exercise inspired by Rita Dove's exercise "Ten-Minute Spill."
Write for ten minutes, incorporating a common proverb, adage, or familiar phrase ("between the devil and the deep blue sea," "one foot in the grave," "a stitch in time saves nine," "the whole nine yards," "a needle in a haystack," etc.) that you have changed in some way, as well as five of the following words:

hill
apricot
fist
stone
bleat
cousin
turn
lick

Don’t worry about creating a story right now: just focus on following the parameters and writing for your ten minutes. Write down whatever comes into your head without worrying about whether it’s good or not. You might surprise yourself.

From author Aimee Bender's website:

Make a list of five areas about which you are an expert. Be honest. A true expert. Then, pick one and write a page of expertise, using vocabulary that may leave a reader out, vocabulary very particular to that particular area of knowledge. (It does not have to be "the floral industry"-- it can also be "ways to avoid saying hello" or "Dad's shoes". )
I think this is one way of interpreting what Flannery O'Connor means by "manners" and also what Junot Diaz means when he says it's okay (even good?) if a reader doesn't understand everything you say.

From the University of Iowa:

Think of a situation in which a long-held fear or anxiety that you have comes true (this should be a situation which could, but has not yet happened). Now, using the third-person mode of narration, write a scene – or a very short story – describing a fictional version of yourself dealing with the situation.

If those three ideas don't get you going, check out this AWESOME writer's hub titled Language is a Virus. This place is full of ideas, games, inspirations,  interviews and shrines to brilliant authors.

Good Luck!